A little bit about communions – my personal take

This is of the first communion I witnessed in Spain, but I have seen several since and even spent three days photographing a private one.  There were photos for the invitation,  the build-up and the actual event, all in different places.  The last bit is still to come having been put on hold due to the dripping hot summer!

So the first time it was a Sunday some years ago, yes really hot, we thought it could not possibly be hotter.   But at that time we had not yet experienced global warming per se as in the last few years.  At around 6, my son Harvey and I drove into Atzeneta to sit in a bar and have a drink to cool down. As soon as we entered the village, it was clear something was afoot. It was randomly bedecked with flower-strewn altars. “Una comunión”, exclaimed Gema from Bar Sol excitedly. “Tienes tu cámara”?

Of course I had my camera – it was locked in the car under cover from sight and heat. I never go anywhere without it. Gema was laying a path of green leaves and colourful petals along the main road through the village.  Her little niece posed for me, probably looking forward to when she would be part of a cummion too.  “A las siete” the communion parade will be passing in front of the bar and doing a service next to it, she explained.  “Muy bonita”, she added in the pigeon Spanish she always uses to address me.

A few shots in the bag and I sat down with a large white wine to await the sight. Meanwhile Harvey downed his Fanta and set off back to the Masia Lavanda, preferring an hour walk in the still blistering sun to the happy clapping of a throng of children which had gathered to watch the spectacle. Their noise is doing my head in, he stated. I pondered over the irascibility of a 23 year old who could not remember that he was shortly before just a child himself. They are giving me a headache, he added for good measure.

I finished my wine, and 7pm had come, but no procession. At 7.15  I meandered around to the front of the huge church  where a brass band and a scattering of people in festive clothes were gathered as well as much of the locals. Shortly after there was a loud triumphant burst of singing and trumpets, and the giant ecclesastical doors swung open, spilling forth the communion congregation. The focus was on 7 children; 4 girls who appeared to be dressed as brides and 3 boys – 2 sailors and a pilot.

At the very end of this crowd, an ambulatory canopy emerged, each of its six posts held by a man. One I recognised as the notorious village drunk.  In the middle was the priest holding a bizarre mirrored mask in front of his face.

This collection of people proceeded to wind their way throughout the town led by the ambulant canopy. Under the priest’s tutelage the children shared the body and blood of Christ repeatedly in front of every flower festooned alter set up along the route. At least this is what I would like to think, but the reality was they stood in front, or often to the side of the canopy while the priest waved his ominous mask around in front of his face.

The deep shadows caused by the high piercing sun and the white communion garments, together with the continual movement from shade to sun in this old village revealed the contrasts of the tableau, in terms of traditional culture in the face of modern day tendencies. The dresses were exquisitely beautiful, obviously expensive, and I marveled at the cloth. It seemed a pity that they might never be worn again, which seemed likely as each outfit fit the child precisely.

Eventually, after the fourth altar I wandered off back to catch the altar at Bar Sol, passing a mother dressed in vibrant red re-adjusting the bow on her daughter’s dress for what seemed the hundredth time. Goodness, I mused – this is much more important than Christmas.

One for the road, and a few more pictures to the side of Bar Sol when the congregation arrived.  Truth was, my departure was hastened by the mayor asking me to show a bit of respect and not take photos. Everyone was taking photos including two clearly profesional photographers (females) with a string of cameras dangling around their necks, not to mention a camera man from the local TV! I remember feeling a slight sadness that I was not one of them anymore. That I had retired too young (51). But some things have to be and I quickly suppressed my thoughts with a last swig of the too warm wine.

Little was I  to know that come 10 years later, this year in fact’ I would be asked to be the main professional photographer for the private communion mentioned at the beginning. I saw it as a symbolic union to God which  took much training of the young bride. At least that is my take after spending much time on different days with the parents. There were many gifts, too many,  so much so that a whole bedroom was dedicated to them.

Many more gifts arrived during the amazing feast at a local restaurant, each time accompanied by much fanfare and clapping. The little “bride” had to change outfits four times,  for her a very long day in which  she had to perform – and oh boy so she did, absolutely seamlessly!  I was flabbergasted and am still looking forward to the last shoot which continues to be put off by a strange summer and now a wet autumn.  Traditionally it takes place at the beach in the bride dress, but for this little very beautiful and bright girl it will be in Culla for she declared “I am a girl of the mountains”. And I bet she has had enough of her bride dress so maybe something alternative.  I am not surprised that she was crowned the señorita of the year re communions!

To see other photos of communions  please click here