Festival of the Madonna

First Published: 19 May 2009

Sunshine illuminated the piazza as I emerged from the borgo. The Italian and Europa flags were still wrapped around their masts above the town hall door, while under nearby trees, our Opal remained parked next to the constable’s car where I’d left it. Not much had changed. On one of the park-like benches, Tony, with his familiar blue jacket accented in red, was holding session with a few of his cronies, including a thin gentleman with a belt drawn much too tightly at his waist. Most likely their discussions were of sports and politics, the same worldwide mantra, only here with different accents. In the valley below, white smoke billowed from the terra cotta tile factory. Everything looked in order right down to the phalanx of recycling containers, which I dutifully fed their requisite diets of glass, plastic, cardboard and trash before continuing down Corso Matteotti.

I wondered if my very presence affected what I was seeing, putting things off from their norm, much like the affect an electron microscope has on its subjects, whose very use, with its streaming electrons, affects the movement of the atoms it attempts to observe. For a moment I wondered what I might be radiating.

I was witnessing the early hour pageantry of the town unfold as I basically hung out that morning. Mario’s Café was closed. He was on vacation up north somewhere visiting relatives, with maybe a stop by the sea. In his absence, I’d opted for another café. So there I was a few minutes later sitting on my own bench, holding council only with myself, sipping my mandatory morning cappuccino outside of Biscotteria I Nobili, just across the street from Café del Corso, on Corso Matteotti in the heart of Calitri.

Let me share the scene. The street lamps had dimmed and eventually shut off. A Moroccan woman in a yellow jilaabah pushed a stroller past me on some early morning quest. Like myself, here was something different from the uniform consistency of the town’s citizenry. In cadence with her, by her side, her young daughter fought to keep up while struggling to carry her mother’s big carry-all purse. It nearly dragged across the pavement. Nearby, a commune workman was already out sweeping the street equipped with a primitive looking, though effective, broom. No motorized street sweepers here! Telltale and in conformity undoubtedly with old ways, he used a bundle of long, withy, disjointed sticks bound to a lengthy bamboo handle. He appeared to be a talented fellow with a serious brow of intent lining his forehead. His skilled hands did a masterful job with thrusts and twists here and there as though he were a hockey forward intent on checking every errant piece of debris against the curb.

It was festival season. Wooden street decorations of ornate filigree and white lights, reminiscent of Christmas ornaments, bridged the main thoroughfares. Signs of activity were everywhere as preparations for the series of religious processions and accompanying festive celebrations proceeded. The word on the street, according to posters scattered about town, was that an up and coming rocker would perform one evening. The following night, we could look forward to an energetic troop of female entertainers, regaled in short glittery costumes, Vegas-like make-up and sporting wispy cheek microphones, performing from a stage cloaked in artificial fog. Spettacolo!

This was a much-anticipated annual event and as a result the town was experiencing a temporary surge in population. Vender panel trucks filled, even overflowed from, any available space. Homes in the borgo were opening up as people returned just for the festivities. Visiting relatives from far and about, like Titi who had arrived from Cinque Terra, were also adding to the new faces during the ritual passeggiata evening walk.

When the day finally arrived, fireworks heralded the commencement of activities. Unfortunately this announcement was early, around 8am in fact. The pyrotechnics were more like mortars for a better daytime effect. With exceedingly more boom than flash, they were guaranteed to get your attention, especially if you had been so complacent as to attempt to sleep in. Talk about shock and awe! If all the preparations for the festival had not already wound you up tight as a mainspring, you definitely were after this not so subtle festa bombardment.

In large part, the festival centers around a series of processions, one of which is the procession of the statue of the Madonna, circa 1730. The procession began at the Church of the Immaculate Conception located on the edge of the borgo and preceded through the tight maze of streets; some so narrow you could almost touch either wall. Parallel files of male processioners, each with light blue capes trimmed in golden fringe and featuring a saucer sized silvery medallion of the Madonna in relief, led the way. Accompanying them, on either side of the Madonna, was a pair of perpetually serious looking carabinieri. Each had a red stripe down his pant leg as wide as a ribbon. A blue plume topped in red rose from matador-style hats strapped tightly under their chins. Beginning at a ceremonial shoulder epaulet edged in tassels, a white sash passed across their chests to support a silver scabbard at their waists. This only added to their look of officialdom. The saber itself, positioned in a gloved hand, was at attention vertically in the crook of their shoulders.

As they moved along, the faithful responded to the invocations of the town’s only priest, Father Maurizio, himself swathed in a red sash over a white robe. In his hand was the modern accouterment of a wireless microphone. Farther back in the crowd, an altar boy holding wireless speakers aloft on a staff relayed the prayers from the priest’s microphone to the faithful. Nearby the women’s rosary society, dressed in mournful black, solemnly responded.

The life-size statue itself, circa 1730, was resplendent as it rose from a golden base where the heads of cherubs were just visible through an arrangement of fresh pink hydrangeas. Frozen in time, she wore a pale green dress decorated with small red roses and trimmed in gold. A blue shawl adorned with gold stars encircled her waist, billowing lifelike from her in places. She posed with her hands clenched at her chest as though expressing to us “it’s me, really me, your mother”. A halo of stars, proclaiming her divinity, orbited her head. Fair facial features expressed the deceptive imagery European artists employed throughout history in failing to portray middle-easterners as they most likely appeared. Her rosy cheeks contrasted with her light, almost pale, skin. A straight nose and smallish mouth completed the humble expression on her westernized face.

For a brief moment I wondered if many of those present realized that the Madonna was only indirectly associated, as sole beneficiary in fact, with the actual Immaculate Conception. In truth, it was her mother, Ann, who experienced this miraculous event, not Mary. The immaculate, though indeed sexual, conception of the Virgin Mary in Ann’s womb is often confused with the later non-sexual conception of the virgin mother’s own son, Jesus.

Unlike other processions, in other places, here there was no tacky tradition of taping currency to her frame. After all, when you think about it, the Madonna was most likely, following the visit of the Wise Men, a wealthy woman in her day. I’ve always wondered what the Madonna eventually did with the gold, frankincense and myrrh presented to her son, but then again, it is equally mind boggling to entertain the notion of ‘wise men’ nowadays, let alone fiscally responsibly ones, let alone any who would prostrate themselves!

All seeing and everywhere, the spirit represented by the statue has no need to be removed from its pedestal of honor in the church, but yet, each September it is removed and carried aloft on the strong shoulders of the portetori, the men selected just for this purpose. It almost appears as though the people must see the Madonna among them, seemingly instilled with human needs for sunshine, companionship, even an occasional fresh air walk with them through their streets in holy passeggiata. No doubt there is also the need to be seen with the Madonna as a devout humble participant in this event. This visual display of religiosity is for the people, not the Madonna. The Madonna, here as all across Italy, possessed her own unique appealing imagery.

The Madonna, the mother, represents comfort from that initial swaddling to a lifetime of coddling, especially if you are an Italian male. She is inseparable in the psyche from the nurturing, protection, and love given them by their own mothers, their personal Madonna’s. For each of the participants in the procession, to varying degrees, she is also revered for her continuous presence. Deep inside they know she is always there, will always be there. Hers is a reliable presence just as their mother always was for them in contrast to the seemingly continual absence of their working father. While Madonna and child are everywhere, rare is the depiction of father and child. The word father doesn’t even rate capitalization as ‘Madonna’ does! After all, while she gave of her body and risked life itself, father in comparison was but a contributor. There is no comparison! Moreover, she represents protection and comfort from danger and injury. Think back, didn’t we all run to momma with our childhood tears, not papa, even when there was a choice? The Madonna, our mamma, is the consummate caregiver and the hundreds, possibly thousands, of people there that day made manifest this unique mother, ever child, relationship. This fealty to the universal mother is mortar to soul and spirit, binding them in their unified devotion to each other, in common as brothers and sisters, but more so as Calitriani, for this is their heritage and their version of the Madonna found nowhere else.

As the procession flowed through the streets of Calitri, so the lifeblood of the town flowed in renewal of its spirit, and for at least another year, renewed their traditions and strengthened their common beliefs. Just as a house becomes a home through attentive signs of life ... with song, the smell of food, curtains in the windows, voices and laughter escaping from those same windows, even an evening lullaby heard from the street ... so this stream of praying and chanting humanity engenders a monolithic people united in a common faith which gives Calitri, beyond being a cluster of houses, its unique identity. Not surprising, city officials, dignitaries and other luminaries, all in fine regalia, walk solemnly near the Madonna in an apparent display of civic piety, as though seeking some indulgence, possibly inspiration, maybe even some forgiveness. Here as in all of Italy, secular and religious aspects of life are in a blender, set on high, for uniform consistency.

From time to time the precession would stop at makeshift altars to pray, rest, even replace weary portetori. On one of these occasions, Maria Elena for just a moment, felt like her own personal Forest Gump. Here was a character who seemed unreasonably present for many an historic event in modern times. What happened next was in no way historic, yet as Maria Elena stood there against the stone wall right outside Tommaso Piumille’s storefront on Via Concezione, the procession just stopped in front of her, practically pinning her against the wall. She had become part of the event, undoubtedly at that moment on the retina of hundreds of onlookers. A table appeared, covered with a lace altar cloth, and the statue of the Madonna came to rest inches from her. They could have whispered to each other, exchanging girl–to-girl chat, more likely mother-to-mother talk, if only it was possible, something I’m sure not even Gump could have pulled off!

Later, when I had to retreat into a doorway to make room for the sauntering procession, I noticed an ancient Roman Republic icon, called the fasces, on a ceramic number plate to the side of the doorway. In fact, this physical symbol of power and magisterial authority was often carried in ancient Roman processions. The actual fasces consisted of a bundle of white birch rods bound tight with a red leather ribbon to form a cylinder and included a bronze axe with its blade protruding from the bundle. Here was a rare leftover from the Mussolini era. Apparently, porcelain was too valuable a commodity to capriciously discard, especially on the chance that the symbol might come back into vogue someday! But then it already had – my pocket contained the very symbol on some of my American coins. Give unto Caesar the things which are Caesar’s … but here in Calitri, this day, it would be to God and to the Madonna in particular.

Afterward as dusk fell, when the Madonna had completed her stroll with the people and had been returned to her niche atop the altar, it was just outside in the square that folkloric dancers performed before a crowd of hundreds. The men boasted red neckties, red waist sashes and matching ties on their trouser cuffs. White socks and shirts with black vests completed their ensembles. Their partners sported embroidered scarves on the backs of their heads and wore matching white blouses. Long skirts, this time with embroidery along their hems, whirled just above the brick pavement. Together the troop performed complex dances around a maypole. With long colored ribbons extending from the pole to each dancer, they first generated and then just as easily undid intricate webs of interlaced design to the accompanying reedy music of an accordion. Fireworks, this time equally as brilliant as deafening, served as a fitting crescendo to this day of ageless imagery and pageantry.

Whether it be a whirl and twist to a throaty accordion, the writhing spectacle of a modern beat on a fogbound stage or the subdued tempo of a religious chant ... whether it be a walk through the maze of cobbled hallway-like streets, the ritual of passeggiata or the simply act of emerging into the dawning life of the town, when the glass runs out of sand for each of us, the Madonna will still be moving through the streets and alleyways of Calitri in her ceremony of renewal and ever-presence. As was undoubtedly the case with long past dwellers of these very streets, let those of us in the present ardently pray it will forever be so and everybody said, ‘Amen’.

Divertiti, la vita è buono!

Paolo

For related photos, click here on Eyes Over Italy. Look for and click on a photo album entitled “Festival”.