STREET CORNER SAINTS

Traveling in western Germany, through Koln, Mainz and the small medieval wine-making towns nearby, we saw old buildings with corner saints. These religious statues –of Christ, the Virgin Mary, St. Francis, and others – sit inside niches carved into the front facade of small buildings, usually at the second floor. Some are carefully maintained and have the pretty sheen of Hummel figurines. Some are sealed in glass to keep out the elements, and wire mesh to keep out birds. Some have been left in place over decades to weather naturally, romantically.

One of my German friends explained that the west of the country is considered German rather than Prussian, Catholic rather than Protestant. He had grown up in the region, in a Catholic family, and visiting brought back rich childhood memories. The musty smell of a restaurant, and then a crowd of well-dressed church-goers, both reminded him of summers spent with his grandmother. He eventually left the confines of family and church, after the wall fell, to study in Barcelona and work as an artist in Berlin.

Each time I heard bells or passed a corner saint I sensed the presence of the church, not as history or institution, but as a vital imaginative force. Like movie billboards in Los Angeles and office towers in Manhattan, they speak to the spirit of the place, the energies that drive it. The corner saints are meant to bless this or that house, and all that transpires inside. But they are also alert and outward-looking, presiding over the streets below. For a boy living here this authority might rankle, but for a visitor it’s full of grace.

September 06, 2015 by Nalina Moses

HAPPILY EVER AFTER

In Germany, in Rheinland, in the summer, the sun sets after 10 o’clock, behind a gauzy blue night sky. So it became ritualistic to take quiet, after-dinner strolls through the small, medieval wine-making towns we visited: Bacharach, Eltville, Oestrich-Winkel. The town centers have narrow, twisting streets lined with two-story half-timber frame houses. Most are still residences, and others have been converted to small businesses. The small streets, designed for foot traffic and horse carts, are crowded on one another, and the land slopes steeply toward the Rhine. When turning a corner one might suddenly find a church tower, rows of grape vines, a skateboard park, or the river itself. The houses are maintained lovingly, many with slate tile roofs, and painted in bright constrasting colors: yellow-blue, burgundy-saffron, white-red. Some have small flower gardens in front, clouded with bees. Thee streets have a storybook dreaminess, as if living simply, as people here seem to do, is the best way to live.

Yet the towns aren’t prettily preserved, like Bruges or Tallinn. Instead they seem ancient and also alive. (Siena and Jaisalmer are cities with a similar kind of life.) Here there are medieval churches and stone walls choked in ivy, and bank machines and dollar store too. On one walk we watched a scrum of adolescent boys kick a soccer ball, happily, down a sloped cobbled street. Their families might have lived in this place for centuries, and their ancestors might live here for centuries more.

I recently met someone from Detroit who had just returned from a visit there. He said that large parts of that city, the city he remembered from his childhood in the 1970′s, were gone. They hadn’t been gentrified or fallen into disuse. As plots were razed communities had simply disappeared. Towns like Eltville have built parking lots and supermarkets while keeping the architecture of their town centers intact. It’s an achievement that’s slightly miraculous.

September 05, 2015 by Nalina Moses