"It belongs in a museum". But... why?

"It belongs in a museum." No one has the same authority as iconic movie star archaeologist Indiana Jones, the heritage super hero par préférence, when he confronts the evil villains who want to sell off historic artifacts for profit. The options seem crystal clear. Evil and wrong: to sell off, destroy or utilise for one's own profit the material artifacts from human history. Good and right: to put same artifacts in a museum, thereby guaranteeing them eternal life and availability to all mankind of good will. Happy ending. Or..?

In my thesis, I am studying various theories on heritage and heritagisation, i.e. the process which transforms something in a living, active sphere of use to a historical object attached to a certain narrative and expected to never change. As mentioned in previous posts, death and fragmentising are parts of the process to build a new identity as a museum object; an identity that might contradict or prevent an identity as a living object playing a role in the world outside of the museum. The act of putting something in a museum, or give it a new context and narrative in a heritage context, is an act of power which can be used - deliberately or just as a consequence - to profoundly change things, places and phenomena in terms of use, availability and possible interpretations. 

With this in mind, I get nerdy goosebumps when a public call goes out to put things in museums, and my first question is: Why? Not at all in order to question the museums or the qualified work they perform, but to understand the driving forces and the agendas behind the musealisation - because they are manifold.

After the attack on satire magazine Charlie Hebdo in Paris in January 2015, when twelve people were killed, one focus in the following debates was the role of religion in these events and in global terrorism in general. Social media exploded with opinions, while at the same time alarming news started to come from the war in Syria about strategic destruction of cultural heritage by the Islamic State. I did a random search on Twitter for the combination "religion" and "museum", just to listen in. The result was striking. Many voices called for religion to be put in a museum, but: for different reasons.

Heritage as a concept is in many aspects built on fear of loss and a sense of threat from outside, and therefore generates an urge to protect and save - a mission for which the museum is a seemingly optimal institution. Some voices on Twitter expressed a fear that religion was under threat and needed to be saved - but also a fear that ruining the material heritage would turn the religion itself into an artifact:

"My fear is that the Old Churches in Iraq are not destroyed but left to become ruins. Christianity left as a Museum religion, an artifact." (signature ‏@AYoshia)

Others - the majority of the posts that matched my search - called for religion to be musealised in order to be separated from the living daily life, and instead become no more than a part of history and producer of artistic and other artifacts.

"Religion—no matter its form—needs to go the way of the museum. Another tragic case in point by way of Paris, France." (signature @SilvertongueCK3)

I found this most interesting, since a fundamental hypothesis for my PhD project is the domesticating role of heritagisation and musealisation of religion, and here it was: spot on! During my years working on this project, I have - with the narrow yet sharpened attention of a possessed geek - seen examples of heritagised and re-used religion everywhere: in museums, in cosmetic stores, in the streets, in commercials, in packaging for food, in theme parks, even in churches. If I may, let me share some of these impressions with you, to give some examples of the various fates of religion when entering new contexts.

One way to musealise religious artifacts is to place them in a museum (because they are outmoded, fragile, damaged or very rare and spectacular), but allow them to keep their religious status and narratives. This display can be seen in cathedral museums or, as here, in the diocese museum in Venice:

A musealised Jesus in Museo Diocesano, Venice. Worn and almost no distinguishable face, placed in a museum, but within a religious context and narrative.

Relic hand, Museo Diocesano, Venice

Life size statue of Virgin Mary, once belonging to a church and used for processions. 

Now in Museo Diocesano, Venice

A similar, yet quite different, approach and display could be seen in the temporary exhibition "Himlen är här" ("Heaven is here") in Uppsala Cathedral, Sweden. The exhibition was composed to celebrate the Archdiocese's 850th birthday, and to display the cultural heritage created, used and in some cases musealised through history and denominational changes and fashions. Using the cathedral itself as room for display provides a spectacular setting, but also (as with the headless Jesus) an ambiguity: museum or religion? Cultural or cultual use - or both..?

Medieval crucifix with contemporary neon sign, on temporary display over the main altar in Uppsala Cathedral.

A striking theme in this exhibition - as in many recent exhibitions on religious artifacts and matters in Sweden - is the recurrent exposure of backsides and parts originally not meant to be seen. I see this as  a deconstruction of the sacred, which is also evident in innovative and artistic designs of the exhibitions where original context and function are subordinate to stories and interpretations presumably more fitting for today's visitors.

Medieval crucifix on display in the central nave: backside clearly visible. 

Medieval saint, seemingly in a discussion with other saints standing around him, but also trapped in musealisation: glass case, iron band, and with his back and ownership label clearly displayed. Disenchantment, or a way to new understandings of sacred matter?

All at once! Altarpieces with panels for different times of the year and different feasts are often, as here, displayed with all the panels side by side. This is an efficient way to show the artwork to the visitor, but from a content point of view the experience for a visitor - originally taking place in weak light, during a religious service, in a time where pictures were rare - is quite different from the intended one, now that all days of the year occur at the same time.

Hagia Sofia in Istanbul, which I have touched upon in a previous post, is yet another form of heritagised sacredness. Starting out as a byzantine church in 6th century, then turned into a mosque during the Ottoman rule, then converted into a museum in 1930's, and now subject to discussions of re-conversion to a mosque - something which has caused objections from Orthodox Christians claiming the building as originally theirs. Here, religion is - temporarily, at least - domesticated in the shape of a museum: a status which can, however, obviously be re-negotiated at any time.

Hagia Sofia museum, Istanbul

A recent visit to open air zoo Kolmårdens Djurpark in Sweden also brought some unexpected insights in the usefulness of religious images and artifacts. In the tiger park the theme was Buddhas in decay, seemingly to provide the frozen tigers and their northern viewers with an exotic framework among the Swedish pine trees. The decaying buddhas are an interesting topic in itself, as I have mentioned in a previous post, but I generally think that the decay as such gives an extra dimension of mysticism, heritage and even some kind of spirituality to many visitors.

A concrete Buddha head in fake decay among the tigers in a zoo in a Swedish forest. Kolmårdens Djurpark

Buddha figure and masks greeting the visitors who exit the funicular railway safari, Kolmårdens Djurpark.

Buddha head and constructed decay, Kolmårdens Djurpark

The Swedes' love for heritage and decay, in part perhaps explained by the luxury of living in peace and material wealth for a long period of time, is expressed also in the appreciation for ruined sacred matter. The worn and broken statues of saints, visible as art objects in museums in many parts of the world, are in Sweden equally used in churches for devotion - regardless of condition or lack of colors or limbs. Ruined churches are cherished as romantic, but even spiritual, places since the 18th century, and many couples who declare themselves to be non-religious still choose to get married, with or without a priest, in a church ruin. This brings up, again, the strong connection between heritage and religion - or, maybe, even heritage as religion, for a (post)secular time..?

St Catherine's church ruin, former Franciscan convent church. Visby, Gotland, Sweden.

While examining religion's (after)life as heritage, I can't resist to once again turn back to the Swedish Christmas gingerbreads (yes: gingerbread IS a big issue for Swedes. Just visit the IKEA store next to you from December 1st if you don't believe me!). The gingerbread men that mysteriously accompany St Lucy in the Lucia procession up here have no religious connection that I know of, but many of the cookie forms actually have either Christian or pagan origin. Here, the gingerbread version of St Stephen's horses (yes, I made them myself, along with space shuttles, dinosaurs, pagan sun symbols and giraffes. Life as a Swede.):

At the end of the recycling of religion food chain we find not only jewelry, t-shirts and toast stamps to make Virgin Mary miraculously appear on a toast (called: Holy Toast. What else?), but also Jesus as action hero, as band aids, and the magnetic set What Would Jesus Wear? (the latter in Uppsala Cathedral shop). Apart from expressing a sense of humor, whether shared by all or not, this also shows that the religious images have been fragmentised from their original context to such an extent that they have become aesthetic symbols - but charged and slightly forbidden to play with, and therefore useful for light provocations and humour.

Jesus' magnetic wardrobe, Uppsala Cathedral, Sweden.

Jesus heals - through bandaids. Uppsala Cathedral.

Loading all these images on my cerebral hard drive, I am left reflecting on many angles of my topic: Material sacredness, authenticity, and the Western understanding of material preservation (on which an interesting article was published in Financial Times recently); Musealisation of religion as blessing or hibernation; Is it easier to experience sacredness in decayed heritage than in sparkling new holy objects?

And, inevitably: what is the future for the Western European self-image and narratives, so essentially based on a Christian history? What role will be given to the religious heritage on display for a growing number of global tourists, and how will it serve and be relevant to a population becoming more and more religiously and culturally heterogenous? To me in my on-going PhD project, these are questions tightly linked to the future of museums in general and religion on display in particular. Preserving, saving or domesticating religion in museums, we still have to take into account that we are dealing with values of the past for some, but alive for others. A revised self-image, not least for Europe, is taking shape. Or, as Eddie Izzard brilliantly puts it:

Holy headlessness. Beheading, death and various afterlives of sacred sculptures

Beheaded and mutilated medieval Virgin Mary and baby Jesus. Musée National du Moyen Âge, Paris

(An initial comment: Since I started planning this blog post on beheaded sacred images and their afterlives some weeks ago, recent events in Paris and other places in the world have brought the topic of violence, domestication and exercise of power under a religious label to a whole new and urgent level. I will not go into these events here at this point, but hope to return to them in the near future.)

I cannot think of a better topic for waking a resting blog, than resurrections and afterlives. Well, and some quite dramatic beheadings, of course - after all, I tend to end up reflecting on death every so often in this peculiar research topic of mine. As some of you might recall, It all started with a headless Jesus; my PhD journey took off when I encountered a headless Jesus in a Swedish cathedral, and couldn't make up my mind as to wether I regarded it primarily as a devotional, a historical or a cultural object. The broken state of this medieval sculpture is in no way unique in a Swedish context, but rather the normal condition. Worth noticing is that the present appearance of the medieval Catholic sculptures in Sweden is not a result of intentional mutilation or political violence, but of neglect in some church attic or shed after they came out of fashion (and, in some way, became dangerous) after the Reformation. With this, the Catholic sculptures were physically stowed away and out of sight, to be re-used as examples of a long history and proud national antiquities a century later in late 17th century. Seeing Catholic images presented like this creates an image of distance, of mysticism maybe, of historical pasts and beliefs, and of authenticity. The result, at least in Sweden, appears to be a sense of holiness and authenticity attached more strongly to these damaged images in a museum display or to a church ruin, than to sacred buildings and objects still in their original use.

Old and sacred matter the way I grew up seeing it in Sweden: broken, damaged and displayed museum objects with a narrative taking place in a time very long ago. (Gotlands Museum, Sweden)

When I recently took part in an international seminar at École du Louvre in Paris, on the musealisation of sacred buildings, I enthusiastically continued on this grim path, and learnt more about how the sacred images in France lost their heads.

Beheaded saints from the facade of Notre Dame de Paris, now in Musée National du Moyen-Âge.

Fact is, I was quite stunned by the ever-present and large number of beheaded saints and Marys that met me in various museums. In Musée National du Moyen-Âge were armies of saints ripped down from church facades, and individual sculptures with heads, hands and in some cases also their genitalia cut off. In other museums displaying religious art I met them too. Their headlessness is a result of the violent suppression of all forms of religion during the French revolution, primarily in the 1790's, when the churches were stripped of decoration and furniture, and the sacred art in many cases was mutilated or destroyed. The destruction here was violent, an act of dominance and an attempt to eradicate certain beliefs - and a jump start to musealisation of sacred objects and places. 

In the turmoil during the revolution, the sacred objects that were not destroyed were brought to Bibliothèque Nationale, which besides being a library at the time also functioned as a forerunner to Musée du Louvre. Objects made of precious metals were to be melted down for more useful purposes, and only objects of a certain "historical value" were to be spared. Thus, the heritagisation process in a nutshell: a quick shift from accentuating the sacred value to promoting (and, in fact, legitimizing the existence of an object with) the historical or heritage value.

Headless saint in a church museum in Angers

So, comparing the sacred headlessnesses in my own country with those in France, I find some major differences:

1) The heads in Sweden were almost always lost because of neglect after the Reformation, or because of popular beliefs that for example the wooden head of baby Jesus could ease the pain of a woman during childbirth if put in her bed (and sometimes didn't make it back to the church, or got lost, as loose details tend to do), but not in an act of religious or political violence. The heads in France, on the other hand, were intentionally and violently cut off to suppress and domesticate religion, and remove it from society in every shape but as historical and artistic artifacts.

2) In France these beheaded images are now on display in museums, telling stories about violent acts in the history of France, about religious beliefs and practices in the past, and about the artistic skills in various periods. I saw no beheaded saints in churches, used as devotional objects - but quite a few copies from the Viollet le Duc era in the 19th century. 

In Sweden however, as I have stated previously, even the beheaded images can be used for devotion and seen as sacred - perhaps even more sacred and authentic than the better preserved or recently made ones? There is something fishy about the secularized Swedes and decaying heritage... (OK, sorry. I can't keep myself from referring to this favorite scene in the film "Peter's friends", where an American actress expresses her admiration for the old English mansion and adds that she has seen something just like it in the States, "but brand new!". Look here, at 1.09...)

So, is this displaying of beheaded and mutilated sacredness, also with various agendas, something unique to Christianity? Well, you just have to take a quick look in interior decoration magazines and the fancy Buddha-heads-in-bookshelves (not seldom side by side with a Lourdes madonna) to realize that there is more to it than that.

Musée Guimet, Paris

Not only interior decorations, but also museums are filled with Buddhistic and other religious Asian art, often in fragments or damaged condition. I ask myself if the level of exoticism and aestheticism in these objects is higher, and the religious content less obvious, to a Western audience?

 Damaged Buddha at Musée Guimet, Paris

Musealised Buddha in New South Wales Art Gallery, Sydney

Visiting the Jim Thompson House Museum in Bangkok where an American collector and silk factory director assembled a group of Thai houses into a Western interpretation of typical Thai style, I was fascinated by the rich collection of Buddhas - many of which headless. I asked the tour guide how Thai Buddhists regarded these statues, and was told that damaged Buddhas are connected to bad luck and are therefore not to be kept at home. Being holy, they however can not be disposed of in a careless way, but are brought (back, in a way) to the temple, where a special room serves as a final resting place for damaged and used Buddhas. 

Intentionally beheaded Buddha at Jim Thompson House Museum, Bangkok

Buddhas, and more Buddhas, in Jim Thompson's house

In Jim Thompson's House Museum, the headless and damaged Buddhas seem to go well in line with the eclectic westernized assembly of Thai art objects and architecture, forming a magnificent and all new creation built on heritage and aesthetics. The presence of the damaged and beheaded Buddhas in a home might be unthinkable for a Buddhist believer, but in this home formed by a foreigner's eye, the damaged state poses no religious problem and goes well side by side with ancient pottery and other objects with patina.

Coming this far in the guided tour my curiosity on beheaded sacredness was triggered, and I asked the guide why the Buddhas were missing their heads? The answer was, in this case, neither the Swedish Lutheran neglect or the French revolutionary rage and domestication. The explanation was more one of greed and materiality: in connection to conflicts treasure hunters were after precious metals and valuable objects, and they had heard that some Buddha sculptures were made of gold and painted over. To check the presumed material preciousness of the Buddhas, they cut the heads off, and if (as in the case here) the material was a less precious one, the beheaded figure was left behind to meet another destiny: as museum or collector's object.

Buddha head on display, NSW Art Gallery, Sydney. Not a Buddhist display, but okay in a museum.

Travel Buddhas in the museum shop at Musée Guimet. Pick your favorite color, please!

Looking at these three examples from three different historical, cultural and religious contexts, we find three different motives behind the missing heads of sacred sculptures - religiously motivated neglect, political violence, and plundering - and three different kinds of afterlife: museum objects, a final rest in the temple, or resurrection as sacred object in mutilated state. While mutilation or damages in some cultures make the images impossible for sacred use, it rather seems to reinforce the sacred and authentic qualities in countries like my own. Heritage can, obviously, act as a new religion, creating meaning and traditions in a time where traditional religious institutions are regarded with suspicion and by some even claimed to have played out their role. From holy headlessness to holy heritage, perhaps..?

At the core of all this heritage, death and afterlife dwells the complex question of Eternity - a time frame set for many collections in another time, but which for many reasons seems quite problematic today. And to be honest (quoting one of my secular house gods, Freddie Mercury): Who wants to live forever?

Sometimes, I can't blame the escaped gargoyle in the facade of Notre Dame de Paris: it hit the road, leaving nothing but its paws behind. A pawless afterlife, and an escape from material sacredness...

When did Saint Lucy team up with the Gingerbread Men? How to recycle a Saint.

Being a temporary resident in Rome, not much of mine and my family's everyday life and routines are the same as back home in Sweden. One thing though seems hardly impossible to escape as a Swede, no matter where in the world one reside or travel: the annual celebration of Saint Lucy, or 'Sankta Lucia' as the Swedes put it.
Lucia was, according to legend, martyrized in Syracuse in 304 during the Diocletian persecutions and after several dramatic events: a failed attempt to burn her alive, an equally unsuccessful attempt to make her walk naked through a brothel, and according to later traditions even after having her eyes gouged out. She is celebrated in Sweden as in Italy on December 13th, but - when these two are compared - in most different contexts and interpretations.

The mortal remains of Saint Lucy in Saint Jeremiah church, Venice

Saint Lucy is a popular saint in Italy, and is celebrated in various ways in different Italian cities (an overview in Italian Wikipedia here) though always in a religious Catholic context. In Sweden, however, saints are generally not celebrated since the Reformation in 16th century, and if their pictures for some reason still were around in the churches after that, they had to be clearly washed from all religious and (as the general view on Catholic practices was) 'superstitious' connotations. And yet: The magnitude of Lucia celebration in Sweden equals that of Christmas Eve (which is when Swedes celebrate Christmas. On Christmas Day most Swedes just relax in comfy clothes, eat fudge and cookies or - possibly - have friends and relatives over for dinner). How can this be? And how should this Swedish and very beloved, yet not religious, Lucia be understood?

Saint Lucia, or Lucy, in traditional saintly pose: Holding the palm of martyrdom, and her own gouged eyes on a plate.

The Swedish Lucia celebration became popular and widespread as late as in the early 20th century, but existed already in the 18th century high society. Crucial to understand Lucia's popularity and role in Sweden is the fact that Sweden is a very dark country in December, and the fact that Lucia is celebrated on the day of the Winter Solstice; her function as 'Bearer of Light' ('ljusbärarinna'), the many candles and songs about the returning light in the midst of darkness, and the accentuation of the original saint being burnt at the stake (however unsuccessfully) all go back to this popular Darkness-Turned-Light tradition.

Traditional Swedish Lucia procession with Lucia, her maids, and the boys called "Star Men", alluding to S:t Stephen but wearing cone shaped hats of 'magi', magician's. Be warned: This gang is likely to show up in a church, a school, a retirement home, an office, by a Nobel Prize winner's hotel bed, in a Swedish embassy or an IKEA warehouse near you on December 13.

Lucia in Sweden appears traditionally with a crown of candles in her hair, dressed in white and with a red band around her waist - 'to symbolize martyrdom!' someone sometimes state, despite the general non-religious context. She is surrounded by maids, also in white and with glitter in their hair, and Star Men or 'S:t Stephen's Boys' ('Staffansgossar'), and here we go again: The legend of S:t Stephen following the star of Jerusalem and pointing to it before King Herod was the subject of a popular play in Sweden at least as early as 17th century, and the legend was performed by young theology students going from house to house with big paper stars, sometimes also with Virgin Mary, S:t Joseph, S:t Jude, the Three Kings and other characters from the Bible. We know of this custom not only through appreciating descriptions, but also through court protocols stating that the young boys sometimes were paid in strong drinks and became less pleasant after a number of performances. This led to a prohibition of S:t Stephen's plays in some parts of the country, but as we have seen this tradition, too, was re-installed and re-interpreted within the cultural and non-religious frames of the Sankta Lucia celebration.

A reenacted S:t Stephen's play in Vallentuna, Sweden, early 1980's. King Herod, his soldier, Stephen with the largest star, the Three Kings (or Wise Men), and Virgin Mary. (The latter with slight resemblances to this blogger...)

Today Lucia is celebrated in all possible places and contexts, from pre-school to retirement homes and hospices, in private homes and on national television. Not uncontested, though. In recent years, debates on various political and xenophobic topics have turned up in mid-December. For exemple: Should the National Lucia have blonde hair, or can she have brown complexion and black, curly hair (as was the case in 2012 TV broadcast Lucia celebration)? Can one of the traditional songs about S:t Stephen, in same TV broadcast, really be performed as a rap by a famous artist from an immigrant family? And does the National Agency for Education permit this quasi-religious performance in a school context, when public schools according Swedish law should be non-religious? (The answer to this question was that most of the traditional Lucia songs, despite being about saints, Jesus and other religious matters, were declared non-religious since they were, instead, part of Swedish cultural heritage. As a researcher on heritagised religion I get happy goose bumps by declarations like this.)

What all Swedish parents ask their children some days before Lucia: 'Do you want to be Lucia, Maid, Star Man, Gnome or Gingerbread Man?' Keeping Lucia equipment up to date is no piece of cake.

As a conclusion to understand what Swedish Lucia really is, I strongly recommend Swedish Lucia for Dummies on YouTube. Despite being narrated in a satirical and joking mode, the details are most accurate.

Needless to say, the Swedish re-interpretation of Lucia also generates numerous interior decorating items, such as this lamp.

So, is the case of S:t Lucy unique as an example of a recycled saint in a Protestant context? Well, certainly not. The previously mentioned S:t Bridget of Sweden has been through many different labels and interpretations since her hay days in 14th century, and in the 1920's a large scale celebration of her in Vadstena, Sweden, was strongly debated in local press. It was considered most inappropriate to celebrate a Papist saint and to risk letting the luring Catholicism into Swedish society. On the other hand, it was stated, S:t Bridget was a 'valuable part of our Swedish Cultural Heritage'. Today, the shrine holding parts of her remains is in focus for pious prayers as well as for front edge DNA research; both piety and science can make use of an old saint, it seems.

S:t Bridget's shrine in Vadstena convent church. Materiality, or holy matter, as an object of devotion.

S:t Bridget's shrine and relics carefully examined and analyzed by researchers. Materiality, or holy matter, as an object for research and knowledge.

Sacred, heritage, or a hybrid? The more I follow the clues in these matters, the harder it gets to formulate an accurate answer. The step from a martyrized virgin in 4th century, via centuries of Christian devotion, to where the Gingerbread Men start showing up in IKEA can seem very long, but when regarded as series of interpretations and re-charges, responding to cultural premises and moral and legal conditions, the picture changes. And: in all its integrity, the eye of the beholder is an ever present and non-negotiable factor. Be there Gingerbread Men or not.

What's in a kiss, anyway?

Just at the end of Spring semester this year, I was preparing a paper for a workshop I was co-organizing on Gender, Emotions and Material Culture in Scandinavian History. The workshop was hosted by UGPS Umeå Group for Premodern Studies, UCGS Umeå Centre for Gender Studies (both Umeå University) and ARC Centre of Excellence for the History of Emotions (University of Western Australia), and it was an intimate explorative workshop with specially invited participants. My paper put forward some reflexions and questions on the theme 'The sulking saint and the headless Jesus: Aspects of materiality and emotions on material sacredness and sacred heritage in post-Reformation Sweden', and while researching and putting together my presentation I was struck by the number of kisses and sensual gestures that (unexpectedly, to me) emerged from my material. 

'Kissing the Relic', oil painting by Joaquín Sorolla (1893)

In the implementation of the Reformation in Sweden, and particularly after the parliament of Västerås in 1544 where a number of Catholic items and practices - lighting devotional candles, burning incense, the use of monstrances and Holy Water, etc - were explicitly forbidden, a new and dramatically different approach to sacred materiality developed. These changes also mirror quite well the heritagisation effects on holy matter: from touching to no touching (if not with white gloves), from sensuality to material preservation, from interaction and communication to one-direction information, from dialogue with material sacredness to cultural or historical admiration. And: from kissing to respectful distance. 

Devotional kissing of the relic of Virgin Mary's girdle while on display in Moscow (normally to be found on Mount Athos)

Facing all those examples in written sources, paintings, satires etc on a sensual past long gone and replaced by a more intellectual view on holy matters, where control of the body, senses and general appearance were major virtues, I had to ask myself: What does it do to a culture when sensuality is banned - in religion, or elsewhere?

Mocking the kissing of the Pope's foot. Satire woodcut by Lucas Cranach the Elder from 'Passionary of the Christ and Antichrist', early 16th century.

The sources for my Master thesis in History of Ideas and Science touched upon this a little. In the Swedish national inventories for antiquities, performed by order of the King from 1666 throughout the century and mostly executed by the local clergy, Catholic practices are mentioned and mocked. One example are the monks said to have been dancing in a field every year before a pilgrimage to Trondheim in Norway, and so violently that the marks in the ground could still be seen decades later. Or another, where the priest giving the report in late 17th century describes how the boards of a liturgic coffin where a wooden Christ was laid during the Holy Week liturgies, were 'licked with the lips so that it was smooth and worn'. I wonder, and presently without a clear answer, where all this kissing and devout relationship to sacred materiality went after 1544 and the eventual establishment of the Reformation?

 Girl kissing a relic of S:t Clare on the Saint's feast day in Monastery of Poor Clares, Laguna, Philippines

Were the physical means of expressing emotions all intellectualized with the change of religious teachings? And in any case, for my research interest: How did the travelers from this (in a religious context) non-kissing country up North react to the physical and emotional expressions in Italy and in Catholic practice? Fact is, I have already found a number of sources giving interesting information on this... but I won't give away every juicy part of my dissertation before it is finished, so I'll get back to you on that topic. Stay patient!

So. What's in a kiss, anyway? Beyond doubt a kiss is so much more than the general romantic kiss between lovers, but is it even always a good thing? It can be soaked in symbolic meaning, far beyond the visual, like the kiss of peace, the kissing of a ring or the feet of someone as an act of subjection, or it can be a kiss of betrayal.

Humble and symbolically charged kissing. Pope Francis kissing the foot of an inmate at juvenile detention centre of Casal del Marmo in Rome, Holy Thursday liturgy 2013. (Photo: The Globe and Mail)

Betrayal kissing. The kiss of Judas, oil painting by Caravaggio (1602)

I would like to wrap up these thoughts on kisses, kissing and sensual experience of strongly charged objects, and the possible effects when this dimension is removed, by giving you some lines from a favorite poem. It is by e e cummings, voices to voices, lip to lip (Read the whole poem here, and a short interpretation here. I recommend it.):

(While you and i have lips and voices which

are for kissing and to sing with

who cares if some oneyed son for a bitch

invents an instrument to measure Spring with?

each dream nascitur, is not made...)

why then to Hell with that: the other; this,

since the thing perhaps is

to eat flowers and not to be afraid.

It all started with a headless Jesus

Virgin Mary holding baby Jesus. 15th century sculpture in Strängnäs cathedral (Sweden)

Every so often in the enigmatic world of Academia, when confronted with the arduous work of clever colleagues, a question springs to mind: How on earth did s/he come up with this topic? And what in it was so thrilling, so tickling, so calling out to be explored that it was considered worth spending at least four years of hard work on? Not that it doesn't seem interesting (it often does), it is just the level of specialization that might have a deterrent effect on the non-specialists in the field in question - i.e., sadly, almost everyone.   

For me, it all started with a headless Jesus. The time and place were the end of the 1990’s in the medieval brick cathedral of Strängnäs, Sweden, and I was presented to an image showing Virgin Mary holding baby Jesus. The sculpture was medieval, made of wood and displaying clear signs of neglect and being out of fashion during the past centuries - not a unique state for Catholic objects that for some reason were spared after the Reformation. Now, however, the image not only was given a prominent position in the cathedral, but even honored with a fresh rose and a living candle placed before it on a small altar. All in all, the signs were clear: This was a living relation, a devotion of and an interaction with the divine. ”—We have brought Mary back into the church!”, the Lutheran parish priest stated. It was when I approached and actually looked more closely on the Virgin that I discovered the headless state of baby Jesus. In an instant I discovered that I reacted in a number of habitual ways: as interested in the heritage field and historical matters in one way, as a former museum emplyee in another, and as a frequent visitor to Catholic churches in yet another way. 

The worn, historic image of Mary with a headless baby Jesus in her arms and candles and a flower placed before it sent out, at least to my mind, mixed signals: Was this a historical object to be regarded with nostalgia, was it part of a national or ecclesiastical heritage to be interpreted as sheer materiality, or was it the sacred image it was once made to be, and – despite the headlessness – still a relevant object for devotion? Or, I asked myself, could it actually be all these things at the same time – a state of hybridity, dependent on the beholder and its gaze, prerequisites and convictions? Standing there in the dusky church, a process started that eventually led to studies in Heritage politics, to a Master thesis in History of Ideas and science, and to the topic for the dissertation I am presently working on.

Skokloster Castle 17th century library, Sweden. (Photo: Bengt A Lundberg)

A clue to the ambiguous relationship to materiality, authenticity and sacredness that I became aware of when meeting the headless Jesus might be the years I worked in the rare book collection at Skokloster Castle. When being bought by the Swedish state in 1967 and transformed into a museum, Skokloster also formed a practice and a view on conservation that is still valid in heritage environments. Here it was actually possible to follow and understand the original building process from start to finish, through the books in the library, through letters ordering tools from Holland and other countries, through the same tools still preserved, and through the woodworks, ceiling constructions and lime mortar that were produced on the building site. Conservation was performed by using these original and authentic methods, and the golden rule was to add as little as possible - just to keep the old parts together. How this practice, with the carefully re-glued flakes of paints on the walls, sometimes clashes with the expectations of the visitors is quite vividly illuminated by the crass statement by an American tourist: "This place needs fixing.".

Being educated in this view, the supremacy of material authenticity, I had no problems with heritage objects looking really scruffy - as a matter of fact, the scruffiness just added to my belief in the authenticity. No, the problem with the headless Jesus was something else: it touched upon sacredness and the claims of being "alive" in its original function, as a devotional object. Could this work, even without a head?

In an article, presently under publication (November 2013, Gotländskt Arkiv), I explore the use of medieval religious materiality and practices on Gotland, Sweden, in premodern time and up to now. Without giving away too much of the article, it can be said that the general attitude towards sacred matter presently out of fashion has been severely unsentimental, down-to-earth and utilitarian, and that the appreciation of immaterial values in this category emerged with Romanticism, Piranesi's etchings of Roman ruins and the entrance of the Artist as a major character.

Today, authenticity and sacredness seem to merge in a highly subjective narrative, not primarily based on historical or theological facts, but on what might very well be the most influential currency of our time: Emotions. In this perspective it is hardly surprising that many visitors to the medieval church ruins of Visby, Gotland, express that they experience a particularly strong authenticity during the annual Medieval Festival ('Medeltidsveckan') when the former Franciscan church of S.t Catherine is filled to the brim with reenacting visitors watching jesters performing a fire show. The former sacred building has transformed into a live scene for medieval reenactment, and the result is experienced authenticity and - for some - even a sense of sacredness.

Returning to Mary and her headless baby Jesus, one question seems inevitable: Sacredness - is it objective, or is it all in the eye of the beholder?

Jester from performance group 'Trix' performing a fire show in S.t Catherine's church ruin, Visby. (Photo: Helen Simonsson)