The Crusades

A Story of Faith, Fire, and Far Horizons

Louis IX (Saint Louis, 1214 - 1270) on a ship departing from Aigues-Mortes, for the Seventh Crusade.

In the closing years of the 11th century, a dramatic call echoed through the vaulted halls of medieval Europe. At the Council of Clermont in 1095, Pope Urban II, standing before an assembly of lords and clerics, issued a passionate appeal: to journey eastward and reclaim Jerusalem, the holiest of cities, from Muslim rule.

The Pope's words, laden with religious fervor and political intent, offered salvation and absolution, but also a sense of purpose to a continent gripped by spiritual tension, overpopulation, and shifting power structures. “Deus vult!”—“God wills it!”—became the rallying cry of thousands.

This moment was the spark that ignited the Crusades, a series of armed pilgrimages that would span two centuries. Though born from spiritual longing, the Crusades quickly became entwined with ambitions of power, wealth, and land. They were as much a collision of empires as they were a pilgrimage of souls.

The Crusades:

The story of the Crusades is not one of a single war, but a series of waves, each shaped by shifting motives and unfolding with consequences that continue to ripple across history.

First Crusade (1096–1099): A Blood-Stained Victory

From farms and fiefdoms, a mass of knights, peasants, and clergy poured eastward, driven by Urban’s promise of salvation. They faced disease, starvation, and endless hardship. Yet, in 1099, they breached the walls of Jerusalem, bathing the city in blood and claiming it for Christendom. The Kingdom of Jerusalem and other Crusader states were born—fragile footholds in the Islamic world.

Second Crusade (1147–1149): Failure and Fracture

Alarmed by the fall of Edessa, Europe's monarchs—Louis VII of France and Conrad III of Germany—led another expedition. Poorly organized and badly coordinated, their efforts faltered. The failure deepened divisions and sowed disillusionment among the faithful.

Third Crusade (1189–1192): The Duel of Titans

The legendary Muslim leader Saladin recaptured Jerusalem in 1187, prompting a high-profile response: Richard the Lionheart, Philip II, and Frederick Barbarossa rallied armies. After epic sieges and fierce battles, Richard retook territory but failed to reclaim the city. Still, Christian pilgrims were again allowed to enter Jerusalem. Chivalry and respect marked this war, especially between Richard and Saladin.

Fourth Crusade (1202–1204): Christians Against Christians

What began as a campaign to reclaim the Holy Land ended in tragedy. Manipulated by Venetian interests and internal politics, Crusaders diverted to Constantinople, sacking the Eastern Christian capital in 1204. This deepened the schism between East and West, and revealed how secular motives had begun to outweigh spiritual ones.

Albigensian and Baltic Crusades (1209–13th Century): Faith Turned Inward

The Church now pointed the cross inward. In southern France, the Albigensian Crusade targeted the Cathar heretics—brutal and effective. Meanwhile, in the Baltic, crusading knights turned their swords on pagan tribes, expanding Christendom into northeastern Europe.

Fifth and Sixth Crusades (1217–1229): Negotiation Over Blood

New efforts focused on Egypt, the strategic key to the Holy Land. The Fifth Crusade failed, but Emperor Frederick II in the Sixth Crusade achieved what armies had not: a peaceful handover of Jerusalem. Yet, it was short-lived. Within a decade, the city was lost again.

Seventh and Eighth Crusades (1248–1270): The Last King’s Crusades

Led by the devout Louis IX of France, these later campaigns ended in disaster. Captured in Egypt during the Seventh, and dead in Tunisia during the Eighth, Louis’ noble attempts showed that the age of Christian military dominance in the East was waning.

1291: The Fall of Acre and the End of an Era

The Crusader stronghold of Acre fell to the Mamluks, marking the collapse of Christian rule in the Holy Land. The dream of a permanent Christian Jerusalem was over. The Crusader states vanished, and with them, the last hope of a European kingdom in the Levant.

Further Reading

1. Thomas Asbridge, The Crusades: The War for the Holy Land

2. Christopher Tyerman, God’s War: A New History of the Crusades

3. Carole Hillenbrand, The Crusades: Islamic Perspectives

4. Jonathan Riley-Smith, The Crusades: A History

5. Helen Nicholson, The Crusades: A Beginner’s Guide

The Siege of Ypres (1383, Belgium)

The Siege of Ypres (1383), painted by Joris Liebaert in 1667 (St. Martin's Cathedral, Ypres, Belgium). - The left side of the painting illustrates the siege, while the right side portrays the procession honoring Our Lady of the Enclosure, to whom the city's successful defense was attributed.

The Siege of Ypres (1383) was a pivotal event in the Ghent War (1379–1385), a broader conflict between the rebellious city of Ghent and the Count of Flanders, Louis II of Male. The siege took place during the Despenser’s Crusade, an English-backed military campaign led by Henry le Despenser, Bishop of Norwich, under the auspices of Pope Urban VI. The crusade was part of the larger conflict between the Avignon and Roman papacies during the Western Schism, but in Flanders, it became intertwined with local struggles for power.

Supported by the English and their allies in Ghent, the besieging forces attempted to capture the strategic city of Ypres, a wealthy Flemish trade hub loyal to the count. However, despite initial successes, the siege ultimately failed due to strong resistance from the defenders and the intervention of a French relief army. The failed assault marked a significant setback for both the English and the Ghent rebels, reinforcing French dominance in the region and contributing to the eventual downfall of the rebellion.

Juan Pacheco and the Castilian Succession Crisis

The Castle of Belmonte (Spain), built by Juan Pacheco.

Juan Pacheco (1419 – 1474), 1st Marquis of Villena, was one of the most powerful and ambitious nobles in 15th-century Castile. As a close advisor to King Henry IV (Henry the Impotent), he held great influence at court. However, his shifting loyalties and political maneuvers helped create the conflict that led to the Castilian Succession Crisis. By switching sides multiple times, Pacheco played a key role in shaping the fight for the throne.

At first, Pacheco was one of Henry IV’s most trusted allies. He gained large amounts of land and power, including the lordship of Belmonte, where he built the Castle of Belmonte in 1456. But when other nobles, like Beltrán de la Cueva, started to gain the king’s favor, Pacheco felt threatened and turned against Henry IV.

In 1465, he joined a group of nobles who wanted to remove the king, arguing that Henry was weak and unfit to rule. They staged the Farce of Ávila, a public event where they symbolically deposed the king and declared his half-brother, Prince Alfonso, the rightful ruler. Pacheco became one of Alfonso’s main advisors and military leaders, but when Alfonso died suddenly in 1468, Pacheco had to find a new way to stay in power.

He then switched his support to Isabella, Henry IV’s half-sister, helping to negotiate the Treaty of the Bulls of Guisando (1468), where Henry named her as his heir. However, Pacheco wanted to control Isabella’s decisions. When she secretly married Ferdinand of Aragon in 1469 against his wishes, he saw her as a threat and once again changed sides. He returned to Henry IV’s camp and supported Joanna la Beltraneja, Henry’s daughter, as the rightful heir.

Pacheco’s constant shifting between rival factions deepened the crisis and helped lead to the War of the Castilian Succession (1475–1479). However, he did not live to see the war begin, as he died in 1474. Though his political plans ultimately failed, his influence left a lasting mark on Castile, and his Castle of Belmonte still stands as a reminder of his wealth and ambition.

Sunday Morning by Hendrik Jacobus Scholten (1865–1868)

Sunday Morning by Hendrik Jacobus Scholten (1865–1868).

Sunday Morning, painted by Dutch artist Hendrik Jacobus Scholten in the mid-19th century, presents an idealized domestic scene that echoes the spirit and aesthetics of the 17th-century Dutch Golden Age. While executed during the Romantic period, the painting pays deliberate homage to the values, interiors, and atmosphere of an earlier, revered time in Dutch history.

The composition centers around two women—an elderly lady seated by the fireplace and a young woman, likely her daughter or caretaker, reading aloud from a Bible. The younger woman is elegantly dressed in a lustrous silver-grey gown with a lace collar, typical of 17th-century upper-middle-class fashion. Her hair is neatly styled, and her posture is modest yet attentive. She sits on a low stool, slightly turned toward the older woman, projecting humility and devotion.

The elderly woman, wearing a dark cloak with fur trimming and a traditional white cap, listens intently. Her position near the hearth, in a high-backed wooden armchair, evokes the iconography of age, wisdom, and domestic authority often seen in 17th-century portraits of matriarchs.

The room is a well-appointed Dutch interior, lit softly from the left. A grand fireplace dominates the back wall, with a sculpted frieze of classical putti resting on the mantel—an ornamental detail that would have been found in wealthier 17th-century homes. Above the mantel hangs a portrait of a stern-looking man, possibly a deceased patriarch, anchoring the family's continuity and memory.

Other details—tiled flooring, oak paneling, restrained color palette, and decorative yet modest household objects—evoke a typically Protestant, bourgeois home in the Dutch Republic.

The subject matter—a family Bible reading on Sunday morning—speaks directly to Protestant values dominant in the 17th-century Netherlands: faith, family, moral education, and the sanctity of the Sunday. The act of reading scripture together reflects the importance of personal piety and literacy, values encouraged in Calvinist households. The absence of overt church symbols (no crucifix, no icons) underlines a Reformed emphasis on inner devotion over ecclesiastical ritual.

The generational aspect—the young woman reading to the older—emphasizes filial duty and the transmission of religious values across time. In 17th-century Dutch painting, such themes were often subtly moralizing: they celebrated domestic virtue and encouraged reflection on mortality, aging, and the righteous life.

Moreover, the meticulous attention to furnishings and clothing connects to genre painting of the Dutch Golden Age, where everyday scenes were imbued with ethical overtones and precise social coding.

Although painted in the 1860s, Sunday Morning is more than nostalgic. Scholten’s work is part of a 19th-century Romantic trend in the Netherlands that looked back to the Golden Age as a source of national identity, moral strength, and aesthetic inspiration. The scene is idealized, free of disorder or social tension, and meant to embody timeless values of calm, order, and devotion.

In doing so, Scholten creates not just a domestic tableau, but a kind of moral memory—a visual reassurance that the virtues of the past can still guide the present.

The Majestic Cathedral of Jaén (Spain)

Catedral de la Asunción de Nuestra Señora, Jaén (Spain).

The Cathedral of Jaén, officially known as the Catedral de la Asunción de Nuestra Señora, is one of the most significant architectural landmarks in southern Spain. Located in the heart of Jaén, it stands on the site of a former mosque, with construction beginning in the early 16th century. The cathedral was built to replace the original Gothic church, which had been damaged during the Christian reconquest. Its construction spanned over several decades, finally completed in 1724, blending Gothic, Renaissance, and Baroque styles.

Designed by the renowned architect Andrés de Vandelvira, the cathedral is a masterpiece of Renaissance architecture, particularly noted for its elegant façade and harmonious proportions. The building’s most iconic feature is its grand dome, which rises above the city and is one of the largest in Spain. The cathedral's interior is equally impressive, with a central nave flanked by chapels, and a beautiful altar made of marble. The church houses a remarkable collection of religious art, including works by notable artists like Juan Martínez Montañés, and sculptures such as the Cristo de la Expiración, an iconic piece by the same sculptor.

The Cathedral of Jaén is also home to the Capilla del Santo Rostro, a chapel dedicated to the Santo Rostro, a relic believed to be the veil of Veronica, associated with Christ’s Passion. This makes the cathedral a significant pilgrimage site.

In addition to its religious and architectural value, the Cathedral of Jaén is recognized as a symbol of the city, drawing visitors from all over the world to admire its beauty and historical significance. It is classified as a national monument and continues to serve as the seat of the Diocese of Jaén.

Saint-Mystère Remains Silent 09

Monsieur et Madamme Garnier in Paris (Tribute to Ralph Eugene Meatyard).

Monsieur et Madamme Garnier had gone to Paris—just for a few days, they said. A visit that came out of the blue. No one knows why they went, or what they saw. Only that, not long after their return, they packed their things and vanished.

Their house stands empty now. Curtains drawn. Mail untouched.

Some think something happened in Paris. Others believe it was their destiny to leave.

But in Saint-Mystère, no one asks.
We have this photo, and wonder.

Rue des Remparts, Riquewihr (France)

Rue des Remparts in Riquewihr is a picturesque street that captures the medieval charm of this Alsatian village. Lined with half-timbered houses and cobblestone pathways, the street follows the old defensive walls, or remparts, that once protected the town. Walking along Rue des Remparts feels like stepping back in time, with its well-preserved architecture and quiet, historic atmosphere.

The Meme-ing of Life

How Ideas Spread in a Fast-Changing World

Doge meme in a liquid world.

We live in a time when everything changes quickly—our jobs, habits, beliefs, and even how we talk to each other. Sociologist Zygmunt Bauman called this liquid culture: a world where life is flexible, fast-moving, and often unpredictable. One of the clearest signs of this type of culture is the meme.

What Is a Meme, Really?

Most people today think of memes as funny images with text that go viral on the internet. But the word meme was first used by scientist Richard Dawkins in his 1976 book The Selfish Gene. He described memes as small pieces of culture—like songs, catchphrases, fashion trends, or beliefs—that spread from person to person.

Just like genes pass on biological traits, memes pass on cultural ideas. And like genes, memes are copied, mutated, and selected. The ones that “fit” best with their surroundings—whether that’s a moment in time, a social mood, or a community—are the ones that survive and spread.

Memes in the Internet Age

Today’s memes mostly travel through the internet, but the way they work hasn’t changed. A meme might start with a single image or joke, but quickly it gets remixed, rewritten, and reshaped by thousands of people. This ability to change and adapt is exactly what makes memes powerful in a world that’s always shifting.

Why do memes work so well in liquid culture?

• They’re fast: Memes are short and easy to share.

• They’re flexible: Anyone can edit or remix them.

• They’re social: Memes connect people through humor, criticism, or shared experiences.

• They evolve: Like living things, memes change and adapt to survive.

In a world where traditions feel less fixed and attention spans are short, memes help people react to events, express identity, or just join in the conversation.

In Short

Memes started as a scientific idea about how culture spreads. Today, they are a key part of how we communicate in a fast-changing world. They don’t just spread—they evolve. And in a liquid culture, that makes them one of the most powerful tools we have for sharing meaning.

Further Reading:

• Richard Dawkins – The Selfish Gene (1976)

• Zygmunt Bauman – Liquid Modernity (2000)

• Limor Shifman – Memes in Digital Culture (2013)

• Susan Blackmore – The Meme Machine (1999)

Rediscovering Mary Magdalene

Gospel of Mary, discovered in 1896. P. Oxyrhynchus L 3525, Papyrology Room, Ashmolean Museum, Oxford.

For centuries, Mary Magdalene has lived on in Christian tradition as a paradoxical figure — revered as a saint, yet slandered as a prostitute. Her image, shaped more by ecclesiastical politics than by historical fact, has obscured what may be one of the most radical and profound roles in the earliest days of Christianity. Now, through the rediscovery of the Gospel of Mary, we are invited to rethink not only her place in the story of Jesus, but the very contours of the Christian tradition itself.

The Gospel of Mary, discovered in 1896 in a papyrus codex in Egypt, is a fragmented but strikingly rich text that presents Mary not as a marginal figure, but as a central voice among Jesus’ followers. The surviving pages open after Jesus’ death. His disciples, confused and frightened, fear for their lives. It is Mary who steps forward, offering courage and insight. She reminds them that the Son of Man is not gone but lives within them, and calls them to turn inward to find his presence. Her teaching is calm, philosophical, and full of spiritual authority.

But this moment of leadership is quickly challenged. Peter, speaking for the male hierarchy that would later dominate the church, questions Mary’s legitimacy. Why would Jesus speak to a woman and not to the male disciples? The tension escalates until Andrew and Levi intervene to defend her, reminding Peter that if Jesus saw her as worthy, who are they to deny her?

This dispute, on its face, is about who has authority to teach and interpret Jesus’ message. But beneath it lies something deeper: a struggle between competing visions of what the early Christian movement was meant to be. Peter represents a trajectory toward institutional hierarchy, while Mary embodies a model of inner spiritual insight and equality.

Karen L. King’s scholarly work on this gospel brings important nuance to this conflict. She shows that the Gospel of Mary reflects a theology centered on gnosis — inner knowledge — rather than external authority. Salvation is not granted through faith in Christ’s death and resurrection, nor through adherence to church doctrine, but through awakening the true self and recognizing the divine image within. Mary emerges not only as a trusted companion of Jesus, but as a teacher of mystical insight, a transmitter of wisdom that others either missed or resisted.

King also notes that the conflict between Mary and Peter echoes wider patterns of exclusion and memory. Women's voices in early Christianity were often sidelined, not necessarily because they lacked authority at the time, but because later communities chose to remember differently. The construction of orthodoxy involved not only which texts to preserve, but which memories to privilege — and whose to silence.

Importantly, the Gospel of Mary does not present a fully developed alternative theology in the same sense as the canonical gospels. It is fragmentary, poetic, and suggestive. But that is precisely its power. It reveals that early Christianity was not a fixed set of doctrines, but a contested, vibrant field of interpretation, where different communities held competing visions of truth, authority, and discipleship.

What we learn from this rediscovered gospel is not only about Mary Magdalene as a historical figure, but about the diversity and richness of early Christianity itself. The push to establish one “true” gospel and one authorized church came at the cost of marginalizing texts like this — texts that speak of personal revelation, equality, and spiritual freedom. Their suppression was not an accident of history, but a deliberate act shaped by political, theological, and gendered concerns.

By revisiting these forgotten texts, we don’t just recover lost voices — we begin to see that the earliest Christians were wrestling with questions that remain alive today: Who has the right to lead? What does spiritual authority look like? And what truths are we missing when we allow only one version of the story to be told?

Mary’s voice, though once nearly erased, calls across the centuries: not to replace one orthodoxy with another, but to remind us of the plurality, struggle, and beauty at the heart of faith’s beginnings.

Further Reading

1. Karen L. King – The Gospel of Mary of Magdala: Jesus and the First Woman Apostle
   A foundational academic work providing translation, commentary, and theological context.

2. Elaine Pagels – The Gnostic Gospels
   A classic exploration of alternative Christian texts and their suppression in early church history.

3. Marvin Meyer (ed.) – The Nag Hammadi Scriptures
   A comprehensive collection of Gnostic writings, including related texts like the Gospel of Thomas.

4. Esther A. de Boer – The Gospel of Mary: Listening to the Beloved Disciple
   A feminist theological analysis of Mary’s role and authority in the text.

5. Bart D. Ehrman – Lost Christianities: The Battles for Scripture and the Faiths We Never Knew
   An accessible look at the many early Christianities that did not survive the formation of orthodoxy.

6. Antti Marjanen – The Woman Jesus Loved: Mary Magdalene in the Nag Hammadi Library and Related Documents
   A scholarly overview of Mary Magdalene’s representation in early Christian literature.

7. Margaret Starbird – The Woman with the Alabaster Jar
   A more speculative but popular account of Mary Magdalene’s identity and symbolic power.

Relic of Saint Mary Magdalene in the crypt of the abbey church in Vézelay (France).

The church of Saint-Didier in Prez-sous-Lafauche, France

The church of Saint-Didier in Prez-sous-Lafauche (France).

The church of Saint-Didier in Prez-sous-Lafauche is a fine example of flamboyant Gothic architecture, rebuilt in the late 15th century. It has a vaulted nave with aisles and a rib-vaulted chancel. The 12th-century tower stands out with its arched windows and slate-covered upper level. The entrance features a pointed arch and round-arched windows, giving the church a graceful look.

Flames of Faith: The Auto-da-fé of Seville, 1559

Auto de Fe en la plaza Mayor de Madrid, by Francisco Rizi (17th century).

In the mid-16th century, Spain stood at the pinnacle of its global power. Under King Philip II, the Spanish Empire stretched from Peru to the Philippines, from Antwerp to Naples. It was an age of gold — in wealth, in art, in cathedrals — but also in fire. Literal fire.

Spain saw itself as the chosen guardian of the one true faith: Catholicism. And as the Reformation spread across northern Europe, Spain responded with iron resolve. The Protestant heresy, born in Germany with Martin Luther, had no place in the empire of the Cross and the Crown. To defend that purity, Spain empowered one of history’s most feared institutions: the Inquisition.

September 24, 1559 – A Sunday of Fire and Fear

On that day, the city of Seville hosted one of the largest and most symbolic autos-da-fé (acts of faith) in Spanish history. The central Plaza de San Francisco was transformed into a theater of religious justice, where the Church, the state, and the crowd came together for a ritual meant to cleanse the city of heresy.

According to the pamphlet Relación del Auto general de fe celebrado en Sevilla a 24 de septiembre de 1559, people from across Andalusia began arriving days in advance. Inns were overflowing. Some slept in the fields. This was not merely a judicial proceeding — it was a public spectacle, staged to warn, to punish, and to glorify faith.

What Was an Auto-da-Fé?

The auto-da-fé was the public culmination of an Inquisition trial. After months (or years) of secret hearings, interrogations, and confessions, those found guilty would be presented before the people. A massive wooden platform was erected. On one side sat the inquisitors, cathedral officials, and nobles. On the other stood the condemned, wearing sanbenitos — penitential robes painted with flames and demons.

The ceremony began before dawn. A grand procession wound its way through Seville, led by 300 armed guards, 50 priests with a cross, banners, drums, and trumpets. The accused carried candles and walked in silence, followed by effigies of those already dead or who had escaped the tribunal.

The sounds of chanting, bells, and murmuring filled the streets. It was a performance of power — religious, political, and psychological.

Who Was Judged — and Why?

This was no trial of peasants. The accused were nobles, intellectuals, monks, and even priests — people of status and education. The Inquisition had uncovered what it believed to be a secret Protestant circle centered around the monastery of San Isidoro del Campo, just outside Seville.

Among the most notable accused were:

• Juan Ponce de León, son of the Count of Bailén and cousin of the Duke of Arcos, accused of spreading Lutheran doctrine.

• María de Bohórquez, a young woman well-versed in Latin, Greek, and the Bible, who refused to recant her Protestant beliefs and was burned at the stake.

• Juan González, a priest and preacher of Morisco descent, previously sentenced as a child for practicing Islam. Now he stood before the crowd to be defrocked and condemned.

Their crimes? Reading banned books. Doubting papal authority. Believing the Bible could be understood without Church mediation. In short: thinking for themselves.

The Flames of San Diego

The ceremony ended outside the city, at the burning ground of San Diego. There, according to eyewitness accounts, twenty-one people were burned, some alive, others symbolically through effigies.

Clergy from various orders tried throughout the afternoon to extract confessions and repentance from the accused — but many stood firm. Their silence in the face of fire was a quiet defiance that echoed louder than any sermon.

Centuries later, a pillar from the San Diego execution ground was rediscovered and found to bear an Arabic inscription, hinting at an earlier time when Spain burned Muslims instead of Protestants. Today, that pillar rests in the Seville Archaeological Museum — a silent witness to cycles of intolerance.

The Legacy of Ritualized Fear

No known painting depicts this specific auto-da-fé. But in Madrid’s Prado Museum, you’ll find Francisco Rizi’s 1683 masterpiece Auto de fe in the Plaza Mayor, capturing the full spectacle: the platforms, the banners, the robes, the faces. Swap the city and the date, and the picture is the same.

The auto-da-fé of Seville in 1559 was not an isolated event. It was a carefully choreographed message: deviate from the faith, and you will be judged — not behind closed doors, but before the eyes of God and the people.

The fires may be long extinguished, but the echoes of those flames still smolder beneath the stones of Seville.

Hells Lager (London)

Hells Lager from Camden Town Brewery is a popular craft beer known for its crisp, refreshing taste. Inspired by traditional German lagers, it blends the best of both Helles and Pilsner styles. Brewed in London, Camden Hells offers a smooth, clean profile with a subtle bitterness and a touch of sweetness, making it an easy-drinking, versatile lager. Since its creation, it has become a flagship beer for Camden Town Brewery, embodying their commitment to quality, innovation, and the craft beer movement in the UK.

Saint-Mystère Remains Silent 08

Monsieur et Madamme Chiffon at Lake Como (Tribute to Ralph Eugene Meatyard).

No one saw them arrive.

One morning, they were simply there—standing by the shore of Lake Como, side by side, silent beneath their long-nosed masks. Strangers in their pressed shirts and quiet posture. Locals called them “les Chiffons,” though whether that was their name or just the way they moved—softly, like forgotten cloth—no one could say.

They never spoke. Not to each other, not to the curious tourists, not even when the children tossed pebbles at their feet and whispered dares. They just watched the lake, hour after hour, as if waiting for something to surface. A memory. A boat. A name.

Some said they came from Saint-Mystère, that cloistered village where silence isn’t a choice but a condition. Others claimed they were only passing through, looking for a reflection that once belonged to them.

At sunset, when the light grew soft and gold and the wind folded gently through the ivy, Monsieur Chiffon would shift ever so slightly closer. Madame never moved.

By morning, they were gone. Only footprints in the grass remained—two sets, side by side—facing the water.

And the lake, as always, kept their secret.

A Gateway to the Afterlife: The Hispano-Roman Sarcophagus of Córdoba

The front of the sarcophagus of the Alcázar de Córdoba.

With its imposing dimensions and intricate reliefs, this marble sarcophagus offers a fascinating glimpse into the funerary traditions of the Hispano-Roman elite. Discovered in 1958 during sewer construction in Córdoba, it had remained hidden for centuries in a necropolis in the Huerta de San Rafael del Brillante. Its iconography suggests it served as the final resting place for multiple members of a freed family, likely of Greek origin.

Carved between 220 and 240 AD from a single block of marble, its reliefs depict the journey to the afterlife. At the center stands the half-open gate of Hades, symbolizing the transition to the beyond, flanked by imposing ram and lion heads, representing strength and determination. On either side of this central scene, the soul guides of the deceased are portrayed: a magistrate holding a scroll, accompanied by a philosopher guiding him towards the afterlife, and his wife, depicted with a dove at her feet, a symbol of purity and domestic devotion.

Every carved detail showcases masterful craftsmanship—the flowing folds of the garments, the expressive gazes, and the rich symbolism all reflect a profound belief in life after death. The winged horse Pegasus and a panther on the shorter sides further reinforce this theme—symbols of swiftness and power needed to reach the underworld.

Today, this exceptional sarcophagus rests in the Alcázar de los Reyes Cristianos in Córdoba, where it continues to remind us of a civilization where art, faith, and the eternal journey were inextricably linked.

Based on: El sacófago romano del alcázar de Córdoba, published on www.arteiconografia.net.

Averroes

Averroes.

Averroes (1126–1198), also known as Ibn Rushd, was a renowned Andalusian philosopher, physician, jurist, and scholar who left a lasting impact on both the Islamic and Western intellectual traditions. He was born in Córdoba, a city that, during his time, was one of the most vibrant cultural and intellectual centers of the medieval world. Under the rule of the Almohad dynasty, Córdoba was a place where Islamic, Jewish, and Christian scholars exchanged ideas, contributing to a flourishing atmosphere of knowledge and debate. However, it was also a period of political and religious tensions, as the Almohads enforced stricter interpretations of Islam, which later led to the suppression of philosophical thought.

Averroes is best known for his commentaries on Aristotle, through which he sought to reconcile classical Greek philosophy with Islamic theology. He believed in the power of reason and argued that philosophy and religion were not in conflict but could coexist harmoniously. His works were instrumental in reintroducing Aristotelian thought to medieval Europe, profoundly influencing scholars such as Thomas Aquinas and shaping the course of Western philosophy.

Beyond philosophy, Averroes made significant contributions to medicine, law, and astronomy, authoring numerous texts that remained influential for centuries. Despite his intellectual achievements, his ideas eventually fell out of favor in the Islamic world due to growing religious orthodoxy, and he faced exile toward the end of his life. However, his works were preserved and translated into Latin, ensuring his legacy in the European Renaissance and the development of secular thought.

Jan Steen: Life, Laughter, and the Lessons of the Tavern

Tweeërlei spel, by Jan Havicksz. Steen, (1660 - 1679).

In the lively cities of the 17th-century Dutch Republic, no artist captured the spirited chaos of everyday life quite like Jan Steen. Born in Leiden in 1626 into a Catholic brewing family, Steen grew up amid taverns, markets, and domestic bustle—scenes that would later fill his paintings with warmth, wit, and mischief. Though briefly a university student, he chose instead to paint the human comedy in all its unruly brilliance.

Trained by prominent artists (possibly including Adriaen van Ostade or Nicolaus Knupfer), Steen developed a rich, theatrical style full of color, detail, and narrative flair. In the early 1670s, during financial hardship, he ran a tavern in Leiden—a life experience that clearly informed the authenticity and irony of his scenes.

Steen’s paintings overflow with humor and disorder. His interiors are cluttered with overturned mugs, sleeping dogs, flirtation, and chaos—but beneath the merriment lies a moral undertone. Like many Dutch genre painters, he used satire to comment on vice, vanity, and indulgence.

A striking example is “Tweeërlei spel” (Twofold Game, ca. 1660–1679), a tavern scene built around two kinds of “play”: a group of men focused on triktrak (backgammon), and an older man groping a serving woman in the foreground. All around are symbols of disorder—broken eggshells, the pipe and coals, mussel shells (signs of lust), a fallen stool, and a dog lying amid the chaos. A lute hangs overhead, evoking fleeting pleasure.

Here, Steen blends comedy with critique. The “game” is both literal and suggestive, drawing attention to power, gender, and temptation. Having run a tavern himself, Steen may well have painted from life—or at least from keen observation.

In a society that prized Calvinist restraint and bourgeois order, Jan Steen gave us something else: a mirror of the untidy, unguarded moments that reveal our shared humanity. When he died in 1679, he left behind a body of work that still speaks to the absurdity and beauty of everyday life. Through paintings like Twofold Game, Steen reminds us that even in chaos, there is laughter—and in folly, a truth.

Les Mousses, Étretat (France)

Les Mousses (deckhands), Étretat (France).

In early 1900s Étretat, fishing was a way of life, with children of fishermen beginning their training at twelve. They progressed from coursiers, who ran errands, to ship’s boys, who joined short fishing trips to learn essential maritime skills. By fourteen or fifteen, they became deckhands, working full-time on boats, handling nets, and preparing fish for market.

Historically, Étretat's fishing industry declined in the mid-19th century, shifting to coastal fishing with smaller boats. Traditional clinker-built boats sailed to Dieppe for herring fishing in autumn, while mackerel fishing remained a summer staple. This hands-on education ensured fishing traditions were passed down through generations, reflecting a broader maritime heritage in Normandy.

El Peromato and La Gobierna, Zamora (Spain)

El Peromato and La Gobierna of Zamora (Spain).

In Zamora, two weathervanes have transcended their decorative function to become true symbols of the city: El Peromato and La Gobierna. These figures have a historical origin closely linked to local architecture. El Peromato, a medieval knight figure carrying the Seña Bermeja, once stood atop the tower of the Church of San Juan de Puerta Nueva in the Plaza Mayor. La Gobierna, a personification of fame holding a trumpet and the keys to the city, was positioned on the southern tower of the Puente de Piedra (the Stone Bridge).

Both weathervanes reflect the cultural heritage of Zamora. Today, they are preserved in the Provincial Museum of Zamora, where their significance continues to live on in popular imagination. El Peromato has also given rise to the expression "ya está vuelto el Peromato", used to signify a change of opinion or decision. This deeply rooted phrase among the people of Zamora reinforces the symbolic importance of the figure in the city's daily life.

The significance of these figures is also captured in a well-known Zamoran saying, recorded in popular folklore:
"Zamora has three things that Madrid does not: El Peromato, La Gobierna, and the Paseo de San Martín."

Based on an article published in ‘Zamora News’ in 2024.

Joanna of Castile: Madness or Marginalization?

Based on “Johanna de Waanzinnige” by Johan Brouwer

Joanna of Castile

History has often remembered Joanna of Castile—better known by her posthumous moniker Juana la Loca, or Joanna the Mad—as a queen who lost her mind for love and lingered in madness until death. She is imagined wandering with her husband’s coffin, clutching it as if unwilling to release him to the realm of the dead. But is this image accurate, or merely a convenient fiction woven by those who profited from her silence?

The Dutch historian Johan Brouwer takes this well-worn tale and turns it on its head. In his thoughtful and evocative account, Brouwer offers not a sensationalized depiction of a madwoman, but a portrait of a tragic and complex figure whose alleged insanity may have been less a medical reality than a political strategy. Through his lens, Joanna becomes not only a grieving widow but a woman undone by the forces of dynastic ambition and patriarchal politics.

Born in 1479 to the powerful Catholic Monarchs Ferdinand of Aragon and Isabella of Castile, Joanna was educated in a rich intellectual tradition. She was fluent in Latin, trained in philosophy and theology, and exposed to the ideals of Renaissance humanism. This was not the upbringing of a passive or weak-minded woman, but one meant to prepare her for the responsibilities of rule. Yet from the outset, Joanna’s destiny was never truly hers to shape.

Her marriage to Philip the Handsome, son of the Holy Roman Emperor Maximilian I, was orchestrated for political gain. What began as a passionate union quickly deteriorated into a fraught relationship riddled with betrayal and manipulation. Joanna’s deep emotional bond to Philip—intensified by his infidelities and her own growing isolation at his court—set the stage for her later image as a woman “mad with love.”

When Philip died suddenly in 1506, Joanna was just twenty-seven years old and mother to six children. Her grief was profound, but it also became a weapon used against her. Her father Ferdinand soon claimed she was mentally unfit to govern, declaring himself regent of Castile. Her son Charles, later Charles V, would do the same. She spent nearly five decades confined in the Convent of Tordesillas, where she was visited rarely, ruled never, and gradually erased from public life.

Brouwer challenges us to reconsider the term “madness” as applied to Joanna. Were her behaviors truly pathological, or were they the natural reactions of a sensitive and bereaved woman in a political world that offered no space for emotional authenticity? Her supposed mental breakdowns often occurred in contexts where her authority was being questioned or usurped. Was her madness real—or constructed?

Importantly, Brouwer situates Joanna’s downfall within the broader context of gender and power. Early modern Europe was not kind to strong-willed women. A queen regnant like Joanna, who claimed her own authority and did not bend easily to the will of male advisors or relatives, was a threat to established norms. Declaring her insane was not only a means of control but a way to reinforce societal expectations about the roles women were meant to play—docile, devoted, dependent.

The tragedy of Joanna’s life lies not only in her suffering, but in the way that history has misunderstood and misrepresented her. By focusing on the supposed irrationality of her grief, traditional narratives have overlooked the rationality of her confinement. In silencing Joanna, her family secured their thrones—but in doing so, they condemned her to half a century of political and emotional imprisonment.

Brouwer’s work stands as a vital corrective to centuries of simplistic portrayals. It is both a historical inquiry and a philosophical meditation on how we define mental illness, especially in those who disrupt the status quo. His Johanna de Waanzinnige invites us to listen for the voice beneath the legend—the voice of a woman unjustly cast as mad, and long denied her place in the story of Europe.

Further Reading

·      Johan Brouwer, Johanna de Waanzinnige.

·      Bethany Aram, Juana the Mad: Sovereignty and Dynasty in Renaissance Europe

·      Manuel Fernández Álvarez, Juana la Loca: La cautiva de Tordesillas

Saint-Mystère Remains Silent 07

Monsieur et Madamme Discret wondering what will come next (Saint-Mystère, France; Tribute to Ralph Eugene Meatyard).

No one recalls when the Discrets first took their seats by the wagon. They’re simply there—every day, in the same chairs, beneath the same painted masks. Always watching. Always waiting. Unmoved.

No one knows their story.
And no one dares to ask.