Devils & Angels, Ritual Feasts in Europe
Devils & Angels Ritual Feasts in Europe Friso Spoelstra
‘No place, no space, around them, time still less’ Faust, scene of the mothers
On the evening of December 5th, Friso Spoelstra and I rent a few rooms under a sloping roof, in a small inn on one of the Wadden Sea islands. The storm roars and howls. The lighthouse casts taut beams of light across the North Sea, and gaggling flocks of Brent geese ripple through the twilight. We are in the most remote village in the Netherlands. And it feels just as isolated as it actually is, completely cut off from the outside world. People are discouraged from visiting the island on this day. The pre-Christian ritual, which is the reason we are here, has to remain as secretive as possible. There is a vague tension in these ancient streets. It is five o’clock; outside is icy cold and spring tide. The ferry does not sail because of the storm. A pamphlet on the boat explains that the ‘Sunneklaasfeest’ has nothing to do with the well-known Dutch Feast of Saint Nicholas. The pamphlet also warns that there are ‘fairly strict rules’: cars are not allowed in the centres of the villages. Women should stay in the background, and are not allowed to be on the street, so as to avoid ‘unpleasant experiences’. It sounds terrifying. When we close the door of the inn behind us, the last bus is leaving the village, equipped with a modern illuminated sign that reads ‘Sunderklazen’. From that moment onwards, we are no longer in the real world. There are indeed some cars parked along the road, and there are stacks of roof tiles that have blown onto the street, but that only seems to confirm that we are in a dream. There are no people in sight, and the only sound is the sound of the storm. All of the lights are turned off. Then the sound of horns can be heard, and women and children begin to bleat like sheep. From a distance, men clad in white sheets approach us, menacingly dragging sticks across the stones. The women flee into the houses. They are being provocative; in the previous century, they could still have been thrown onto the dunghill, or into a slurry pit. We don’t give it a second thought; this is a fertility ritual. The normal rules no longer apply. Reality is temporarily suspended.
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The editors of the Dutch version of National Geographic have brought Friso and me together to make this reportage for the December 2014 issue. Without being aware of it, we have already both been independently time-travelling to other worlds. These worlds are much more mysterious and incomprehensible than rationality, but we still seem to understand what is happening. The way our ancestors lived, thought, and acted is apparently still a part of us, somehow. It has been fixed in the wiring of the human mind since prehistoric times. Yet we still get the feeling that we are explorers. Our own Europe is home parallel worlds that go back in time, and that transcend the communal politics of Brussels and the daily reality we live in. Here we experience magic. Not only do we feel that, but we are certain that it is true. Beneath the surface of a world filled with lightning-fast connections and digital media, some isolated villages and hamlets are trying to preserve their identities from the flow of uniform chain stores and fast food restaurants. Friso cuts a modest figure, and that is an advantage in these kinds of special and remote places. Only then are you tolerated. Outsiders are not always welcome, and run the risk of being beaten; this applies to women as well. The men in white sheets on the Wadden Sea island that we are walking across are merely setting the scene: only later do the real Sunderklazen arrive. These are authority figures who are not to be mocked. They roar like animals and blow on cattle horns, resembling figures from nightmares, or from the world of the dead. And that world is probably what they actually represent: the ancestors. They speak with distorted voices so as not to be recognized. Sometimes I feel that I understand this other world better than the world we call reality; perhaps the same holds true for Friso as well. For years, he has been taking photographs of the rituals that we see here, and I have been describing and filming them. The feeling of kinship between us is very agreeable; I don’t need to explain anything to him about these special and mystical places. It turns out that we have witnessed many of the same rituals, but also very different ones. And yet they all share certain symbols, customs, and costumes. In southern Hungary, I also saw the large wooden phalluses that Friso encountered in Transylvania. In Greek Macedonia and in the Pyrenees, I also saw the black-charcoaled faces that he saw in the Sardinian festivals. The same patterns appear again and again: the renewal of life, fertility, our pact with the animals, and our bond with nature, from which we are growing more and more alienated. These rituals always take place in remote, isolated areas in Europe, high up in the mountains, on islands, or in once impenetrable forests. Our conclusions are the same: this must have something to do with a prehistoric ancestral cult, celebrating the customary such as we know it, And yet they go far beyond that; they go back to the core of our existence. In all of these celebrations and rituals, we see the ambivalent role of the dead, the visits that the living pay to our ancestors’ realm of the dead, or the visits that
those from the underworld pay to us. In these places, we consistently experience the same severe gazes: they must be strangers, who somehow got lost? The fear that we will not understand their rituals, and that we will condemn them, makes the villagers distrustful. With a bit of caution and respect, we are allowed to stay and record everything. At a certain point, the church apparently took control of these primitive and often pagan rituals, many of which date back thousands of years, hailing from the age of hunters and gatherers, to promote fertility and growth, and sometimes to literally wake up the earth with lashes. Women were hit, children scared, demons welcomed, ritual showdowns celebrated, toddlers thrown into the air, and devils hurled over babies, with the figure of Death roaming through the villages with his scythe. How are we to interpret this? And do we need to make something of it? Or do we just let it be what it is? Allow yourself to be surprised, and put your judgments aside. At least until you have seen and read all of Friso’s beautiful and unique photos and stories. This is a personal journey and a document through a special and authentic world of festivals and rituals. Without facts, truths, or judgments. They invoke distant memories from the subconscious. And they touch me deeply, whether I want them to or not. These photographs draw you into the magical world that still exists in Europe. And briefly, just for a moment, you stand still in time. Arnold-Jan Scheer
ยง1 Rites of Spring
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Witches, devils, and demons Once a year, on Walpurgis Night, all of the witches that were banned from the earth meet at a plateau in the Harz Mountains called the Hexentanzplatz (Witches’ Dance Floor). To dance and party with the devil and demons. Irritated by the sensual purity of the holy Saint Walpurga, together they perform their magic dance so as to multiply their evil powers. Naked, they salve their bodies, after which they fly to Brocken (the highest mountain in the Harz Mountains) towards the Witches’ Altar. In 1777, Goethe also lived briefly in the Harz: in Schierke and Elend. It was at the Witches’ Altar that Goethe’s Faust sold his soul to the devil. According to ancient German folk beliefs, Walpurgis Night (from April 30 to May 1) is always a night full of magic. Walking through the remote wild forests in the Harz, the mysterious atmosphere creeps up along your body. The witches, devils, and demons still come to the Harz on Walpurgis Night for an evening of frenzied dancing. Are they real, or is it all a myth? — pages 10-20
White Brothers On the Sunday morning of the Laetare, or the third Sunday before Easter (also called Mid-Lent Sunday), the Blanc Moussis walk through the streets of the Belgian town of Stavelot. In white cloaks with a hood over their heads, they stride unrecognizably through the village. A white mask with a clownish, red carrot nose makes the disguise complete. The big nose clearly symbolizes the penis. They jump, dance, and throw confetti. This is officially the moment of reflection, before Easter begins. The Blanc Moussis are a brotherhood whose legend started in 1502 when the prince-abbot of Liege forbade his monks from participating in the local carnival. In protest, the people decided to take their place, in disguise. Brotherhoods seem often related to fertility rituals when winter is over. — pages 22-28 On their robes, the Blanc Moussis wear pig bladders, which they swing and hit as they make their rounds. This ritual of beating is a commonly recurring feature, often involving a cane, whip, or cow horn. It can symbolize the waking up of the earth, which evokes fertility.
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Š 2014 Photography: Friso Spoelstra Š 2014 Text: Mireille Capiau
Printer and publisher: Lecturis Introduction: Arnold-Jan Scheer Graphic design: Teun van der Heijden, Heijdens Karwei Photo editing: Teun van der Heijden, Friso Spoelstra Translation: Douglas Heingartner
All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher. ISBN: 978-94-6226-096-2 www.frisospoelstra.com www.devilsandangels.eu www.lecturis.nl