Christmas behind the (nativity) scenes

I never think of myself as Italian and less than anything as Neapolitan, but at every Christmas my Southern Italian, Mediterranean blood, betrays me.

I might be in the Red Sea, in the middle of the Anatolian highlands or in the lost Black Sea corner that Italians call Liguria, it doesn’t matter: to me, Christmas is Neapolitan and Christmas in Napoli¹ means food and presepe.

I don’t make a Nativity Scene at Christmas but I didn’t escape the fascination for it.

It’s a ritual that betrays the Greek soul of Southern Italy, once known as Magna Graecia. The ancient Greeks marked history in countless ways but only one embodies the Mediterranean spirit and it is unmistakably recognizable by anyone who walks into a market or a wedding: theater.

Obviously, I am not talking of actors performing on stage: the best shows and the best actors are spontaneous and stages are literally anywhere. All over the Mediterranean anything with a public is drama, from family events to market sales, with spectators supporting the show like a chorus.

Of course, nothing better than large family gatherings provides a public and eagerness to show off, and Christmas is the quintessential family reunion with all the communal cooking, bickering, eating and the inevitable end-of-the-year reckoning.

In the background of this annual Greek tragicomedy, a Roman relic assures that it doesn’t completely eclipse the pretense of a religious holiday: following the tradition of Lararia, miniature shrines by the door, where to this day photos of dead relatives and patron saints are hung, the nativity scene is meant to honor baby Jesus’ holiday.

But the compulsion to theatrical drama inherited for millennia is inescapable: the familiar statuettes of Joseph and Mary with their newborn Baby are guarded by the ox and the donkey, then of course by those of angels. The angels invited shepherds to the crib and their statuettes are there too, but they didn’t bring only their sheep and lambs. As in any respectable Mediterranean party, it’s unthinkable for a guest not to be accompanied by spouse and children, or to exclude neighbors and landlord, and the landlord’s family too, until the scene is stolen by a crowd of uninvited guests, all given the collective label of “pastori,” shepherds, as per the angels’ original invitation.

Eventually, the whole community is represented on the mini-stage, while the divine birth in the original stable is a marginal event in the miniature village holiday craze. The village has nothing to do with Bethlehem in Roman Judea: the Neapolitan tradition became official replicating an actual celebration in 1734, thus costumes, characters and landscape mirror a stereotypical, idealized Napoli of the past, caught while preparing for Christmas.

The nativity scene=miniature theater analogy becomes plainly obvious with the modern frenzy of “Presepi Viventi,” literally “Live Nativity Scenes,” beloved by tourists and faithfuls alike. People in especially picturesque villages reenact the rural set of the nativity scene in a live play, turning their hamlets into open air theaters where common people celebrate the birth of Jesus playing the role of common people celebrating Christmas as they are depicted in the nativity scene.

Despite all the live scenes and cheap plastic figurines sold everywhere, the Arte Presepiale² is a noble and vibrant activity in Napoli. As a half-bred Neapolitan, born there but grown in the neighboring town from where my ancestors regularly tried to escape to a seafaring career, I was astonished when I learned that a world famous master was not in Napoli proper but in my hometown, working a few meters from my family’s ancestral house. Needless to say, I asked him to let me photograph his art.

The Maestro Giuseppe Ercolano was kind and helpful: not only a great artist but also one with whom I shared a vision. As a photojournalist, I dislike posed photos and still subjects. Giuseppe’s pastori are never static, they are caught in the middle of an act that in real life would last only a moment. Taking photos of his hands giving life to known and beloved characters made me feel part of that miniature world.

The master’s work doesn’t end with Christmas, as he is also an accomplished sculptor of holy images. He had just completed two wooden replicas of baby Jesus’ statues to replace the originals stolen from a church and he asked me if I wanted to take photos. The statues were in Sant’Agata dei Goti’s cathedral, whose painted wood ceiling was badly infested with wood worms.

In a simple, touching ceremony before a small crowd of faithfuls, Giuseppe Ercolano delivered the babies to the overjoyed priest who blessed them. Then they started working to place them back into their Mothers’ arms.

Anyone who has held an infant knows that it takes strong arms. The statues’ wooden arms had been free of baby Jesus’s weight for decades and some adjustments were needed. I took photos until the artist asked me to hold the Virgin Mary’s arm while he put her baby in place, recommending to “hold tight, hold strong.” Which I just did, maybe too much… because I suddenly felt the wooden arm becoming light, the sleeve’s crimson velvet gave way and I found myself with a camera hanging from my neck and the Holy Mother of God’s severed arm in my hands.

I looked at the artist, he looked at me, then we both turned to look at the bewildered faithfuls, suddenly silent. I will never forget that silence.

The wood worms infesting the church had sacrilegiously eaten through the statue’s wooden arm, to the point that it was just held in place by the velvet sleeve of its dress. As soon as I grabbed it, the rotten wood broke away³ . But the people seeing a stranger tearing their holy statue apart did not know that.

They stared at us in silence with eyes devoid of any expression for a short time, if many, long seconds of death stare can be considered a short time, while pictures of heretics burned at stake flashed in my mind. Then the artist, still holding baby Jesus in his arms, burst out “Thank God! Thank God it happened now! Imagine if it happened tomorrow during the procession!”

The crowd broke the silence with cries of approval and relief, the artist promised a quick fix and vowed to provide a more permanent restoration, the priest took Mary’s arm from my hands just in case, but smiling. Everyone agreed that it wasn’t a big deal, but also that if it happened during the procession, with the newly restored baby Jesus crashing to the ground, it would have been a terrible omen.

That was revealing. The same incident that would have been ominous during the public ritual was a mere technical glitch if it happened behind the scenes, without drama. Like in the ancient religious festivals that became the Greek Theater, the interaction with the public was the key. Religion is for the faithfuls, a procession or a nativity scene without the public in it is as empty as an empty theater.

The ritual representation was safe, the bad omen avoided, the clumsy photographer was pardoned and the artist rightfully praised. During the mass, the priest rewarded us with an inspired sermon about the Council of Ephesus, when the Virgin Mary was declared “Theotokos,” Mother of God. Little I knew that exactly one year later I would walk among the ruins of the very church where that Council was held.

1  I prefer to use the Italian name to avoid confusion with Naples, FL.

2  The art of making nativity scenes and their characters’ statuettes.

3  Which means that it wasn’t my fault at all. Right?