BONE CHAPEL – CAPELA DOS OSSOS

It was first seen in a tourist brochure at our friends’ villa in Portugal. We asked to be taken there to see this place, not only to understand the context, but also to sense the feel of a chapel lined with human bones. Might one be overawed? What would this unusual use of body parts feel like?

The chapel was apparently not far from us. After a short drive, we arrived at a small village. We parked on the usual cobbled surface, with the spaces defined by different stones. We noted the sign advising the time limitation, and strolled along a street that was a collection of classic Portuguese parts that were attractive, but not ‘quaint’ or ‘full of character’ as one might refer to a more coherent presentation. There was something of the ad hoc here, something like a shambles about this village; something almost bland and neglected: but it was still of interest. One might say that it was not a place that would make the front page of any brochure; well, not this thoroughfare that was rich with ordinary life with no pretense or self-indulgent display, that exhibitionism usually seen in the busy tourist centres.

There was a small market on this day. We walked down to the stalls, past the local cafe/bar with the old men outside, watching the world. Nearby, there was an ancient well with a wonderful, rusting contraption used for drawing water mounted over it. One could see it as a true Heath Robinson invention, a gizmo using naive levers, cogs, bars, and rods to cleverly manipulate a series of small buckets to lift water and channel it out. It must have once been the centre of the village. One could analyse the logic of the gadgetry only by concentrating on the various segments and their interconnections. The experience was like the deciphering of a maze.

The market was small; it was what we might have called a ‘farmers’ market,’ with food and fresh fruit and vegetables for sale, rather than knick-knacks and crafts, although there were a couple of tables selling lovely locally sewn items, and handmade baskets and belts. Strolling back uphill, we continued past the parked car into a narrow lane. The village seemed to improve in this area, become more organised, more cared for. We strolled into a small, enclosed space on the side of the dominant church, a space that seemed to lead into a larger area on the western front. The tower of this building could be seen standing high above the village from most angles.

“Here it is,” said the friend.

I was puzzled: “What?”

“The bone chapel; it’s there.”

I had not expected this. I turned: we were standing outside an open door that had vertical steel bars across the opening as a barrier to the dim recess. I looked in; it took time for the eyes to adjust: it was indeed the bone chapel.

It was tiny, but grand. One had expected something larger, more concealed; perhaps more spooky, like a basement charnel house. This little recess opened out into the clear, bright sunlight of the public space, the glorious everyday rather than being relegated to some dim, dark vision of Hades. I leaned in to see more, shading my eyes from the glare. Every square millimetre of wall and ceiling was covered with human bones. The skulls were dominant and were set out in patterns. The other body pieces were arranged likewise in support of this diagram, infilling zones defined by the skulls and shaped by the geometry of the curved walls and ceiling. The little space was fascinating. One was beguiled by the intent and the outcome.

As I leaned in further to take a photograph, there was a movement. I realised that the steel barrier was in fact a gate that could be opened: one could go in. This invitation was almost disappointing, further connecting this special space with the ordinary everyday. Strangely, one did not stand shocked or stunned in the centre of the two metre by two metre void, about four metres high. The bones, retrieved from a nearby graveyard, had become decorative pieces, a strange mix of familiar Phantom rings and pirate flags. One could stand and stare eye-to- eye with a skull, and admire its placement while noting its size - these were small people - rather than ponder anther's life, and one’s own mortality. One consciously spent more time standing there, trying to be moved as one thought one should be, out of respect, with the brilliant sunlight scorching its way into the apse-like space with its curved recess and vaulted roof, highlighting the contrast between light and dark, exaggerating each: life and death.

The arrangement became more obvious as one studied the various sections. The setout was ingenious, well and carefully considered. The different body parts had been imaginatively and intelligently gathered and placed to suit their shape, size and purpose, to shrewdly create planes, bandings and alignments that organised the whole collection of bones into very self-conscious segments and surfaces, stepped and structured to suit the units used. It was this juxtapositioning that took one’s attention rather than any overriding empathy. One felt strangely cold about the chapel, not shaken or moved by doubt, fear or any religious emotion.

I turned to leave. My friend took my photograph, the tourist record, on his demand. We left the church-side space and moved into the heat of the main square past decorated gables. The west front of the church was typical Portguese, beautifully restrained, bright and bold with a lovely sculpted doorway. The interior was likewise other than bright, heavily gilded and wonderfully tiled, with shafts of light adding to the spiritual mood. Special pieces of joinery were enriched with purposeful carvings. Strangely, the church was more emotionally engaging than the bone chapel that remained an aside, literally off to one side, located somewhat like an ice-cream parlour recess in the church wall; maybe a coffee nook. It was isolated, alone, having no obvious connection with the church other than being in its side wall. One had no sense of this little chapel being a place for reverie or worship, such was its exposure to public space. How might one pray with one’s back so open to the world? It is not impossible; one sees in the East all the time: but here there was the stark contrast of death being but one step off life, as it is; a confrontation rather than an invitation for meditation and mediation.

One remained puzzled; why was this curiosity so easy to see just as something obscure and unusual. Has it become too much of a tourist attraction? It seemed not, as there were no crowds of strangers gathering around. Why did the bone chapel not make the body tremble; the heart pause? Only the interior of the church made a quiet impact, both with awe and admiration. We moved out of the church into the pure, blazing light gleaming on the ox-blood red of the wall opposite, trimmed typically and beautifully with gorgeously plain, simple white decoration. The swallows were building below the deep profiles of the eaves mouldings. The mud nests looked like a frieze of skulls.

On the walk back to the car, the details of the facades fascinated: the crude electrical wiring strung along the street elevations; the projecting steps at the lovely, ornate front doors; the modestly framed window openings; the small pieces of florid decoration; the shadows - the colours.

We left this ordinary little place with surprising memories as we were watched by the old men outside the cafe, on red chairs under the shady white, Boundi-branded awning. One could sense the comments:

“Tourists!”

“I wonder what he saw to photograph in that old wall?”

“Englishmen! Mad dogs.”

We are labelled by our tongue.

The experience of the bone chapel lingered, and still does, now with a fine shiver; not sufficient for one to be called a Quaker, but it has something to do with this.

Bone Chapel, Algarve, Alcantarilha, Portugal

see: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vOBCm6AcpR8

and, for the Street View experience of Alcantarilha:

https://www.google.com/maps/uv?hl=en&pb=!1s0xd1ad1acbf73da69:0x55d3ae489a609849!2m22!2m2!1i80!2i80!3m1!2i20!16m16!1b1!2m2!1m1!1e1!2m2!1m1!1e3!2m2!1m1!1e5!2m2!1m1!1e4!2m2!1m1!1e6!3m1!7e115!4s/maps/place/bone%2Bchapel%2Balcantarilha%2Bportugal/@37.1304371,-8.3458964,3a,75y,180.06h,90t/data%3D*213m4*211e1*213m2*211sHn4LKtbQYJ1jHGm3FXGf-Q*212e0*214m2*213m1*211s0xd1ad1acbf73da69:0x55d3ae489a609849!5sbone+chapel+alcantarilha+portugal+-+Google+Search&imagekey=!1e2!2sHn4LKtbQYJ1jHGm3FXGf-Q&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwip-8rryPHgAhVSdCsKHVA-CE0Qpx8wEnoECAYQCw&cshid=1552014744164491

NOTES:
For more on Street View and architecture, see:
https://voussoirs.blogspot.com/2019/03/architectures-two-remote-islands-too.html

and

https://voussoirs.blogspot.com/2017/10/the-need-for-street-view-in-architecture.html

For Skull Art, see:
https://voussoirs.blogspot.com/2017/12/skull-art.html

19 MARCH 2019
Street View is intriguing. One is able to move through the village, retrace one's steps, and discover the locations and details that were photographed and used with this text, bringing everything into its context. The interest is not only with memories and reverie, but also in how the camera frames and isolates.