feature
source: hidden europe 36 (spring 2012)
text © 2012 Diego Vivanco
pictures © 2012 Juan Sierra
www.hiddeneurope.co.uk
The Mystery of Los Picaos
photos by Juan Sierra
S
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an Vicente de la Sonsierra seems at first
sight to be an inconsequential slip of a place.
The village in the Rioja Alta wine region
boasts little more than a thousand souls and, on
this typically lazy Spanish Sunday afternoon, San
Vicente beats to a relaxed rhythm. The village
enjoys a dominant hilltop position, affording
views to the distant Sierra de Cantabria and, closer
Above: Penitent walking near the church of Santa María la
Mayor in San Vicente de la Sonsierra.
hidden europe 36 spring 2012
text by Diego Vivanco
to hand, over the surrounding vineyards to the
Ebro, here a river of languid loops seemingly in no
rush to get anywhere fast. Just like the inhabitants
of San Vicente.
Nothing in the quiet village hints of what
will soon unfold. For on this particular Sunday
afternoon, San Vicente de la Sonsierra hosts a
peculiarly lurid festival, an expression of faith,
spirituality and culture that will have villagers
lashing their own backs in a frenzy of selfflagellation.
N
Bordeaux
Bay of Biscay
France
Bilbao
San Vicente
de la Sonsierra
Pamplona
Zaragoza
Right: Our map shows the location of
San Vicente de la Sonsierra in northern
Spain (map scale 1:8m)
I am fascinated by this extraordinary piece
of religious theatre. And I am intrigued by the
flagellants’ concern for hooded anonymity. All
I know is that, for admittance to the Santa Vera
Cruz fraternity, a villager
Across much
must be an adult male in
of Europe, the good standing with the
Catholic Church.
religious rites
“It will be best if you
of yesteryear
come for the September celeare fading.
brations of the Holy Cross,”
But the Picaos
suggests Teodoro, a cofrade
does more than of the Vera Cruz brothermerely survive. hood who had
convinced me a
few months ago to delay my visit and
wait for a more appropriate time. It’s
hard to understand what constitutes
a ‘more appropriate time’ to watch a
festival of self-flagellation. But Teodoro explains. “The September procession is much the same as that at
Easter, but it’s an altogether quieter
affair. It doesn’t pull the tourists and
the media. All the elements of the picaos will still be there.”
Barcelona
Spain
So I abide by Teodoro’s injunction and make
late-summer tracks for the Ebro Valley, there to
witness on this September Sunday afternoon the
most awful, and yet for many most inspiring, of
all penances. It is called Los Picaos de San Vicente
de la Sonsierra. The term Los Picaos needs a little
unpacking. It’s a colloquialism that refers to one
who is pricked or jabbed.
Across much of Europe, the religious rites
of yesteryear are fading. But the Picaos does more
than merely survive. It thrives and in its Easter
rendition has become a staple in the tourist
calendar. It feeds on a curious mix of tradition
Right: A penitent at San Vicente de la
Sonsierra, barefoot and with shackles
around his ankles, kneels down during the
procession.
hidden europe 36 spring 2012
11
and devotion, aided and abetted by the morbid
fascination of onlookers.
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The overture
In the bar of the main square, old and young are
playing cards. This is so standard a sabbatical
routine that I do wonder
While the
if I have erred in the matter of either date or venue
principals in this
(or both). But up at Santa
great drama
pray in silence, I María la Mayor Church,
scan the interior there is evidence that the
preliminaries are underof the church.
way. Here members of the
The decoration
cofradía have gathered. In
is expressive,
a small hermitage next to
powerful,
the church, a number of
sometimes even men are getting dressed in
operatic in mood. distinctive religious robes.
A large wooden cross, a
lightly embroidered white stole draped over it,
rests against the wall of the building.
Inside the church, a group of children wearing the distinctive armband that denotes some
association with the cofradía are busy adorning a
statue of the Virgin and playing on a paso — the
religious float that will be used in the procession.
Two cofrades arrive and take the lead in lifting the
Virgin onto the paso. The children are visibly ex-
cited, each and every one of them evidently relishing the chance to take part in the evolving pageant.
There is a sudden flurry. Enter stage right
three women dressed in black. No ordinary
village women, these shadowy figures cloaked in
dark velvet, each with her ankles shackled. This
is a trinity of Marías — women who each year
volunteer to take part in the penitential ritual.
There is silence as the children gaze, partly in fear,
partly in anticipation, at the trio. That silence
is broken as the three move up the transept, the
shackles on their feet hitting the floor with every
synchronised step.
The dramatis personae are extended as a penitent makes an entrance. Wearing a white tunic and
a brown cape with a white cross, he is led into the
church by one of the established members of the
Vera Cruz brotherhood. The penitent is hooded,
two small holes allowing some vision, but his
identity is quite concealed beneath his strange
garb. The hooded man makes his way towards the
altar, kneels down and bows his head. He too is
barefoot and wears shackles.
While the principals in this great drama pray
in silence, I scan the interior of the church. The
decoration, a heady melange of Gothic morphing
into baroque and back again, is expressive,
powerful, sometimes even operatic in mood. Here,
on the sculptured faces of saints and apostles,
there are a range of expressions. There is high
art and rich colour, all contrasting
sharply with the stark simplicity
and sobriety of the praying figures
devoutly prostrated before the altar.
There is a magnetic allure to this
scene, accentuated all the more by the
nervous sighs of the penitent.
Our cast is not yet complete.
Now arrives the parish priest, a
move that is evidently the cue for the
cofradía who now diligently prepare to
carry the paso out of the church. But,
as soon as the procession is in the
open air, the first heavy drops of rain
start to fall.
Left: The parish priest using the altar piece
to teach children just before the penitential
procession begins.
hidden europe 36 spring 2012
This heavenly intervention is
clearly not in the script, and the
bearers are anxious that the valuable
and delicate religious ornaments
adorning the float are not soaked.
They retreat into the cover of the
church. The women in shackles
and the penitent calmly wait for the
rain to abate, seemingly oblivious to
the kids, who by now have become
restless and excitable and are playing
hide-and-seek inside the church. The
parish priest rapidly improvises a
solution to keep them in check and
summons the children.
“Who is the one right at the
top?” he asks the children.
“God, our Father,” most reply in
unison.
“Very good. And the person next to him?”
“St Vincent.” This time just a few mutter the
correct answer.
“There you have him, St Vincent, our patron
saint.”
This little exchange nicely recalls the medieval
practice of using the altarpiece and other elements
of church decoration as educational tools. There
is something special about this hypnotic moment
which casts back to a preliterate age in this and
hundreds of other similar villages around Spain.
And this moment of waiting in the church
evokes scenes from the most delicate of Renaissance
paintings, a priest and children focusing in unity
on the altar, a kneeling man seeking penance,
women in shackles quietly attending to their
prayers and the cofradía monitoring the rain
outside while applying last-minute touches to the
paso.
After a short while the rain abates and the
procession begins.
The procession
Each participant has his or her specific place in the
procession — leading the way is a group of cofrades,
immediately followed by the remaining members
of the brotherhood who bear the float. Five altar
boys, carrying processional crosses and lanterns,
and the priest follow on. Next in the procession is
A penitent kneels in front of the float carrying the Virgin at
San Vicente de la Sonsierra’s Los Picaos procession.
the penitent, accompanied by the brother assigned
to him. Lastly are the three Marías, who have been
joined by around fifty villagers by the time the
procession has left the plaza in front of the church.
Surprisingly few watch on as the procession
tracks an hour-long route passing San Vicente’s
main square and continuing up to the Calvary, a
small hill outside the village. In Holy Week, the
route would be lined by visitors, some sharing the
devotional intent of the
The penitents
participants, others mere
onlookers, keen to catch
and the Marías,
who by now are a glimpse of this oddball
feeling the strain cultural performance.
The procession drips
of the dryness
symbolism. Crosses mark
and harshness of
the path, each representing
the terrain, kneel a chapter in the via crucis,
down at each of and the march stops every
the stops along
one hundred metres to
this via dolorosa. allow for the priest to lead
a reading and prayer. The
penitents and the Marías, who by now are feeling
the strain of the dryness and harshness of the
terrain, kneel down at each of the stops along this
via dolorosa. The path of suffering is never easy.
At the top of the hill, we turn and retrace
our footsteps back to the village, now with dusk
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slipping into darkness. Four more penitents, all
dressed in the same distinctive garb as the first,
join the procession. There is a palpable sense
that the climax is nigh. On the journey out to
the Calvary, many villagers blithely ignored the
proceedings, but all are gathered to await the
procession’s return. All wait in silence, the fall of
harsh shackles on the worn cobbles announcing
that the cast is returning from the hill.
The procession and the villagers meet and
wait for the final member of the cast: the village
doctor (clinically labelled by his latex gloves and
the small medical case that he carries). Without
the doctor, the show cannot go on.
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The final act
The last act of the drama commences as each
accompanying brother removes the brown cape
from the flagellant he is assisting, leaving their
hood in place. The back is exposed and the
shackles are removed from each man’s ankles.
Each flagellant is handed a whip, consisting of a
tangle of thick threads, resembling a horse’s mane.
They grab the whips firmly by the hilt and begin
the self-whipping.
Dry, firm, rhythmic. Relentlessly lashing
their own backs. Left, right, left, right, left, right.
The Marías, barefoot women with shackles, also voluntarily
take part in the procession of Los Picaos.
hidden europe 36 spring 2012
In a demonstration of vigour, they stand on their
tiptoes and arch their bodies forward to obtain
more thrust to their lashing.
The villagers watch. Even those who earlier
seemed bored by the entire venture are now
mesmerised by the spectacle. The faces of the
mute onlookers reveal a
Enter stage right range of emotions. Some
are deeply respectful,
three women
dressed in black. yet for others the entire
episode is utterly inNo ordinary
explicable. All knew what
village women,
to expect, for all have seen
these shadowy
this ritual many times,
figures cloaked in yet few could properly
dark velvet, each anticipate the strong
with her ankles
emotions that the scene
shackled.
invariably evokes. But
not all are so powerfully
affected. Parents may be spellbound, but their
children play hide-and-seek only just off-stage.
The flagellants are engrossed in selfmortification, each striving for a personal ecstasy,
often egged on and encouraged by the watching
crowd. I wonder if all this would happen, were it
not for the onlookers. Is the spectacle made by
the witnesses? Would these men be so inspired,
so driven to self-harm, if there were no crowd.
Are they doing this because it is expected of them,
or is the passion and spirit in their actions solely
theirs? Unintentional or not, it is
difficult not to regard the public as
an influential accomplice as the event
unfolds — the public and flagellants
locked into feeding off, and needing,
each other.
All five flagellants, each separated from one another by about
ten metres, continue uninterrupted
as the procession slowly wends its
way back towards the church. After
thirty absorbing minutes of countless
whipping, the doctor approaches
each of the penitents individually. As
the medic approaches, the repenter
ceases the self-flagellation, kneels,
and waits for the doctor to prick his
back with a “sponge”, or rather six
sharp crystals embedded into a ball
of wax.
Nothing here is a matter of
chance. Every move is laced with
meaning. The doctor applies each
end of each crystal to the back,
leaving it punctured in twelve spots,
each symbolising an Apostle. By
now the crowd has closed in around
the scene, increasing the tension and
sense of foreboding. A respect for
tradition and devotion is permeated
by awe, fear and silence. And blood.
None of the five penitents emits
a sound during the entire awful
process, although one almost faints.
If the frenzied self-whipping has
anesthetised the pain, the pricking
acts as crude reminder of the suffering
they are enduring.
With blood rushing out of each bruised back,
some penitents resume the whipping to improve
its flow and alleviate the pain. Shortly after, the
accompanying brothers cover the penitents’ backs,
replacing the capes before leading their bruised
and bloody charges away from the procession.
They disappear into the poorly lit backstreets. By
the time the last penitent has left, we arrive at the
church. The wooden cross is taken away, and the
villagers proceed behind the paso into the church
to attend Mass.
With the procession finished, San Vicente relaxes into the normality of the Mass. A Mass like
any other. And those of the villagers who have no
inclination to attend Mass retire to local bars and
cafés.
Who were those men? And who were the
Marías? What possessed them to take part in this
extraordinary ritual of suffering? What have they
done that has led to this display of self-harm? All I
know is that they are people with vices and virtues,
sentiments and feelings, just like any of us. The
questions remain unanswered, which is probably
for the best. The surrounding mystery makes it all
the more evocative. Nobody will know of the five
men’s sacrifice unless they decide to tell.
A silent witness to the anonymous selfimposed suffering of strangers, I leave convinced
A penitent flagellates himself in front of the Virgin and the
local crowd during the Los Picaos procession in San Vicente
de la Sonsierra.
that all present have participated intensely in a
truly intimate moment. I leave back to where I
came from, like a penitent, to continue life as
normal.
Diego Vivanco is a photographer, writer and
multimedia producer. Find out more about
his work at www.diegovivanco.es and www.
kaurimultimedia.es. Juan Sierra is a Spanish
documentary photographer and co-founder
of Voix Pictures. Details on www.voixpictures.
com.
Travel details
San Vicente de la Sonsierra is on the northern flank of
the Ebro Valley, about 35 km north-west of Logroño.
Nearby larger cities are Bilbao (to the north) and
Pamplona (to the north-east). The Villa Sonsierra in
the village, just opened in 2008, offers single rooms
from €40 and doubles from €65.
The Los Picaos dates for 2012 are as follows: 5 and 6
April, 3 May and 16 September. The Cruz de Mayo and
Cruz de Septiembre renditions are a shade less theatrical
(and certainly less touristy) than those during Semana
Santa (Holy Week).
hidden europe 36 spring 2012
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