La Vierge de Chaillot

In Two Black Virgins of Paris  I wrote about Notre Dame de Bonne Délivrance and Notre Dame de la Paix.  In Nos Vierges Noires (1949) Saillens speaks only of these two examples in his section on Paris.  He also mentions a Chapel to Mary the Egyptian which contains a dark image of that saint.  In addition to these three examples, Begg (1985) mentions no less than 13 other examples, including reproductions, museum pieces and places where a Black Virgin was once reported to exist but no longer does.  Other citations merely have links of on sort of another to Black Virgins.

None of them mentions La Vierge de Chaillot, pictured above.  This Madonna and Child, clearly dark, is found in a side chapel dedicated to the Holy Family in the Church of Saint Pierre de Chaillot.  I stumbled across this church on my way to the Arc de Triomphe, in fact on my way to Neuilly to see Notre Dame de Bonne Délivrance.  Unfortunately, I missed visiting hours; as you can see from the photos here, the church is impressive, an Art Deco behemoth in concrete.

The Virgin pictured, however, is from the church which previously occupied this location dating from the 17th century.  The current edifice was built from private donations between 1933 and 1938 in a Romano-Byzantine model...with, as I said, a serious dose of Art Deco, especially in the sculptures by Henri Bouchard (1875-1960).  It's rather dark inside, as only a few stained-glass windows illuminate the space.

source

Curious, I Googled the name of the church plus "vierge noire" and came across an article referring to La Vierge de Chaillot as a Black Virgin: 

Si l’image a ainsi le pouvoir de modifier la pensée grâce à l’ordre de présentation ou à la sélection de certains thèmes, elle modifie également notre façon de considérer la Vierge par la manière dont on la figure. Ainsi, les représentations de vierges noires soulèvent bien des questions sur l’origine de ce type iconographique. À Paris, on en trouve actuellement à Sainte-Rita, Notre-Dame de Bercy (ill. 1), Sainte-Marie des Batignolles et Saint-Pierre de Chaillot. Sans pouvoir trancher au cas par cas à cause de l’insuffisance documentaire, on peut affirmer que cette situation tient soit aux matières utilisées (vieillissement entraînant une oxydation métallique, superposition de vernis, encrassement dû à la fumée des cierges,…) ; soit à l’idée qu’on se fait de Marie : certains s’accordent à penser que les artistes ont cherché un type ethnique, en s’appuyant sur le Cantique des Cantiques (« Nigra sum sed formosa »). Quelle que soit l’explication de la noirceur, cette couleur a modifié le rapport que les fidèles entretiennent avec la statue qu’ils fréquentent lors de leurs dévotions : l’art n’a nécessairement pas laissé leur pensée intacte par le fait même de son intervention.

In this article (Apport de l’archéologie à l’étude du culte marial parisien pour l’époque contemporaine) Marie-Laure Portal studies the cult of Mary in Paris and her iconography.  She talks about the theories surrounding the origin of her darkness but does not seem to find this of primary importance.  She is more concerned with how the color affects the relationship with her devotees:

"Whatever the explanation of the dark, this color has changed the relationship that believers have with the statue when they attend their devotions...."

Unfortunately, Portal doesn't speak of this and like her other identifications (Notre-Dame de Bercy, Sainte-Marie des Batignolles) this Virgin is not discussed by other writers on the topic.  Online searches find no other references to La Vierge de Chaillot as a Black Virgin.  I wonder how Portal came to the rather important conclusion quoted above.  Interviews, other accounts?  She doesn't say and her bibliography isn't clear as to the origin of this conclusion.

The fact this sculpture has a name does indicate she is of some importance, but there wasn't evidence of an especially active cult.  The church is adjacent, however to the church of Saint-Étienne-du-Mont, which was consecrated in 1626 but has its roots as a chapel built in 1222, when Saint Stephen was the patron of Paris.  There had been an abbey there since the 6th century, dedicated to Saint Genevieve.  It now houses the tomb of Saint Genevieve, Paris' current patroness.  In 1857, one Bishop Sibour, on his way to inaugurate the novena to Genevieve, was assassinated here; the assassin cried "Down with the goddesses!"  Why exactly, I'm not sure, although the assassin was a priest motivated by Sibour's support of the papal doctrine of the immaculate conception, proclaimed three years prior after centuries of bitter controversy.

Apparently the celebrated occultist Eliphas Levi was a witness to this event.  He had in fact, recently met the assassin-priest and claimed to have dreamed about the assassination two nights prior.

So, we can assume the priest believed the doctrine of immaculate conception elevated Mary to the stature of a goddess.  Some observers have said the Black Virgins represent just that:  a Christianization of pagan goddesses.  In many ways, she is a goddess and in the south of France one is just as likely to find an image of the Virgin Mary in the center of crosses as much as an image of Jesus.  Just one last observation.  Saint Bernard, who is often cited as an influence on the color of the Black Virgin and who had an important role in the development of the worship of Mary, was opposed to the doctrine, which he felt dehumanized her and undermined her role as an earthly mother.

Two Black Madonnas of Paris

While I'm in the process of re-publishing all my old Black Madonna essays on LoS, I figger I might as well get around to writing a little bit on some of the other Madonnas I've since seen but yet to write about.

Notre Dame de Bonne Délivrance, located in the wealthy Parisian suburb of Neuilly-sur-Seine, is one of the two Black Virgins I saw this time last year when I spent a week in Paris.  She is an utterly charming example of the genre, perhaps the most graceful I have seen; she's definitely one of if not the blackest. Her chapel is a tidy design, with clean lines and a delicate palette. Let's face it, French churches tend to be dark, damp and gloomy affairs. This statue is fortunate to be found in such a well-maintained spot, and regularly open to visitors. I saw her on a cold yet sunny day, and the light filtering gently through the stained-glass windows created a calm and cheery aspect.

One of these windows pictures a nobleman in prayer before the Virgin and in this window.  She is also very black. This contrasts with other Black Virgin chapels, such as Notre Dame de Tudet, where the Virgin is depicted on a banner as fair-skinned, or with Notre Dame de Sabart, who in a coronation hymn is referred to as "White and pure under her veils." Notre Dame de Bonne Délivrance is an example whose blackness is a critical identifying feature; she is unquestionably a "Black Madonna."

Readers who have followed my posts on "les Noires" may tire of this theme--that of the perception of and meaning attached to the Madonna's color--but I have yet to take a systematic approach to this topic and mention it for the benefit of readers who may be approaching each post as their first. For a more coherent explanation of what I'm on about, please see "From Majesty to Mystery: Change in the Meanings of Black Madonnas from the: Sixteenth to Nineteenth Centuries" (here).  Scheer does a great job of  examining at which point a black Virgin becomes a Black Virgin.

Allow me to quote Wikipedia at length to provide some history about this statue:

....Notre Dame de Bonne Délivrance....[is] also known as the Black Madonna of Paris. The statue dates from the 14th century, replacing an 11th-century version. It is 150 centimeters (59 in) tall, and made from painted limestone.

This statue was venerated by many notable French saints, including Vincent de Paul and Francis de Sales—it was in front of the statue that de Sales recited the Memorare, and made his religious conversion.....

When the church [St. Etienne des Grès] was destroyed during the Revolution, all its contents were sold; the statue was saved by a pious rich woman named Madame de Carignan. De Carignan was arrested during the Reign of Terror, and she would pray to Our Lady in prison with others who had been arrested for their Catholicism. When de Carignan was freed in 1806, she gave the statue to the Sisters of St. Thomas of Villeneuve, who had been imprisoned with her. The statue is still located in the chapel of the Congregation of the Sisters of St. Thomas of Villeneuve in Neuilly-sur-Seine.

Emile Saillens, in Nos Vierges Noirs (1945) has different dates.  Without even a legend to account for her origin, he says, the history of the sculpture dates to April 20th, 1533, when a confraternity was formed to honor her.  This confraternity had up to 12,000 members, among them members of the aristocracy, including Louis XIII.  Saillens doubts that the current statue dates beyond the Revolution, as old commentators write that she was a work in ancient, black stone, rudely sculpted and naiively painted.  They harped upon the coarseness of execution, even making a virtue of it.

Thus the current statue at Neuilly, Saillens concludes, cannot be the same; the current statue is both "modern" and gracefully executed.  We have no idea, then, what the original looked like.  Both Saillens and Wikipedia agree that the current statue replaced an older one; they disagree on the dates and are unclear as to when one replaced the other.  Other sources, however, also say the current statue is from the 14th century, replacing an 11th century original.

Saillens states, according to other commentators, that the "Grès" of the original church were probably grave markers and that a Black Madonna was likewise surrounded by a cemetery in Marseilles and Arles.  Given that he also speaks of Notre Dame de la Paix in Paris, it is odd he doesn't mention that She, too, presides over a cemetery!  Saillens also suggests that in both Lyon and Paris the cult of Isis was replaced by that of the Black Madonna.

This Madonna was the object of a fervent cult and was invoked against a number of miseries and calamities, not the least of which was heresy.  She was especially useful against the Huguenots.  I found this striking, as Notre Dame du Taur, a Virgin of Toulouse not generally recognized as a Black Virgin, was also known as Notre Dame de Delivrance after she saved the city from Huguenots in 1562!

As Wikipoop says, devotion to this Virgin dates back at least to the 11th century; St. Etienne des Grès was built on the site of an oratory built by St. Denis--Patron Saint of Paris--and dedicated to St. Stephen. If we consider that St. Denis (Dionysus) was martyred circa 250 CE, we're looking at a Virgin with a connection to the earliest days of Christianity in Paris. Denis was one of the seven "apostles to the Gauls" sent from Italy by Pope Fabian to Christianize what is now France. For his pains, Denis lost his head:

After his head was chopped off, Denis is said to have picked it up and walked ten kilometres (six miles) to the summit of Mont Mars (now Montmartre), preaching a sermon the entire way, making him one of many cephalophores in hagiology.

Another of these seven apostles was Saint Sernin (Saturninus), who also died from a head injury, his brains bursting out of his cracked skull after being dragged through Toulouse by a raging bull. Sernin's companion Saint Papoul (Papulus), evangelist of the Lauragais, was also beheaded and, like Denis, is a cephalophore (a category of saints who were beheaded then carried their heads in their hands, or spoke).  This seems to be a particularly French hagiographic element; one folklorist counted 134 examples of cephalophores in France alone.  If memory serves me correctly, these head-carrying saints almost all date from rather early on; it's easier to claim it happened when the event is in the distant past....rest assured, the case for John Paul II's canonization doesn't include anything so fancy!

Notre Dame de la Paix is another Black Madonna in Paris, found in the chapel serving the Picpus Cemetery. Is is small, maybe a little over a foot high, and dates from the 15th century. It is said to have cured Louis XIV of a serious illness. Like the Virgin in Neuilly, she is also in a convent, in this case with the Sisters of the Sacred Heart.

Picpus Cemetery is notorious because of its proximity to the Place de la Nation, which we have already discussed and which, under the name Place du Trône Renversé, was the site of the scaffold and the guilloutine. Picpus Cemetery holds numerous victims of this infernal machine, but (presumably) none of them were cephalophores, urban legends notwithstanding.  At least 1300 people were interred in mass graves in Picpus.  The remains of General Lafayette (who died naturally and was buried with decorum) are here, as are those of his mother-in-law and sister-in-law; unlike the General, these unfortunates were guillotined and thrown into the pit.  Perhaps given it's shameful history, it's not the easiest place to find. The chapel and cemetery now sit across the narrow street from a large service station and the chapel itself is grey, drab and somewhat gloomy.

A question I have, though, is whether or not Notre Dame de la Paix is really a Black Virgin. The statue is dark and Begg and Saillens, as well as at least one or two other online writers, refer to her as such, but neither of these latter are traditional academics.  Indeed, I often suspect that people see a Black Virgin where historically, the Virgin in question might not have been perceived as such at all. Nevertheless, one of these writers does have some background to offer:

This icon went through many hands before arriving in Paris. She was a gift to the royal family line of Joyeuse, given as a wedding present. It first place of residents [sic], was Chateau de Couiza very close to Rennes le Chateau of South of France. The statue was passed through the family line and made its home in Toulouse, before finally coming to Paris in 1576. It finally came into the hands of Charles de Lorraine, the Duc de Guise, who built a beautiful chapel to house this Black Virgin....The Lady of Peace was finally given as a gift to the Sisters of the Sacred Heart in 1806.

I can't vouch for this history, but why not? It makes no wild claims and seems plausible enough, and it's damn interesting that She stayed for a spell in the Southwest, especially Toulouse and near Rennes-le-Chateau. Saillens substantiates this history, but refers to the small statue as an ebony reproduction of the "Vierge de Joyeuse" destroyed in 1793.  This Virgin took Her name from the family with which she was associated.  The original, a gift, is thought to have been created in 1518 and based upon a Greek prototype of Eirene [Eirene means "peace"!] carrying Ploutos (see here) on her left arm, and olive branch in her right.  Saillens supposes that the olive branch and the black color might have symbolized the union between two families (it was a wedding present, if you'll recall), both of which had lands and properties in areas where other Black Virgins had popular cults.

While I should probably focus on Saillens' identification, I'd like to say a word or two about those online references because they seem to represent a contemporary feminist position, an emotional identification with a Virgin whose blackness represents an accentuated femininity, earthliness and power, not to mention pre-Christian prototypes.

There is a reference to her on a site that speaks of "healing tours" and the "sacred feminine."  I admit I am a little derisive towards this kind of thing, but only because it seems something historically suspect is being propagated. It's interesting, nonetheless, to speculate as to why these Black Virgins are so important to a certain "new-agey" feminist element. I think the yearning for some sign that there can be a place within traditional religion is a strong pull. Dissatisfied with the Church, one can still find within its iconography something powerful, of value, something to redeem it.  Catholics, Evangelicals, Protestants, it's a man's world; it's only natural that strong, spiritual women would seek an alternative to a world in which women are denied (to varying degrees) the same access to the clergy that men have, and thus implicitly not quite equals.

That said, the tendency to overreact and make wild assumptions about Mary Magdalene or the Virgin Mary tends to detract from the credibility of this approach from a historical point of view.  Which does nothing to diminish its validity as a spiritual phenomenon, in my opinion; it merely adds fuel to my speculative fires as to how many "Black Virgins" are products of contemporary as opposed to traditional perceptions.

Sadly, I lack access to the primary resources needed to trace these identifications, which is a pity, because my instinct tells me these could be two very instructive examples....

Notre Dame de Tudet

Previously published on my old website.

 

The first visit.

I have been unlucky in many ways regarding my visits to the various Black Madonnas in the vicinity of my home in Toulouse. At Aspet, Oust and St. Béat, I was unable to enter the chapels and thus only able to present a picture of the chapel and give a description of the Virgin culled from various sources. At Montaut I was without camera. At Tudet I had access and a camera, but no batteries. This lack of photos means my little “essays” on Black Madonnas are not as useful I would like them to be, for these Madonnas are among the lesser photographed and an online image of them would provide those interested in the phenomenon with examples of the variation and similarities one can find among the existing corpus.

Visiting Dame de Tudet was a last–minute deal arranged with my pal Dan, an agreement to finally make a road trip together before he left Toulouse for good to make a go of his music back in his native Scotland. We’d considered Rennes-le-Chateau or Montsegur, but I’d come across a reference to Gimont (Notre Dame de Cahuzac) on a Black Madonna list and suggested going there instead. The next morning, I considered the evidence and decided we’d be more likely to have success in Gaudonville.

So I loaded up my kids, brought along a sack lunch and set off in the rain to pick up Dan, poor lad, still a bit peaked from the night before. A word to the wise: Never mix the grape and the grain. ‘Nuff said.

Our route took us in the direction of Gimont upon the road to Auch, but we turned off towards the north in the direction Cologne and Mauvezin, finally turning onto one of those small one-lane blacktops which wend their way through the countryside cheerfully oblivious to the rest of the world; it was conducive to good conversation. We remarked upon a number of topics, from the syncretic accretions Jesus has accumulated, his role as a vegetal god, the concept of the Messiah, King Arthur’s Welsh roots. The rain had cleared.

We presently found ourselves on an even smaller road and after a short spell we rounded a curve and entered Gaudonville. The town was deserted. The church was very old, almost "primitive", with a low “clocher-mûr” made for five bells but containing only two. Begg states that in the house next to the church one can ask for the key so I did. My heart sank when the occupant of the house told me the man with the key was not in town that day.

I ventured to ask if in fact this town was also called Tudet. No, no, Tudet is a kilometer down the road. See, we’re looking for the rather well-known statue, a Black Virgin and….oh yes it’s down the road, but the lady with the key might not be there….

Cheered at this nonetheless we continued towards Tudet, which is really just a collection of three or four houses. The first house we visited turned out to be occupied by an Englishwoman, who seemed a bit wary of the two scruffy young men who’d rung unannounced at her door. Children, however, work wonders when it comes to allaying people’s natural suspicions and she pointed us in the right direction. In short, we met the guardian of the keys and she handed them over without a blink and before we knew it we were inside the sanctuary.

It was at Gaudonville that we discovered our batteries were dead and that we would have no pictures of our outing. Which is truly a shame. Notre Dame de Tudet is quite alluring—a small, lithe, black stone effigy which has a vaguely Hellenic feel to it. It is placed on a round pedestal about six feet high in a position of honor behind the altar. The church is simple, very spare, with only two other statues flanking the apse and the only other ornamentation in the nave are plaques representing the stations of the cross. Here’s a bit of history: 

At the exit of the village (of Gaudonville) in the direction of Saint-Clar, one can take a footpath on the right which leads to Notre-Dame de Tudet, a celebrated pilgrimage site since the 12^th century.

Vivian II, Viscount of Lomagne, had a modest chapel built here between 1137 and 1152,  to which Henry II of England added a larger church between 1152 and 1168.  This church was later rebuilt, with the exception of the choir, at the end of the 15^th  and beginning of the 16^th centuries.  The ensemble was destroyed in 1793, with the exception of the octagonal bell tower still visible today.

Attached to this rather robust tower is a house, a remnant of  a monastery from another time.

In 1877, about 100 meters from this bell tower, a chapel of 16^th century appearance was erected in the presence of the Monsignor of Langalerie, revealing the emplacement of a fountain situated 100 meters below the site of the chapel.

The pilgrimage to Notre Dame de Tudet takes place each year on September 8^th, sometimes in the presence of the archbishop of Auch. 

From the website of  the Communauté de Communes Coeur de Lomagne, my translation.  Much of  this text either comes from or forms the basis of the text of the Patrimoine de France entry.

According to Begg, “Tudet” means “protection”; indeed, in at least one source she is referred to as ND of Protection and at least two of the memorial plaques in the chapel come from soldiers spared in the first and second world wars. There are surprisingly few of these marble votive plaques, however, given the supposed antiquity of this pilgrimage site.

Begg states that the current statue dates from the 15th or 16th century, replacing the original of 1152. This jibes perfectly with the dates from the Commune’s text (above). The statue is made of black marble and stands 47 centimeters in height. In this she appears to be at the smaller end of the spectrum when it comes to “les Vierges Noires.” Notre Dame de Tudet has an origin story with many themes common among Black Virgins: apparently an ox, who had grown fat without eating, was one day gazing into a spring. A young herdsmen, curious about the strange behavior of the beast, looked into the spring and discovered the Virgin. Tudet, not so much of a town as a “lieu-dit” (a “named place”), is still a site of cattle farms; I loved the sign which said “Attention aux Bovines.”

Whatever the origin, the site was an important pilgrimage by the 12th century, and the Virgin merited the grander accommodations accorded her by Vivian and Henry II. Begg states that it may be the oldest pilgrimage in Gascony. But not everyone shared the love; the statue was damaged during the Revolution (and wasn't restored until 1963). The chapel which housed her had no such luck. Only the bell tower remains, with rusted cars and farm equipment huddled at the base.

Evidence of an active cult includes votive objects left, such as rosaries, prayer cards, a pair of child’s earrings, a child’s ring, a broach. In an adjoining room, damp smelling and empty save for a few cleaning supplies and a low table, we found the litter used to carry her around in processions. We also saw a banner in the church with a brocaded image of the Madonna, unmistakably white, which only reinforces the sense I’ve had that the skin color of “Black Madonnas”—or rather the perception of that skin color and its importance—is remarkably fluid.[1] Seeing the banner of a white Virgin in this context reminded me of Montaut’s Notre Dame des Ermites, lily-white, which was inspired by that of Einsiedeln, which is very black not only in actual hue but according to the importance placed upon her blackness by devotees.

The second visit.

Some cursory after-the-fact research led me to a website which spoke of a pair of lectures to be given in Gaudonville regarding Notre Dame de Tudet, to be followed by a mass (in Occitan) in the chapel at Tudet.  I was, needless to say, interested in going.  I vowed to take the opportunity to learn more and get some photographs.  Timed passed and the day arrived, a bit less gloomy than the first, and I set out alone from my new home in Aucamville a mere half hour from the site.  As it turns out, the lectures followed the annual meeting of the association “La Lomagne, Memoire Pour Demain”.  It lasted too long for me, eager as I was to get to the lectures, listening impatiently to the summary of their financial details, plans, and projects accomplished in 2006.  I needn’t have been antsy, unfortunately, as the first lecture merely recapitulated everything I have already stated on this page in a typically French (that is to say, circumloquacious) fashion.  Ho-hum.  The second speaker, Mr. Passerat, spoke of Notre dame de Tudet’s place in Occitan literature.  Apparently, it’s not a very prominent place, which in itself is significant.  How large could her cult have been?  Another important thing I did get from these lectures is that there is in fact no way to verify that her cult is especially old.  The current statue is from the 16^th century and may not have replaced anything older; there is no textual evidence to suggest otherwise. 

It was worth visiting this meeting for I was able to get some decent pictures and visit the spring where the sculpture was said to have been found—I’d missed that the first time around.  Just as I was willing to write off the lectures off as a loss, however, a friendly old fellow in attendance rose to comment that Tudet may have come from the Latin word “tutela,” meaning “protection”[2], and that in Spain we find more than one city named Tudela whose names certainly derive from it.  Another gentleman elaborated that Tutela was in fact personified as a woman and worshipped as a minor goddess.  It was in his eyes another example of a pagan survival.

Indeed, according to Stephen McKenna in Paganism and Pagan Survivals in Spain up to the Fall of the Visigothic Kingdom :

Tutela was probably the most popular abstract conception that was worshiped in Spain. Sometimes the name Tutela is found alone, but more often the formula is met, Tutela colonorum Cluniensium, or Genius Tutela horreorum. All of the fourteen inscriptions in Spain have been found in western Tarraconensis. Three towns of the Peninsula have derived their names from Tutela: Tudela Vegún near León, Tudela de Duero near Valladolid, and Tudela not far from Saragossa.

This photo from the British Museum by Barbara McManus (1999) depicts a personified Tutela wearing an elaborate headdress representing the days of the week.  The cornucopia she holds is adorned with the heads of Luna and Sol—the Moon and the Sun.  It comes from a hoard of coins and statuettes, possibly from a sanctuary, buried at Mâcon, France sometime after 260 CE; the figure itself dates from the 3^rd century.  Despite the extravagant allegorical headdress, her basic crown and the crescent moon at her waist are echoed in countless Marian sculptures; one might even be tempted to sea a precursor of the infant Jesus on her arm.  There is even something of her sumptuous curves in Notre Dame de Tudet.

Rodriguez Morales in "Tutela Nauis" e Isis Pelagia en el Satyricon ("Tutela Nauis" and Isis Pelagia in the Satyricon), explains that  there are two references to Tutela Nauis in Petronius’ Satyricon.  After analyzing their context he deduces that the "protecting divinity" (Tutela) referred to is the goddess Isis.  None of this says that Tutela was always an aspect of Isis, but it does remind us just how often Isis thus assumed in many guises and how many local tutelary goddesses were often regarded as one of these.

Which brings us back to the Virgin, Notre Dame, who is in this writer’s opinion is most certainly a descendant of Isis both in her iconography and her functions.  One must not however, exaggerate.  Tutela and Tudet are not necessarily etymologically related and even though in Spain we find towns called Tudela, a connection remains tantalizing conjecture.  Given that both signify “protection” makes it far from extravagant.  Tutela was an abstraction deified as a woman.  Isis was also in a way a kind conflation of many such minor deities; as her cult spread she absorbed many pre-existing goddesses and attributes; her cult eventually spread throughout Europe.  The idea that the iconography of Isis was an important influence on Marial iconography, though certainly contentious, is a well -supported argument.

The basic question remains:  Is Notre Dame de Tudet a very ancient pagan survival?  Mary glued upon Isis as Tutela?  Apparently the first textual evidence of Notre Dame de Tudet surfaces in the 18^th century and people speak of her cult as being “as old as anyone can remember” which could merely be a generation or two.  It’s generally accepted that the current statue dates from the late-15^th/early-16^th century.  This then could be the beginning, with no pagan survival.

Notes:

---

[1] Her names is literally the Latin word for “protection”, especially of wards, as in guardianship, and survives as the root of the English words “tutor” and “tutelage.”

[2] An essay located here makes some useful observations regarding how the perception of certain Madonnas' blackness has changed over time.

Aucamville Project 7: Notre Dame de Boisville

The Aucamville Project began, ironically, with a little ditty on a chapel (ND de Aubets) that isn't even in Aucamville, but the neighboring commune of Le Burgaud. Today we continue to break municipal boundaries with a brief essay about the chapel of Notre Dame de Boisville, which is just across the border with the commune of Verdun-sur-Garonne. The first part of this post is mostly an adaptation from a brief pamphlet prepared by Les Mariniers de Notre Dame de Boisville (The Mariners of ND de Boisville), an association formed to preserve the site.

Some History

The chapel itself sits on a hill overlooking cultivated fields and the D26 between Verdun and Grenade.

Although the Garonne River now flows calmly past about 100 yards or more distant, it once flowed around the base of this hill. Before the dams and floodgates which did a lot to tame the river, this was apparently a trickly place to navigate; the legend of its founding reflects this.

According to the legend, some sailors were making their way down the river and encountered trouble; their efforts to make their way to shore were stymied and they risked sinking into the raging waters. Fortunately for them, a statue of the Virgin they were transporting pointed to the place where they could safely escape the torrent. The sailors, grateful, erected a chapel on the spot.

Another version of the legend has it that the sailors were cruising along when their boat became
inexplicably becalmed. Attempting to use poles to free themselves, the sailors found themselves entirely immobilized. The statue of the Virgin then pointed to where they should go. For some reason, a statue coming to the rescue wasn't enough for these mariners, so they continued their futile efforts. The statue pointed three times before they decided to make their way over to the place where the chapel stands today.

This spot sits at the confluence of the Margestaud and St. Pierre streams and was and ideal spot for a village. Boisville was apparently quite sizable for the Middle Ages but there are few vestiges remaining. Some large dressed blocks and pointed stones still form one wall of the chapel; these are the remnants of a small 12th century castle. Except for these stones the chapel today is entirely a renovation. It was ruined in the Wars of Religion but rebuilt in the 17th century. It was restored again and enlarged in 1888; the façade with small bell-wall dates from this time.

Boisville was dependent upon Cistercian abbey of Grandselve, which exercised considerable influence over this entire area. Alas, the abbey was razed during the Revolution and only the Gatehouse remains. Around 1350 nearby Grenade grew in prominence and Boisville began to be depopulated, but the chapel remained.

Local legend has it that the statue was a Black Virgin, burned during the revolution. The current polychrome statue dates from the 17th century. People make a pilgrimage there every year on the Sunday after Pentecost.

The Diocese of Montauban adds some more information. One might assume that Boisville meands roughly "Woodville" (Bois = Wood) but apparently its is a patronym from the Germanic "Boso". (This sheds perhaps new light on the origin of the name Aucamville; is it from "auca"-- duck, or as others have it from a Germanic name: Auka?)

Another name for the Virgin is Notre Dame de Bon Secours (Rescue). Apparently, between Aucamville and Bon-Encontre, this chapel was one of many "sacred relays" erected a point in the river considered espcially dangerous for navigation.

This chapel is small: 12m by 5m and the bell-wall is 10m in height. It also serves as a funerary chapel (I can attest to this, although the marked graves of local aristocrats have been replaced by an unmarked ossuary to house all the remains found at the site--where or even if the aristocrats -- de Marveille, de Saint Blanquat -- were removed elsewhere I don't know). The chapel is pretty much barren as its trappings have all been stolen, especially in recent years; hence the chapel is always locked.

The diocese site reaffirms that the orignal statue venerated there was a Black Virgin and was replaced by the current 16th century polychrome Virgin and Child in 1802. This Virgin is said to specialize in the protection of children, the prosperity of property and the salvation of souls.

Some Jibba Jabba

Even though largely discredited and for the attentive reader an offensive display of creeping assertion and wild speculation disguised as serious history, Holy Blood, Holy Grail (HBHG) is a great read and it's hard not to be captivated by its central thesis. Indeed, the spectacular success of Dan Brown's The Da Vinci Code, which borrows liberally from the former, is to our way of thinking a demonstration of the power the thesis exerts. Namely, that Jesus and Mary Magdalene married and had a family that continues to exist today.

HBHG asserts that after the crucifixion, Mary Magdalene made her way to France. This legend is not the authors' invention; it dates back to the Middle Ages and is a well-entrenched part of the folklore of Provence. What the book claims is that this bloodline became the founding dynasty of what would become France, the Merovingians (457-751 CE). This proved to threaten the power of the Church who thus betrayed the bloodline and tried to kill off all of Jesus' descendants. Thus in 1099 we find the creation of the Priory of Sion, who created the Knights Templar as a front and as both a military and financial arm.

As a novel, it's a marvelous work. As a serious history is more than a little flawed. The Priory of Sion itself seems to have been an elaborate joke; it's pretty much a dead letter as far as its central theory goes.

Whatever the case, my first encounter with the chapel was redolent of imagery which linked back to HBHG and I must imagine that some of this was set up by people who are familiar with the mythos.

First, let me state that I'd heard of the chapel from a neighbor and that unlike the Chapel of St. John the Baptist of Margestaud, which I found immediately, this one eluded me. Then one day I simply happened upon it. I'd passed it a dozen times and had never grokked it. Hidden in plain sight, as it were.

The first thing I noticed was that in the clearing before the chapel there is a small sign that says "Attention - Bees - Ay!...That stings!..." Now that I look at it, that alone sounds like one of the weird cryptic messages one comes across whenever dealing with the Priory of Sion and the Rennes-le-Chateau "mystery." Noon Blue Apples, etc. But it's pretty prosaic; there are actually beehives in the woods behind the sign. It's a simple warning.


The bees, however, were a symbol of the Merovingians. 300 were found attached to the robe of Childeric I when his grave was excavated in the 17th century. Napoleon had reproductions stitched to his robe when he was coronated in 1804. Resonance galore.

The chapel has an outdoor altar, made of a large slab of stone looking all the world like a dolmen. This is set next to a bifurcated tree which, as a friend told me later, has healing properties in French folklore. If one threads their way around the trunks in a proscribed number of figure 8s, it is supposed to recharge one's batteries, so to speak. Not that this is related to the HBHG story, mind you, but everyone I've taken to this site remarks on the unmistakable "pagan" ambiance of the place.


What really set me off onto this HBHG train of thought, however, is that on the cross behind the altar, decorated not with Christ but with Mary, as is common in these parts, there hung a medallion with the symbol of the Knights Templar! Who put it there and why, I cannot say. Was it a random visitor? Was it the owner of the site? (The chapel is on private property). Was it linked to the fact that the tombs were those of aristocrats? Were they a Templar family in the days of old?


On a later visit this medallion was gone (I'd been tempted to nick it for myself) and yet another visit found the cross smashed into pieces. It has since been replaced with a simpler cross--no Mary.

It was soon after that the marked graves of the aristocrats were removed and replaced with an unmarked slab.

All of this taken together could not but excite my imagination and any number of scenarios present themselves, from simple acts of vandalism by bored local youths or the result of a secret conflict between the descendants of Templars and their Catholic rivals. And anything in between, really. Keep in mind I know nothing and believe less. These are only enigmas because I am ignorant.

The abbey of Grandselve was founded in 1114 and became attached to that of Clairvaux in 1144/45. Clairvaux was founded by St. Bernard in 1115. It was Bernard who created the rule of the Knights Templar in 1128 and it was under his influence that the Virgin Mary, who had heretofore played only a minor role in Christian thought, was transformed into the primary intercessor between man and God.

"No one can enter Heaven unless by Mary, as though through a door" he wrote. Could this explain the distincly vaginal form of the church portal as it developed in the following years? Does the following medallion found at Boisville also evoke a woman's sacred gate?


Finally, the idea of the "Mariner" intrigues me. On the most obvious level, the mariner in Les Mariniers de Notre Dame de Boisville refers to the sailors who brought the Virgin to this spot. On another level there are tantalizing symbolic associations. The first of these is the Freemasonic body called the Royal Ark Mariners. Ostensibly this obscure appendant body refers to the story of Noah and the Flood, but for the life of me I can't find out why it is the "Royal" ark. If the ark carried Noah and the earth to a new beginning, could a "royal" ark be a metaphor for the grail? The grail, or "saint graal" aka "sang real" (royal blood) is, for the authors of HBHG, the bloodline of Jesus.

I've even seen it suggested that the Ark referred to is really the Ark of the Covenant, which some legends relate was brought back to France by the Templars. This last association would appear to be a fanciful misinterpretation as I haven't come across any Royal Ark sources making such a link. Plenty of legends say that the true mission of the Templars in Jerusalem was to investigate the ruins of the Temple, and that their goal was to find either the Ark, or the Grail. Or both, assuming they weren't one and the same.

The idea of the mariner is also linked with the legends that bring Mary Magdalene to France, via Egypt, from whence they were expelled or cast adrift in a small boat which made its way to what is now Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer. Sarah, a servant on that voyage, has been proposed as the real inspiration behind the Black Virgin; others have posited Mary Magdalene.

The identification of Mary the Virgin and Magdalen the whore brings me back to the half-serious question I posed above regarding St. Bernard's statement that "No one can enter Heaven unless by Mary, as though through a door". Is it then coincidence that one theory for the origin of the Black Virgin is that is grew from Bernard's statement that the phrase "I am black, but comely" (from the blatantly erotic Song of Solomon 1:5) referred to the Virgin Mary? Imagine my surprise then, when leafing through Ian Begg's Cult of the Black Virgin, I find this "The Ark/Grail is the symbol of the virgin whore wisdom, who mixes all things in an orgy of syncretism...." (p.52)

Having thus deftly conflated the Ark and the Grail, he also conflates the Ark of Noah and the Ark of the Covenant on the page prior. Like a women, all are vessels, symbolically linked.


To ask one final question regarding the link between mariners and the Virgin: What are we to make of the chapel at Rocamadour where there is a reproduction of its famous Black Virgin--in a boat? Keep in mind that another theory about the origin of Black Virgins is the iconography of Isis, who in addition to being seen ad infinitum suckling Horus, is elsewhere often depicted in a sacred boat, or barque. In fact, some medieval legends have it that the name Paris comes from the name Isis, or even means "boat of Isis." The head of the Priory goes by the title "Nautonnier" or "navigator" and apparently claim this comes from Sirius, which is said to guide the boat of Isis....

Heady stuff, to be sure; even the little chapels weave their way in an out of the Great Tapestry.

So, there you have it. Who'd a thunk such a miniscule blip on the map could lead to so many vast and perhaps unanswerable questions? Just another sunny day on the Laws of Silence.

♀: Matter and Spirit, or Venus' hand mirror....

Lloret de Mar is mostly known as a kind of Cancun of the Costa Brava. A town of 40,000 whose population swells in summer with hordes of drunken 18-to-30 year olds from France, the UK, Germany, etc. Filled with hotels, bars and discothèques, cheap eats and various other diversions.

But in 1966 the town celebrated its millennium, 1000 years of existence. (Estimated, I imagine. At least a little arbitrary). You can thus find some interesting ruins and historical accounts tell of fending off attacks by pirates, the intrigues of petty nobles, the machinations of an all-too-worldly Church. Standard European fare, really.

But the town has always been oriented towards the sea and it is from there that it draws its life, now and as before. Like many of these booming coastal towns, marred by ugly hotels and vomit-stained sidewalks, they were until relatively recently....fishing villages. In a brochure which describes the millennial celebrations, tourism was already mentioned as a new economic sector for the town, but fifty years is a relatively small swath of time out of a thousand, so the history of fishing and sailing is deeply ingrained in its culture, despite the dominance of tourism.

Perhaps that is why the sculpture known as the Dona Marinera (in Catalan) or Mujer Marinera (Castellano) has become a symbol of this city since it was dedicated by notable visitors, including naval officers, in 1966.

The sculpture is ostensibly to honor the wives and women of the men of the sea, hence it is commonly translated as the “Fisherman’s Wife”. This would appear to be an error; if it were accurate the Castellan name would have to be “Mujer de Pescadora” or at the very least “Mujer de Marinera”. Some translators have got it right and call it the “Female Sailor”. Technically accurate but I prefer the “Lady Sailor” going back to the Catalan (Dona) which is both accurate and more evocative of a kind of nobility which I have an inkling she deserves.

The dress of the woman, as you can see, does evoke more of a peasant than a noblewoman, as do her bare feet. Her nobility does not come being a well-heeled woman of the ruling class.

Up to now, I haven’t been able to find why she might be called the Venus of Lloret, except perhaps because of her erotic allure. Something in her kindly smile, her ample and oddly angular breasts, her bare arms and legs. There is a certain appeal in her forms. Then again, you may remember we got the same feelings about Clémence Isaure way back when, so maybe there’s a Pygmalion thing going on with us!

But seriously, the erotic is not the strongest pull. It’s more the smile, the openness, the winsome gaze. She looks out over the sea, waiting for her man to return. Classic sailor’s tale. Sailor comes home to his woman he left on shore and we can imagine that after the tender embrace and the hearty meal, there is an even heartier roll in the hay. Buggery with the cabin boy can only take you so far.

Again, we jest. But this idea of Venus brings me back to famous Botticelli painting of Venus, arriving both demure and brazen, born aloft in a shell by gentle frothy waves. The shell, symbol of St. Jacques, upon whose trail pilgrims followed to expiate their sins, affixing the shell to their staves, is and has always been a symbol of the soul’s journey across time.

It may also mean, riffing along here, that the woman, erotic desire and love, born from the primordial oceans, looks back out over it, into the depths to which we all eventually return. The blood rushes in the ears, pounding like surf, as the couple climax together and foamy sea-froth is jettisoned into the womb, a net releasing the captive swimmers, going, going, gone.

Which reminds us that medieval anatomists held that blood ran through the body, not pumped by the heart, but rising and falling like the tides. As we now know and as these fishermen also knew, the tides are affected by the moon. Which of course, has always been represented by a woman. Not Venus, but then again, maybe it was. The most widespread goddess worship before the gradual incrustation of Christianity were Isis and the Magna Mater, both of whom are generally recognized to have assumed various forms and in whom other goddesses were conflated. Far be it from us to put words in the mouth of the long since dead, but it very well could be that what some may see as “mere” polytheism may in fact be akin to certain strands of Hindu thought which see all the gods and goddesses as manifestation of one godhead. Just a thought.

It is also interesting that there is a legend associated with the statue, which is that if you touch her while gazing out over the sea, your wishes will come true. Wish-fulfillment is a widespread folk belief, and it is often associated with bodies of water. The wishing well is a most obvious example. It might also be useful to remember the Chapel to St. Jean-Baptiste, where the sick went to throw coins into water in order to heal their ailments. The ocean, much vaster, could easily take care of a more diverse array of problems.

It is worth concluding with a brief look at some of the dedicatory remarks made back in 1966, where it would seem this "woman sailor" represented for the male speakers not just a fisherman’s wife, but Woman as a whole, even the Virgin Mary....

An article about the inauguration clearly presents an idealized Woman, an ideal intertwined with Lloret's rich maritime history, the “laurel victorioso conquistado con sus gestas en el mar." The monument is at once homage to the town's history, its famous ships, its Women: a “conversion of reality into symbols”.

The poet Valeriano Simón is quoted: “La mujer como simbolo, se agranda cuando lo es del marinero, es una espera cotidiana del hombre, sea hermano, padre o esposo.” That is to say: “The woman as symbol is enlarged when she is a sailor’s, waiting daily for a man, be it a brother, father or husband.”

As a symbol, it seems that for Simón she gains her meaning in the eyes of these men when waiting for other men! One wonders if they bothered to ask any real women how they felt about this. Photos at the scene show naval officers, local dignitaries, a government minister, a priest. Not a fisherman’s wife among them.

As a symbol Woman is also compared, even equated, with the ocean. Jaun Ramón Jiménez: “El mar ancho y undoso, que está siempre cerca de si mismo y a la vez solo y alejado, abierto en mil heridas, olas qui van y vienen....Así está ella, la Mujer Marinera, mirando al mar como mira una mujer dentro de su propio corazón.”

“The wide and undulant sea, which is always in touch with itself and at once alone and away, a thousand opened wounds, waves that come and go....She is thus, the Lady Sailor, looking at the sea like a woman into her own heart.”

One Señor Clúa evoked the “challenging and fecund” epoch of Lloret’s history, the conquest of the New World, here symbolized by a woman: “proud, hard-working, and always with her family.” She is “body and soul in the home, with the children and the old, to manage the house and be the light for all.” This last phrase is strangely evocative of religious imagery and indeed, he goes on to refer to “Nuestra Mujer Marinera”, or “Our Lady Sailor who will be at once mother, daughter, fiancée, wife of those that were and those we are now....” He goes on to link her again to the town’s prosperity with its link to the colonial Americas and now, tourism.

“Our Lady” cannot but evoke the Virgin, and indeed the minister, Nieto Antúnez, went on to call the statue "Un monumento que vendrá a recordar ese otro espiritual que representa para los marineros españoles la Virgen del Carmen, primera mujer marinera de Lloret de Mar y primera mujer marinera de España."

“A monument that will become a reminder for Spanish sailors of that other spiritual figure--the Virgen del Carmen--first lady sailor of Lloret de Mar and first lady sailor of Spain.”


Here Antúnez is referring to Our Lady of Mount Carmel as Stella Maris, or Star of the Sea:

According to tradition, devotion to Our Lady of Mount Carmel has its origin in a vision experienced by the prophet Elijah (1 Kings 18, 44). From the top of Mount Carmel, Elijah saw a white cloud rise from the sea. This cloud subsequently became a symbol of Mary and is one of the sources of the title “Star of the Sea”. There is a long history of devotion to Our Lady of Mount Carmel among Spanish seafarers. An 18th century Spanish Admiral observed

Stars guide seafarers at sea and Our Lady guides us in our lives

On 19 April 1901, Maria Cristina, Queen Regent of Spain, officially proclaimed Our Lady of Mount Carmel as patron of Spanish seafarers.

Not only is she evoked due to her role as protectress and guide, but her feast day, the 16th of July, came only two weeks after the dedication of this statue on the 1st.

Mount Carmel was recognized as a holy place since the far reaches of antiquity, perhaps even by the Egyptians, and was the site where Elijah competed with Phoenician priests to see whose god was the baddest of them all, something about calling on god to start a fire on a stone. Phoenician Baal-worshippers: 0 Elijah: 1 .

Yahweh set the stones ablaze, even after Elijah has doused it with water.

In any event, the Virgin comes in due to a vision one Simon Stock had there. Our Lady Carmen is seen by the Carmelites as “a perfect model of the interior life of prayer and contemplation to which Carmelites aspire, a model of virtue, as well as the person who was closest in life to Jesus Christ.” The idealized woman, once again.

This link to Mount Carmel is reinforced by the fact that the sculpture sits on a high promontory overlooking the sea. The elements become one. As Elijah brought fire from water and fire added to water creates steam (remember that white cloud), here the earth and sea become one. Fecund Mother Earth and Mother Ocean.

For LoS purposes, we should also point out that the Stella Maris Monastery is home to a monument to Napoleon’s soldiers. This is a small pyramid, flanked by two trees!

As a Mother Goddess, Stella Maris is also a Christian continuation of the title originally applied to Isis. It also brings us back to Aphrodite, Roman Venus, born from the sea.

The story goes like this. After Cronos castrated Ouranos and tossed his 'nads into the sea, they floated about for a while and from a white foam grew Aphrodite. (You will recall that the Erinyes, or Furies, grew from the blood). This myth of the fully mature Venus Rising from the Sea (Venus Anadyomene) brings to mind the idea of the fully-grown Athena, popping out from the head of Zeus. In the case of Aphrodite, perhaps it removes any lingering ickiness one might have in regarding her as the ultimate desirable woman. As wiki says: “Aphrodite had no childhood: in every image and each reference she is born adult, nubile, and infinitely desirable.”


Depictions of Venus Anadyomene also have her doing things with her arms: wringing her hair, strategically placed for modesty or splayed out in erotic invitation. I have thought long about the Venus of Lloret. Her arms are like the Pisces fish or a yin and yang. One is held up as if shielding the eyes, scanning the horizon, a covering, protective gesture; the other seeming to beckon a distant viewer. They both shield and invite. Modest yet alluring.

Her clothing, if it can be called that, hides nipples and public hair but only serves to accentuate her full-bodied forms: the upturned ample breasts, the thick legs, the generous belly. But this covering is indistinguishable from her body, not even a dim dividing line like that of the horizon where sea and sky meet.

Oddly, Aphrodite was often unfaithful to her husband, which isn’t necessarily out of keeping for the idea of a sailor’s wife. Perhaps not the ideal woman by a phallocentric point of view, but perhaps some of the anxieties of sailors away at sea are thus expressed. Perhaps this is also expressed in both her chastity and sexiness.

Venus--or Aphrodite--was one of those goddesses that had counterparts in several ancient cultures; Venus was essentially Romanized Aphrodite, who in turn seemed to correspond with much earlier goddesses: Inanna, Astarte, Turan. Herodotus ascribes her origins to Phoenicia. The Greeks did not seem to have any qualms about recognizing her Eastern origins and it would seems that the principles she represents belong to the earliest religious practices.

During Greece’s classical period, Aphrodite was seen as having two principal aspects, sometimes even as two separate goddesses: Aphrodite Ourania, born from the sea-foam and Aphrodite Pandemos, of the “common people”. For the Neo-Platonists Aphrodite Ourania figures as a celestial goddess and represents higher forms of love. As Pandemos she represents mere physical love. In any event it would seem that despite needing two differentiate between kinds of love, between physical and spiritual attraction, the force of attraction was more or less embodied in one divine feminine principle.

There are many myths associated with her, but let’s take for example the story of Pygmalion, evoked before, prior to learning of its connection to Aphrodite. Pygmalion was a sculpture who never found a woman to love. Inspired by a dream of Aphrodite, he set out to make a woman in her image. He fell in love with the statue, which Aphrodite brought to life as a rewrd for his falttering endeavours.

In another version of the tale, women in Pyg’s village got angry that he would not marry one of them, so they prayed to Aphrodite and asked her to help; she went to the man and asked him to pick a wife. Not wanting to be married, he begged for time in order to make a statue of Aphrodite before he chose. He dithered about with models, playing for time “to find the right pose” so to speak, but found that when he began the model, he wanted to finish; he was falling in love.

When he finished, Aphrodite appeared and said, ok, pick a bride. He chose the statue and asked to become one. Instead, Aphrodite brought the statue to life so that his wish could be fulfilled.

The statue is an object upon which men can throw idealized version of what a woman should be. This woman, his creation, is ultimately controlled by him and is literally born from him, like Eve from Adam’s rib, or Aphrodite herself from Ouranos’ floating nuts.

“The image of Venus Anadyomene is one of the very few images that survived in Western Europe in its classical appearance, from Antiquity into the High Middle Ages...."This extraordinary conservatism may perhaps be explained by the fact that the culture of the last pagan centuries remained alive longer in Provence than elsewhere."”

This conservatism may be due to the Troubadours’ pursuit of the idealized woman, like Clémence Isaure born from images of the Virgin Mary. An ideal unobtainable woman, here secularized in order to eroticize her without complex.


Here in this simple statue, a minor work from a minor sculptor, Ernest Maragall i Noble, we propose that all these strains of thought are present: Isis and the Virgin as Stella Maris, Aphrodite, the Ideal Woman of the Troubadours, such as Clémence Isaure and Belle Paule....and again, point out that this as all these other versions are creations of and projections of male ideals and fantasies, both spiritual and erotic.

Like Aphrodite, born from a man fully grown, without the aid of a woman.