The Venice Art Biennale – Where the World Comes to Imagine

Visitors of the Venice Art Biennale of 2011.

Every other years, Venice transforms into a living map of contemporary art. The Biennale, founded in 1895, stretches across the city — from the historic pavilions of the Giardini to the vast halls of the Arsenale and countless palazzi scattered along its canals. It’s not a single exhibition but a city-wide conversation, where artists, curators, and visitors explore what art can still say about the world.

Each edition has its own theme, but the real magic lies in the contrasts: quiet installations beside theatrical spectacles, digital dreams across from centuries-old frescoes. National pavilions show pride, politics, and poetry side by side. Venice itself, half sinking and half eternal, adds its own commentary — a reminder that beauty and fragility often walk together.

The Biennale isn’t about answers. It’s about curiosity — about stepping into rooms that challenge, delight, or disturb, and leaving with more questions than before. In a city built on reflections, that seems perfectly fitting.

Egeria of Hispania: Travels of a Woman in the Late Roman Empire

Egeria on the road — a Spanish stamp from 1984 commemorating the 4th-century pilgrim from Roman Hispania, whose letters describe her long journey (381–384) through the eastern Mediterranean in search of biblical places and lived faith.

In the late fourth century, when the Roman Empire was changing shape and Christianity was becoming its spiritual backbone, a woman from the far western edge of the known world set out on an extraordinary journey. Her name was Egeria. She came from Roman Spain—probably from Gallaecia (Galicia)—and she left behind something rare and precious: a first-hand account of her travels across the eastern Mediterranean and the Holy Land, written in her own voice.

Egeria did not travel as a princess, nor as a pilgrim escorted by armies. She travelled as an educated, determined Christian woman, curious about places, rituals, and people—and confident that she had every right to be on the road.

A Woman Who Could Travel

Egeria’s letters, often called her Itinerarium or travel diary, show that travel in Late Roman Spain was not reserved for men alone. Roads were maintained, hostels existed, and letters of recommendation opened doors. Egeria moves with surprising ease through a vast territory: from Constantinople to Jerusalem, from Mount Sinai to Mesopotamia, from Egypt to Asia Minor.

She travels slowly and attentively. She asks questions, listens to local guides, and records what she sees. Her tone is calm and practical. There is no sense that she feels she is doing something improper or dangerous simply because she is a woman. On the contrary, she writes as someone fully entitled to be where she is.

This alone makes her text remarkable.

Travel with Purpose, Not Escape

Egeria is often called a pilgrim, but her journey is more than a religious checklist. She does not rush from shrine to shrine. She wants to understand how places connect to Scripture, how local Christians celebrate feasts, how liturgy differs from one city to another.

When she reaches Jerusalem, she stays for a long time—not days, but years. She carefully describes Holy Week, Easter, and daily worship. Her interest is almost anthropological. She observes how religion is lived, not just where it is anchored.

This kind of travel requires time, resources, and social support. Egeria never explains exactly who she is, but it is clear that she belongs to an educated Christian elite—possibly a woman in a religious community, possibly of noble background. What matters is that her society allowed her enough freedom to travel, write, and be taken seriously.

Spain at the Edge, Not the Margin

Although Egeria writes mostly about the eastern Mediterranean, her Spanish origin matters. She refers to her homeland as distant but fully part of the Roman-Christian world. Spain is not a backwater in her eyes; it is simply far away.

Her letters were meant to be read back home, by a group of women she addresses as dominae sorores—“lady sisters.” This suggests a network of educated women in Roman Spain who were eager to learn, read, and imagine the wider world through her words.

Egeria is not writing for male authorities. She is writing to women like herself.

Practical, Curious, and Unafraid

What makes Egeria so modern is her voice. She writes in simple, clear Latin, closer to spoken language than to classical literature. She explains things patiently. She admits when she is tired. She notes when roads are difficult, when guides are helpful, when places are disappointing.

She climbs mountains because she wants to see where Moses stood. She visits remote monasteries because she is curious about how people live there. She asks bishops to explain things to her—and expects answers.

This is not passive devotion. It is active engagement with the world.

Freedom Within Limits

Of course, Egeria’s freedom was not universal. She could travel because she belonged to a specific social, religious, and economic class. Enslaved women, poor women, or women outside Christian networks did not enjoy the same mobility.

But within those limits, her journey shows what was possible. Late Roman Spain was part of an empire where women could own property, move independently, correspond across long distances, and participate intellectually in religious life.

Egeria’s letters quietly challenge the idea that ancient women were always confined, silent, or invisible.

Further Reading

• Egeria. The Pilgrimage of Egeria: (A New Translation of the Itinerarium Egeriae.) Translated with introduction and notes by Anne McGowan and Paul F. Bradshaw. Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2018.

Meeting Paco in Elche (Spain) — and the Secret Life of Spanish Names

Paco (Francisco) in front of his truck in Elche (Spain).

In Elche I met Francisco … or rather — I met Paco.

Paco runs a car transport business with an autotransporter, collecting and delivering vehicles all over the region. Friendly, practical and endlessly cheerful, he agreed to have his picture taken. He explained that although he is officially Francisco, he prefers to be called Paco, and immediately he explained me all about teh Spanish naming conventions.

“Officially, I’m Francisco,” he said. “But nobody calls me that. I’ve always been Paco.”

In Spain, that is perfectly normal.

Behind Paco’s name lies a long tradition that reaches deep into Spanish history, shaped by religion, monasteries and medieval writing habits. Spaniards don’t just have one name — they often live with two: a formal one for documents, and a familiar one for real life.

The hidden history behind Paco

The name Francisco comes from Saint Francis of Assisi, founder of the Franciscan order. In medieval monasteries he was referred to in Latin as:

P.A.C.O. — Pater Comunitatis (Father of the community)

This abbreviation was written in manuscripts and later spoken aloud as “Paco”. Over time, Paco became the recognised familiar form of Francisco — not a nickname, but a name with its own history.

And what about Pepe?

The same happened with José.

In religious texts Saint Joseph was often called:

P.P. — Pater Putativus (the “putative” or supposed father of Jesus)

Read aloud, P.P. became Pepe — and Pepe remains the traditional everyday name for José across Spain.

A country of double names

For centuries Spanish children were named after saints: José, Francisco, Juan, María, Antonio. These names carried dignity and tradition. But in daily life, people preferred warmer, more personal forms. So a parallel naming system emerged: formal on paper, familiar in conversation.

Some of these everyday names sound nothing like their official counterparts — yet every Spaniard instantly recognises them.

A few classic examples

Men

• Francisco → Paco, Pancho, Curro

• José → Pepe

• Manuel → Manolo

• Antonio → Toni, Toño

• Ignacio → Nacho

• Joaquín → Quino

• Fernando → Nando

• Guillermo → Guille

Women

• Josefa → Pepa

• Francisca → Paca

• Dolores → Lola

• Concepción → Concha

• Rosario → Charo

• Mercedes → Merche

• Encarnación → Encarna

• Guadalupe → Lupe

So Paco from Elche is not an exception. He is part of a centuries-old tradition where names carry both formality and familiarity — depending on who is speaking, and how well they know you.

On his business card it says Francisco.
But in real life, he is Paco.

Rotterdam: Where Words Work as Hard as People Do

Rotterdam, the ECT container terminal.

In Rotterdam, language is rarely decorative. It’s a working tool—sharp, efficient, and stripped of unnecessary polish. The city’s direct way of speaking is often noted by visitors, sometimes mistaken for bluntness. But this tone was forged at the docks, not in drawing rooms.

Rotterdam is Europe’s largest port, a place built on movement and timing. Ships must be unloaded and reloaded as fast as possible, often within hours. The crews, dockworkers, and crane operators come from dozens of countries, speaking as many languages. There’s little time for nuance or ceremony. Orders must be clear, warnings unmistakable, responses immediate. In this world, words are like ropes and winches—tools that make things happen.

That linguistic economy has seeped into the city’s character. Even beyond the port, Rotterdammers tend to speak plainly, preferring action over ornament. It’s not rudeness but pragmatism—communication shaped by urgency and teamwork among people who might only meet once.

Contrast this with rural or agricultural communities, where language is part of long-term relationships. There, speech is softer, tuned to coexistence over generations. In Rotterdam, by contrast, speech is transactional and situational—designed for efficiency, not diplomacy.

Linguists and sociologists studying port cities have observed similar patterns elsewhere: directness as a form of linguistic adaptation to high-intensity, multicultural environments. When trust must be built in minutes, clarity becomes the highest form of respect.

Further reading

• Johnstone, Barbara. Linguistic Individuality and Regional Speech Patterns.

• Coupland, Nikolas. Style: Language Variation and Identity.

• Labov, William. Sociolinguistic Patterns.

• Hymes, Dell. Foundations in Sociolinguistics: An Ethnographic Approach.

Three Graces Working on Their Bucket List

Three Graces Working on Their Bucket List.

The Castle of Vitré

Rising above the Vilaine River in western France, Château de Vitré looks every inch the classic medieval fortress: high slate roofs, round towers with sharp conical caps, and massive granite walls that have witnessed nearly a thousand years of history. Its first stone castle was built around 1060, when the lords of Vitré needed a stronghold on the eastern frontier of the independent Duchy of Brittany.

During the 13th century, as conflicts between Brittany and the French crown intensified, the fortress was enlarged with the great gatehouse and round towers we see today. It became a keystone of the duchy’s defense. In the 14th century’s Breton War of Succession (1341–1364) the castle endured sieges and shifting alliances, holding fast as rival claimants and French armies struggled for control of Brittany.

By the 15th century, under the powerful Laval family, Vitré turned from a pure military post into a noble residence and a diplomatic stage. The Lavals—some of the richest nobles in Europe—hosted glittering feasts and negotiated marriages and alliances inside its walls. Local legend still speaks of a “Lady of Vitré” who wanders the ramparts on foggy nights, mourning battles and loves long past.

In later centuries the castle adapted to new realities. After Brittany was formally united with France in 1532, it served as an administrative center and, during the French Revolution (1789–1799), even as a prison. When romantic interest in the Middle Ages surged in the 19th century, Vitré’s fortress was carefully restored and opened to visitors.

Today its towers and halls house a museum that presents medieval arms, Renaissance furnishings, and the story of Brittany’s long struggle to keep its identity. Standing on the battlements, with the town’s tiled roofs below and the river curling beyond, you can feel how this granite sentinel once guarded a frontier—and how it now preserves the memories of nearly a millennium of French and Breton history.

The Moment I Missed — and Didn’t

The bier in the streets of Venice (generated with AI).

Anyone who walks around with a camera knows this feeling.

You carry certain images in your head—scenes you saw clearly, moments that would have made an extraordinary photograph, if only you had been a second faster. But you weren’t. The camera was still in your bag, or your hands hesitated, or reality simply moved on. The moment vanished. The image, however, never does. It stays etched on your retina.

This time it happened in Venice.

Walking through the city as a tourist, drifting between alleys and canals, I was suddenly overtaken by something utterly unexpected: a bier mounted on bicycle wheels, pushed briskly forward. A body lay beneath a white shroud. A priest followed, visibly struggling to keep up with both the pace and his companion.

It passed in a flash.

I am convinced that more than half of the tourists around me didn’t even register what they had just seen. There were no sirens, no solemn procession—just a fleeting, almost surreal interruption of the Venetian rhythm. And then it was gone.

I never raised my camera in time. But the image lodged itself firmly in my mind.

Later, unable to let it go, I turned to AI to reconstruct the scene as faithfully as possible—not as a replacement for the photograph I failed to take, but as an attempt to give form to a moment that refused to disappear.

Some photographs are never taken. But that doesn’t mean they are lost.

Rotterdam’s friendliest ambush

Say cheese... or we’ll both shoot you!

The Lonely Station — Nogaredo, 2010

A Shell station near Nogaredo (2010).

On the roadside near Nogaredo in northern Italy, this small Shell station still glows in the mountain sun. It’s 2010 — the era when cars hum on diesel, when petrol prices make headlines, and when every highway bend seems to promise another stop for fuel and coffee.

Yet even then, the scene feels oddly quiet. A single pump, the yellow canopy already fading, no attendants in sight. The brand is there, but its energy seems to have drained away — like the end of a long drive.

Only a decade later, the world would begin to turn sharply toward electric mobility. Companies like Shell would find themselves in courtrooms rather than discussing expansion plans, accused of ignoring their responsibility for a warming planet. This lonely station, with its clean concrete and perfect Alpine backdrop, is now sold by Shell and does not advertise a brand anymore. The photograph seems to be a sign of change just before it begins.

It reminds us how fast certainty evaporates. The petrol age once seemed endless; now its architecture already belongs to the past — silent, sunlit, and waiting for whatever comes next.

Joanna’s Grief

A portrait of Joanna of Castile by Juan de Flandes, ca. 1500.

As seen through the letters of Peter Martyr d’Anghiera. - Peter Martyr d’Anghiera (1457–1526) was an Italian humanist, scholar, and letter-writer who lived at the heart of the Spanish court during the reign of the Catholic Monarchs. Born in Lombardy and trained in Renaissance humanism, he came to Spain in the late 15th century, where he became tutor to princes, royal chronicler, and trusted observer of events that would change the world. His extensive correspondence (Epistolae) offers a rare, vivid view of court life, politics, exploration, and personal drama—written not as official history, but as thoughtful, often candid letters to friends across Europe.

When Philip the Handsome died suddenly in September 1506, Joanna of Castile was just twenty-seven years old. She was a young queen, newly widowed, already isolated, and the mother of several small children. Her eldest son, Charles—only six years old at the time—would one day become Emperor Charles V, but now he was a frightened child watching his mother collapse into grief. What followed shocked courts across Europe. In his Epistolae, the humanist Peter Martyr d’Anghiera describes not a legend of madness, but a human tragedy unfolding in public view.

A Grief That Would Not End

Peter Martyr was close enough to the Spanish court to witness events as they happened, and careful enough to record what he saw without turning it into rumor. In his letters, Joanna’s grief is not theatrical—it is consuming. She does not behave as a queen should. She does not follow the rituals expected of widows of rank. Instead, she clings to her dead husband with a devotion that unsettles everyone around her.

Philip’s body is embalmed, but Joanna refuses to let him be buried. Martyr writes that she keeps the coffin close, watches over it, and resists all pressure to part from it. This is not a symbolic delay. Days stretch into weeks, weeks into months. The court waits. Europe watches.

Traveling with the Dead

What most disturbed contemporaries—and what Martyr records with quiet astonishment—was Joanna’s decision to travel with Philip’s coffin. She orders the casket opened repeatedly, needing to see his face, to reassure herself that he is truly there. At night, she insists that no women be allowed near him, as if jealousy still bound her to the man she had lost.

The cortege moves slowly through Castile. Towns receive a queen accompanied by death. Priests whisper. Courtiers exchange glances. Martyr does not sensationalize the scene, but the strangeness is unmistakable. This is mourning without limits, grief that refuses containment.

A Court Without Patience

Peter Martyr’s letters make clear that sympathy quickly gave way to fear. Joanna’s behavior was not only emotionally troubling—it was politically dangerous. She was the rightful queen of Castile, yet increasingly incapable of fulfilling her role. Decisions were delayed. Authority slipped away from her hands.

Her father, Ferdinand of Aragon, watched closely. So did advisers, nobles, and foreign powers. In Martyr’s words, concern for Joanna’s soul slowly merged with concern for the stability of the realm. Compassion became calculation.

Madness or Despair?

What makes Martyr’s testimony so valuable is what he does not say. He does not call Joanna mad. He does not mock her, nor dismiss her as hysterical. Instead, his letters reveal a man deeply uncomfortable with what he is witnessing. He describes sorrow pushed beyond endurance, love turned inward, reason overwhelmed—but never erased.

Modern readers often forget how little space early-modern society allowed for uncontrolled grief, especially in women, and especially in queens. Joanna’s refusal to move on violated not only custom, but political necessity. Martyr seems to understand this tension, even as he struggles to name it.

Silence After the Coffin

Eventually, Philip is buried—against Joanna’s will. Not long after, she is declared unfit to rule. Her son Charles is separated from her and raised to govern an empire. Joanna herself will spend the next nearly fifty years confined in Tordesillas, alive but absent from power, a queen in name only.

Peter Martyr’s letters stop short of that long imprisonment, but they capture the moment when everything turns. In his Epistolae, Joanna of Castile is not yet “la Loca.” She is a young widow, devastated by loss, standing at the point where private grief becomes a public sentence.

A Human Voice in a Brutal Time

Through Peter Martyr’s eyes, Joanna’s story regains its humanity. His letters remind us that behind the labels of history—madness, incapacity, confinement—there was a woman who loved deeply and lost catastrophically. Her grief frightened a world that valued order over compassion, stability over empathy.

In that sense, Joanna’s tragedy is not only personal. It is a story about how power responds to vulnerability—and how history often mistakes sorrow for madness when it becomes inconvenient.

An Ode to the Encina: Heart of the Extremadura Landscape

The encina (Quercus ilex subsp. ballota).

Across the sun-blasted plains of Extremadura stands a tree that seems older than memory itself: the Quercus ilex subsp. ballota, the encina. These holm oaks, with their twisted trunks and low, sheltering crowns, are more than trees — they are the quiet storytellers of the dehesa.

Each encina appears carved by time. Their bark is creased like the face of someone who has lived deeply, weathering centuries of drought, wind, and long summers. Under their branches Romans marched, medieval herdsmen rested, and generations of travellers found shade in the shimmering heat. Every curve in their silhouette suggests another chapter of the land’s unwritten history.

Yet the encina’s gift is not only its presence but its bounty. Its acorns — the bellotas — fall each autumn like small polished gems, feeding deer, birds, and most famously the Iberian pigs. These pigs roam freely beneath the canopy, fattening on nothing but bellotas and wild herbs. From this ancient relationship emerges one of Spain’s greatest treasures: jamón ibérico de bellota, the silky, aromatic ham revered around the world.

In a region of sharp light and deep silence, the encina remains evergreen — a symbol of endurance and quiet generosity. Stand beneath one at dusk and you feel it: the tree is not just part of the landscape; it is its memory and its heartbeat. As long as the encinas endure, so too will the spirit of Extremadura.

Paloma de plástico

Paloma de plástico, nacida del mar,
llevas la paz donde falta amar.
No vienes del cielo, sino del suelo,
donde los hombres pierden su anhelo.

Tu vuelo recuerda, humilde y sincero,
que aun del despojo renace lo entero.
Paloma del mundo, no de un altar,
enséñanos juntos de nuevo a amar.

The Toro de Osborne

Drive long enough through Spain, and sooner or later it will appear — proud, silent, and impossible to miss. A giant black bull, standing tall on a hill, horns sharp against the blazing sky. The Toro de Osborne.

It was never meant to be a symbol of a nation. In the 1950s, it was simply an advertisement — a clever idea from the Osborne sherry company to promote their brand along the newly growing highways. The bulls were made of sheet metal, more than ten meters high, each one painted black to withstand the sun. They carried the word “Osborne” in white letters across their flanks.

But time, and affection, changed everything. When new laws later banned roadside advertising, people protested the removal. By then, the bull had stopped being a billboard and had become something else entirely — a silhouette of identity. The government relented, and the Osborne bulls stayed, stripped of their commercial lettering but not of their pride.

Today, there are about ninety of them scattered across the country. You see them guarding the horizon of La Mancha, watching over the olive fields of Andalusia, or gazing out toward the sea near Cádiz. They are both monumental and strangely poetic — frozen mid-step, eternal guardians of the Spanish road.

For travelers, the sight always stirs something. Perhaps it’s the simplicity: black shape, blue sky, sunlit hills. Or perhaps it’s the feeling that this creature, born of commerce, now carries the soul of a land that refuses to forget its symbols.

The Toro de Osborne no longer sells sherry. It sells Spain itself — its pride, its history, and the stubborn beauty of a country that still knows how to stand tall against the light.

A Crown for Begoña, A Future for Bilbao

Coronación de La Madre de Dios de Begoña, by José Etxenagusia (1902).

On 8 September 1900, Bilbao staged a celebration that fused devotion with civic pride: the canonical crowning of the Madre de Dios de Begoña—the “Amatxu”—timed to the city’s 600th anniversary. Bells, banners, and an entire town in procession set the tempo.

In 1902, José Etxenagusia (Echena) turned that day into a sweeping canvas for the Basilica of Begoña. He sets the scene outside the west portal: the crowned image lifted high, clergy massed around her, guards framing a dense, recognizably urban crowd. Look closer and the painting becomes a civic portrait as much as a devotional one, a who’s who of Bilbao under one crown.

Crucially, the coronation marked a leap into modern light. Under the guidance of diocesan architect José María Basterra, electric lighting illuminated the festivities—processions stepping out of candlelight into a steady, urban glow. Etxenagusia paints that quiet voltage on faces and fabrics: a city confident enough to bless the future without dimming the past.

Stand before the canvas today and grandeur draws you in, but belonging lingers. Here Bilbao remembers itself—a community stitching faith to progress, incense to electricity—and leaves the proof on a single, generous sheet of light and color.

Castillo de Santa Olalla del Cala

Castillo de Santa Olalla del Cala.

The castle of Santa Olalla del Cala rises from a rocky ridge in the Sierra de Aracena, in the province of Huelva, Andalusia. It was commissioned by King Sancho IV of Castile in 1293 as part of the Banda Gallega, a defensive line guarding the frontier against Portugal.

It was built over an earlier Muslim fortress, which itself may have occupied a Roman site. The walls follow the natural contours of the ridge, reinforced by ten towers — four round and six rectangular — and built from rough stone and brick.

Throughout the late Middle Ages, the castle saw several conflicts: the wars between Castile and Portugal in the 14th century, and the internal struggles that shook the Kingdom of Seville in the 1460s. Later, when its military value declined, the fortress took on humbler roles; for a time it even served as the village cemetery, with tombs carved into its inner walls.

The Ferry at Coria del Río (Spain)

The ferrymen of the ferry over the Guadalquivir.

Downstream from Seville, at Coria del Río, the Guadalquivir widens and slows. Here, a small ferry still crosses the water — two men, a handful of cars, and the quiet rhythm of a river that has seen empires come and go.

The ferrymen move with practiced grace: one guides the rudder, the other collects the money. No hurry, no noise — just the hum of the engine and the slap of water against steel. In a world of speed and schedules, their crossing feels like a pause in time — a reminder that not every journey needs a bridge.

San Manuel Bueno, mártir (1931) – Miguel de Unamuno

Miguel de Unamuno’s San Manuel Bueno, mártir (1931) is a deeply philosophical and existential novel that explores the tension between faith and doubt, truth and illusion. Set in a small Spanish village, the story follows Don Manuel, a beloved priest known for his kindness, self-sacrifice, and ability to comfort his community. However, through the perspective of the narrator, Angela Carballino, we discover a shocking secret: despite his outward devotion, Don Manuel does not believe in God or the afterlife.

Despite his personal disbelief, he continues to teach Christian doctrine, convinced that faith provides his people with the strength to endure their harsh lives. He ultimately dies as a revered figure, remembered as a saint by the villagers, while only a select few know of his internal struggle.

Unamuno, the author and a key figure in the ‘Generación de 1898’, uses the paradox in the story to reflect on the nature of belief, the role of religious institutions, and the existential struggle between reason and faith. The novel’s timeless themes make it not only a significant work of Spanish literature but also a universal meditation on the human condition, challenging readers to consider the value of faith even in the face of doubt.

Portrait of Miguel de Unamuno (1925). Gallica Digital Library.

After Shopping — Christmas in Roermond

Shoppers in the Grote Kerkstraat in Roermond (The Netherlands).

The shopping is done. Arms heavy with glossy bags, faces flushed from cold and discounts, people drift out of the outlet — tired but pleased.

Through the pedestrian tunnel that links the outlet to the old town, the mood shifts. The glitter of commerce fades into the glow of Roermond itself. Along Grote Kerkstraat, the cobblestones shine with rain, and the air smells of fries, beer, and the faint spice of winter.

Laughter echoes between cafés. Coats unbutton, glasses clink. The shoppers have become celebrants — and for one bright evening, Roermond feels like a small city entirely at ease with itself.

Painting the Cross: Constantine’s Legacy on the Walls of Albi

Fresco with Emperor Constantine and his mother Saint Helena in the Chapel of the Holy Cross, Cathedral of Sainte-Cécile, Albi, France (c. 1510–1512).

Emperor Constantine is depicted on this fresco The Cathedral of Albi on the eve of a decisive battle, gazing upward in astonishment as a brilliant red cross blazes in the sky. According to legend, an angel awakened Constantine and revealed this glowing cross accompanied by the words, “In hoc signo vinces,” meaning “In this sign, you will conquer.” In the fresco, angels hover around the radiant symbol, and Constantine’s soldiers pause in awe. This divine vision transforms the atmosphere: a moment before battle, the emperor and his army witness what they believe is a promise of victory from the Christian God. The red cross banner that appears becomes the centerpiece of hope – a vibrant emblem of faith in the midst of fear.

Under the Red Cross Banner

Inspired by the heavenly sign, Constantine commands his troops to carry a red cross banner as they charge into battle. Shields and standards are marked with the cross, turning the once-pagan army into an army under Christ’s protection. The fresco shows the young emperor leading the charge, his soldiers rallying behind the cross flag. True to the prophecy, Constantine wins a decisive victory over his rival under the banner of the cross. The red cross itself signifies the Crucifixion of Christ – red for the blood and sacrifice – and its presence signals that the Christian God favors Constantine.

The story continues after the battle: Constantine’s mother, Saint Helena, is shown receiving holy nails from the Crucifixion. She would later journey to find the True Cross of Christ, completing the tale of triumph.

Inspiring Faith in the 1500s

When these frescoes were painted in the early 1500s, their story had powerful meaning. The Cathedral of Albi had been built like a fortress of faith, symbolizing the Church’s resolve against heresy and enemies. The vivid scene of Constantine’s divinely aided victory would have inspired worshippers of that era, reminding them that unity under the cross could triumph over adversity.

The chapel housing this fresco once held a relic of the True Cross itself. Seeing Constantine’s vision and victory on the walls, and knowing a fragment of the actual Cross was nearby, people in the 1500s would feel a direct connection to this legend. The angels, emperors, and saints in the painting all served to reinforce the message that faith could guide leaders and nations to victory and salvation.

The 'Cruz de los Ángeles' - Oviedo's Golden Emblem

Oviedo’s Cruz de los Ángeles.

Step into the dim stone of the Cámara Santa and the light finds its target. Behind glass, a small golden cross glows like a held breath. This is the Cruz de los Ángeles—Oviedo’s emblem, the city’s oldest signature in metal and light.

The story begins in 808, when King Alfonso II “the Chaste” endowed the cathedral with a reliquary cross of gold, pearls, and colored stones. Legend adds a flourish: two mysterious craftsmen appeared, worked through the night, and vanished at dawn—angels, people said. Whether or not wings touched the workbench, the craftsmanship still feels unearthly: filigree like lace, geometry calm and exact, a willingness to shimmer without shouting.

Look at the cross and you see more than devotion. You see statecraft in an early-medieval key: a king gifting a radiant center to a capital he was shaping. In the decades that followed—by c. 813, when the shrine at Santiago gained royal recognition and the Camino Primitivo set out from Oviedo—the cross functioned as a compass of faith and cityhood. In time it moved from treasury to coat of arms, from shrine to street banners: the way Oviedo wrote its name.

The cross has known danger and repair. In the early hours of 12 October 1934, during the Asturian uprising, an explosion devastated the Cámara Santa and scarred its treasures. Then, on the night of 9–10 August 1977, thieves dismantled the cross to sell it in pieces. Most fragments were recovered, and a careful reconstruction returned the Cruz de los Ángeles to view between 1979 and 1986—scarred, like the city, yet standing.

How to look? Begin with the details: filigree borders like tiny braided rivers; stones cupped in their bezels; the hinge that reveals its truth as a reliquary. Step back, and the geometry resolves—four equal arms catching the room’s light like a compass. Then walk into the plaza, where the city’s heraldry echoes what you just saw. Gold and granite, myth and municipal seal, keep talking above your head.

In a world that loves spectacle, the Cruz de los Ángeles teaches a gentler amazement. It is small, portable, serious; it glitters not to dazzle but to endure. If you want to understand Oviedo, start here: a cross forged in 808, wounded in 1934 and 1977, restored by 1986—and still called by name.