The Tanager Blog

{Note: In the coming days, I will be blogging about the Holy Week processions in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. I have created a slideshow of the best images on my portfolio website. Please visit, and let me know your impressions. Critiques are welcome in the comments box below}

Miercoles Santo (Holy Wednesday) was when things in San Miguel de Allende became a great deal more serious. We had known that there would be special masses to commemorate los matines de tinieblas (loosely translated in our guidebook as “the vespers of darkness”) followed by a spectacular procession in the evening. From a photography perspective, it would serve as a warm-up to the main event: Good Friday. I had never photographed a cultural procession quite like this one, with its requisite crowds, split-second moments and hard-to-anticipate movements.

At 5pm, we entered El Jardin, the tree-lined main square that is set beneath the magnificent Gothic cathedral, La Parroquia. Like on previous evenings, children played with their cheap-thrill toys, mariachis entertained tourists, and old men sat on benches watching the world go by. Nothing unusual, but if anything, it was a bit more subdued than previous nights. And then the angels appeared — five-, six- and seven-year old girls dressed in white with purple ribbons in their hair and feathery wings bouncing on their backs. Some carried religious symbols while others sprinkled petals and tarragon-scented sprigs onto the cobblestones.

They were followed by the Roman centurions, a multi-generational group of men dressed in deep-red fabrics and bronze armor. One methodically beat a drum at his waist to give the parade a steady timing, his lips downturned in a kind of sadness you wouldn’t expect on the face of a warrior.

The drummer was followed by a buffer of angels and then an altar of Christ, profuse with an elaborate bouquet of lilies. Purple and white confetti rained down from the balconies above, and while it looked like a celebratory spectacle, it was actually a somber and silent event, the only noises emanating from the thumping drum, the shuffling of footsteps and murmuring of prayers.

Hailey and I were fortunate to be at the front of the parade where we could move, cross in front of it, try new angles and anticipate as many upcoming shots as possible (the same could not be said for Friday’s parades due to the huge increase in spectators).

The route had begun at Oratorio de San Felipe Neri, a church that had actually seemed like the epicenter of the city during Holy Week. But as it moved through the cobblestone streets, it would stop at Stations of the Cross that had been sculpted into the city walls (above). Romans would stand stoically, girls would fidget with their clothes and smell the flowers from their basket, and a priest would read a passage into a microphone. Speakers would materialize, and the altar-bearers would catch their breath as wooden support stands would hold the weight of the massive icons.

At one Station of the Cross, children dressed in silken robes of vibrant colors silently stood vigil, hand clasped in prayer, their eyes shifting between each other, the colorful procession standing by them, and the spectators. What did they think of all this? What did they feel? Among them were two toddlers (one of whom I’ve written about, Mexican Jer). One of them cried with confusion, the other plucked happily at his toes. The oldest girl (pictured above right) was a silent mother figure to the other children, leading by example, but fertively stealing glances at each one to make sure they were doing things properly. It was a very sweet scene, one that felt universal in its innocence, in its tradition. This was faith living on, moving forward, but also recalling the last few thousands of years — this was how it had passed from generation to generation.

And I really don’t know what this guy’s story was. He emerged from a door, and while the priest spoke, he played his whistle and beat on his tourist drum. A man with a bicycle emerged from a door next to him, laughed at the scene, and then pushed his bike up the street as if these parades happened every day.

Ultimately, the procession reached a chapel atop a hill. Prayers were read as the centurions led the angels and altar-bearers in a dramatic 180 turn at the foot of its steps. Steadily they pressed on, and brought them back into the heart of the city and into the dwindling daylight. A smiling boy sat on the chapel’s rooftop (pictured below), happy as humanly possible because he got to the ring the bell.

And below the chapel, an angel who’d had enough.

As the sun set and we broke off from the parade to find dinner, I could see what was happening to my perceptions. The next few days were going to forever mold my understanding of the Christian faith.