A Goddess in Motion: Visual Creativity in the Cult of María Lionza 9781785336133

Table of contents :
TABLE OF CONTENTS
List of Figures
Acknowledgments
Introduction
Chapter 1. Who is María Lionza?
Chapter 2. The Cult of María Lionza
Chapter 3. The Ritual Image
Chapter 4. Between Art and Religion
Chapter 5. Bodies, Dreams, and Apparitions
Chapter 6. A Globalized Goddess
Chapter 7. A Network of Images
Conclusions
Bibliography
Index

Citation preview

A GODDESS IN MOTION

New Directions in Anthropology General Editor: Jacqueline Waldren, Institute of Social Anthropology, University of Oxford Volume 1 Coping with Tourists: European Reactions to Mass Tourism Edited by Jeremy Boissevain Volume 2 A Sentimental Economy: Commodity and Community in Rural Ireland Carles Salazar Volume 3 Insiders and Outsiders: Paradise and Reality in Mallorca Jacqueline Waldren Volume 4 The Hegemonic Male: Masculinity in a Portuguese Town Miguel Vale de Almeida Volume 5 Communities of Faith: Sectarianism, Identity, and Social Change on a Danish Island Andrew S. Buckser Volume 6 After Socialism: Land Reform and Rural Social Change in Eastern Europe Edited by Ray Abrahams Volume 7 Immigrants and Bureaucrats: Ethiopians in an Israeli Absorption Center Esther Hertzog Volume 8 A Venetian Island: Environment, History and Change in Burano Lidia Sciama Volume 9 Recalling the Belgian Congo: Conversations and Introspection Marie-Bénédicte Dembour Volume 10 Mastering Soldiers: Conflict, Emotions, and the Enemy in an Israeli Military Unit Eyal Ben-Ari Volume 11 The Great Immigration: Russian Jews in Israel Dina Siegel Volume 12 Morals of Legitimacy: Between Agency and System Edited by Italo Pardo Volume 13 Academic Anthropology and the Museum: Back to the Future Edited by Mary Bouquet Volume 14 Simulated Dreams: Israeli Youth and Virtual Zionism Haim Hazan Volume 15 Defiance and Compliance: Negotiating Gender in Low-Income Cairo Heba Aziz Morsi El-Kholy Volume 16 Troubles with Turtles: Cultural Understandings of the Environment on a Greek Island Dimitrios Theodossopoulos Volume 17 Rebordering the Mediterranean: Boundaries and Citizenship in Southern Europe Liliana Suarez-Navaz Volume 18 The Bounded Field: Localism and Local Identity in an Italian Alpine Valley Jaro Stacul Volume 19 Foundations of National Identity: From Catalonia to Europe Josep Llobera Volume 20 Bodies of Evidence: Burial, Memory and the Recovery of Missing Persons in Cyprus Paul Sant Cassia Volume 21 Who Owns the Past? The Politics of Time in a ‘Model’ Bulgarian Village Deema Kaneff Volume 22 An Earth-Colored Sea: ‘Race’, Culture and the Politics of Identity in the Postcolonial Portuguese-Speaking World Miguel Vale De Almeida

Volume 23 Science, Magic and Religion: The Ritual Process of Museum Magic Edited by Mary Bouquet and Nuno Porto Volume 24 Crossing European Boundaries: Beyond Conventional Geographical Categories Edited by Jaro Stacul, Christina Moutsou and Helen Kopnina Volume 25 Documenting Transnational Migration: Jordanian Men Working and Studying in Europe, Asia and North America Richard Antoum Volume 26 Le Malaise Créole: Ethnic Identity in Mauritius Rosabelle Boswell Volume 27 Nursing Stories: Life and Death in a German Hospice Nicholas Eschenbruch Volume 28 Inclusionary Rhetoric/Exclusionary Practices: Left-wing Politics and Migrants in Italy Davide Però Volume 29 The Nomads of Mykonos: Performing Liminalities in a ‘Queer’ Space Pola Bousiou Volume 30 Transnational Families, Migration, and Gender: Moroccan and Filipino Women in Bologna and Barcelona Elisabetta Zontini Volume 31 Envisioning Eden: Mobilizing Imaginaries in Tourism and Beyond Noel B. Salazar Volume 32 Tourism, Magic and Modernity: Cultivating the Human Garden David Picard Volume 33 Diasporic Generations: Memory, Politics, and Nation among Cubans in Spain Mette Louise Berg Volume 34 Great Expectations: Imagination, Anticipation and Enchantment in Tourism Jonathan Skinner and Dimitrios Theodossopoulos Volume 35 Learning from the Children: Childhood, Culture and Identity in a Changing World Edited by Jacqueline Waldren and IgnacyMarek Kaminski Volume 36 Americans in Tuscany: Charity, Compassion and Belonging Catherine Trundle Volume 37 The Franco-Mauritian Elite: Power and Anxiety in the Face of Change Tijo Salverda Volume 38 Tourism and Informal Encounters in Cuba Valerio Simoni Volume 39 Honour and Violence: Gender, Power and Law in Southern Pakistan Nafisa Shah Volume 40 Footprints in Paradise: Ecotourism, Local Knowledge, and Nature Therapies in Okinawa Andrea E. Murray Volume 41 Living Before Dying: Imagining and Remembering Home Janette Davies Volume 42 A Goddess in Motion: Visual Creativity in the Cult of María Lionza Roger Canals

A GODDESS IN MOTION



Visual Creativity in the Cult of María Lionza

Roger Canals

berghahn NEW YORK • OXFORD www.berghahnbooks.com

First published in 2017 by Berghahn Books www.berghahnbooks.com ©2017, 2022 Roger Canals First paperback edition published in 2022 All rights reserved. Except for the quotation of short passages for the purposes of criticism and review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without written permission of the publisher.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Name: Canals, Roger, 1980– author. Title: A goddess in motion : visual creativity in the cult of Maria Lionza / Roger Canals. Description: New York : Berghahn Books, 2017. | Series: New directions in anthropology ; Volume 42 | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2017014791 (print) | LCCN 2017027578 (ebook) | ISBN 9781785336133 (e-book) | ISBN 9781785336126 (hardback : alk. paper) Subjects: LCSH: Lionza, Maria—Cult—Venezuela. | Lionza, Maria—Art. | Lionza, Maria—In popular culture. | Venezuela—Religious life and customs. Classification: LCC BL2592.M35 (ebook) | LCC BL2592.M35 C36 2017 (print) | DDC 202/.114—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017014791

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN 978-1-78533-612-6 hardback ISBN 978-1-80073-371-8 paperback ISBN 978-1-78533-613-3 ebook

TABLE OF CONTENTS



List of Figures

vi

Acknowledgments

viii

Introduction

1

Chapter 1. Who is María Lionza?

28

Chapter 2. The Cult of María Lionza

48

Chapter 3. The Ritual Image

72

Chapter 4. Between Art and Religion

97

Chapter 5. Bodies, Dreams, and Apparitions

120

Chapter 6. A Globalized Goddess

142

Chapter 7. A Network of Images

162

Conclusions

178

Bibliography

186

Index

194

v

LIST OF FIGURES



Figure 0.1. Statue of María Lionza as Indian Woman. Photo: Roger Canals.

1

Figure 0.2. Holy Card (Estampa) of María Lionza as Queen.

2

Table 1.1. Triple Plurality of María Lionza

44

Figure 2.1. Altar honoring María Lionza. San Felipe, 2014. Photo: Roger Canals.

55

Figure 2.2. Holy Card (Estampa) of Las Tres Potencias.

58

Figure 3.1. Altar to honor Las Tres Potencias. Barcelona, 2016. Photo: Roger Canals.

75

Figure 3.2. Diosa de Venezuela. 2016. Photo by: César David Escalona Díaz

76

Figure 3.3. Oráculo. 2016. Photo: Darwin Vasquez.

95

Figure 4.1. La Virgen de los Alambres. 2006. Artist: Máximo Orozco.

100

Figure 4.2. Sin título. 2002. Artist: Felipe Guevara.

102

Figure 4.3. Diosa Selvática. 1960. Artist: Rafael Ramón González.

104

Figure 4.4. Las Tres Potencias. 2005. Artist: Hugo Álvarez.

107

Figure 4.5. Transmutación de la imagen. 2006. Artist: Victoria Proaño.

109

vi

List of Figures

Figure 4.6. Todo Barcelona. 2016. Artist: Juan José Olavarría.

111

Figure 4.7. María de la Onza. 2010. Artist: Gala Garrido Lozada (Galagalo).

113

Figure 5.1. Images of a ritual in honour to María Lionza and her spirits. Bottom-right: Young medium possessed by María Lionza as Indian. 2014. Photo: Roger Canals.

129

Table 5.2. Resemblance and Presence in the Images of María Lionza

139

Figure 6.1. Digital Altar of Fuente de Luz. 2016.

150

Figure 7.1. Left: María Lionza guarda la entrada de la mina. Around 1950. Artist: Pedro Centeno Vallenilla. Right: Wadabakoa. 2006. Artist: Dixon Calvetti.

168

Figure 7.2. Left: Panel del mural Venezuela-Círculo de las Fuerzas Armadas de Caracas. 1956–1958. Artist: Pedro Centeno Vallenilla. Right: Montaña de Sorte. 2006. Photo: Roger Canals.

169

Figure 7.3. Left: María Lionza at the entrance of Caracas. Around 1960. Biblioteca Nacional de Venezuela. Right: Tattoo depicting the image of María Lionza. Artist: Alan Berg.

171

Figure 7.4. Top-Right: Healing Ritual. 2006. Photo: Roger Canals Bottom: Drawing by a student of the School San Javier. 2006. Venezuela.

173

vii

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS



Any research is always the result of a collective undertaking. This is particularly true for a book such as this one, the fruit of continuous research conducted over more than ten years, in different countries, and under the auspices of different universities and research centers. In one way or another, many people have contributed to making this project a reality, and not all of them can appear in these acknowledgements. First, I would like to mention Gemma Orobitg (Universitat de Barcelona), a friend and colleague, who in 2003 introduced me to the world of María Lionza and encouraged me to carry out fieldwork in Venezuela. JeanPaul Colleyn (EHESS in Paris) and Joan Bestard (Universitat de Barcelona) were important figures in my training as an anthropologist and filmmaker. Their reflections and advice have accompanied me over the years. I would also like to thank Daisy Barreto (Universidad Central de Venezuela), who has always given me a warm welcome on my trips to Venezuela, generously giving me books and advice without which I would have never been able to carry out this research. In the academic sphere, I would like to acknowledge the invaluable contributions of Francisco Ferrándiz (CSIC), Catherine Alès (EHESS), JeanClaude Penrad (EHESS), Jacqueline Clarac de Briceño (Universidad de los Andes), Paul Henley (University of Manchester), Carlo Cubero (University of Tallin), Luis-Fernando Angosto (University of Melbourne), and Stephan Palmié (University of Chicago). In one way or another, they have all contributed to improving the final result of this book or the ethnographic films associated with it. An entire chapter could be dedicated to all those people in Venezuela and Barcelona linked to the cult of María Lionza about whom—or rather, with whom—I conducted my ethnographic research. Any acknowledgement I make here will be of little value compared to what they have afforded me on both a personal and intellectual level. In Venezuela, Dixon Calvetti deserves a special mention. Without him, I would not have been able to enter the cult of María Lionza as I did. Over the years, Dixon became a friend with viii

Acknowledgments

whom I have spent some of the most exciting and enjoyable moments of my fieldwork. I would also like to thank Patricia Proaño, Darwin Vasquez, José Cardoso, Alexander Gómez, Felipe Guevara, Máximo Orozco, Juan José Olavarría, Orlando Barreto, Gala Garrido, Hugo Álvarez, Emiliano Barreto, Michelina Farrauto, Yunis Narváez, César Escalona, Elsy Loyo, Ilse Brizuela, the Fundación FARDEM in Chivacoa, and the Fundación Marialionza. The fieldwork in Barcelona would not have been possible without the help of Tati Carama, Marcel López, Enso Verdú, and Sulin Prado, among many others, as well as the shops Santería Milagrosa and Museu de les Religions. I am also very grateful for the assistance provided by the Department of Social Anthropology in the Universitat de Barcelona and the Museu Etnològic de Barcelona. I would also like to thank the Biblioteca Central de Venezuela as well as José Jesús Vallenilla Calcaño and Belén Cecília Vallenilla Gutiérrez for allowing me to reproduce some of the works that appear in this book. I could not finish these brief acknowledgements without thanking my parents, Quim and Marina, as well as my wife Julia, who have always supported me in my endeavors. They, together with my children Abel and Amàlia, gave me the strength and motivation needed to complete this project.

ix

INTRODUCTION



Quite a long time ago now, a friend returning from Venezuela gave me a statue of a naked black-haired Indian woman holding aloft a pelvis bone and astride a tapir. This image instantly fascinated me; first, on account of its strong erotic nature and, second, due to its aesthetics, reminiscent, in my opinion, of that of comic strips. My friend told me I was holding a statue of a certain María Lionza, one of the most popular divinities in Venezuela. She added that this kind of statue—made of plaster and approximately forty centimeters in height—was often used for performing possession rituals widespread across Venezuela, whose origins lie in a religious manifestation known as the “cult of María Lionza.” This seemed incredibly strange and intriguing to me, especially because at that time (in November 2003), Venezuela was a country I knew very little about and to which, to tell the truth, I had never felt any particular attraction. Shortly after, I made the acquaintance of a Venezuelan girl who gave me a number of religious holy cards (estampas) from her country.1 One of them depicted the bust of a white or mestiza (mixed-race) woman donning a blue dress, wearing a crown, and holding a rose and a flag in her left hand, which bore the inscription: Protectora de las aguas. Diosa de las cosechas (Protector of Waters. Goddess of Harvests). 1

FIGURE 0.1 • Statue of María Lionza as Indian Woman. Photo: Roger Canals.

A Goddess in Motion

FIGURE 0.2 • Holy Card (Estampa) of María Lionza as Queen.

2

Introduction

Upon reading the prayer on the back of the card, I realized, much to my surprise, that this female figure was also called “María Lionza.” An Indian woman astride a tapir and a white or mestiza woman wearing a crown: was it really the same figure? If so, how is it that the same character was portrayed in two such different ways? And, in this case, what did this duality mean? Another question rolled around in my head: if these two images I had seen were actually of María Lionza, were there other representations of this goddess in Venezuela or elsewhere and what semblance did they bear? The appearance of this second version of the image of María Lionza only served to heighten my interest in this deity and particularly the forms in which she was represented. I therefore decided to begin researching María Lionza and, one year later, I enrolled in a PhD program in anthropology on the cult of María Lionza in the Ecole des Hautes Etudes en Sciences Sociales in Paris. In May 2005, I visited Venezuela for the first time to start my fieldwork on this religious practice. A few days in Caracas were sufficient for me to realize that many Venezuelans attributed the images of the Indian woman on a tapir and of the woman wearing a crown to the same figure. Thus, when I showed the image of the Indian woman and the queen, the majority of people interviewed informed me that both referred to the same goddess2 (diosa) but represented two different “versions.” During the weeks that followed, I conducted numerous interviews with esoteric art sellers, mediums,3 followers of María Lionza, and artists representing the goddess. Thus, I could observe that María Lionza was imagined and represented in very different ways and, apparently, in a contradictory manner. For instance, some told me that she was a beautiful, sensual, Indian deity and showed me the print of a young woman of great beauty who bathed, naked, in a river near a waterfall, whereas others claimed that this goddess was the Venezuelan version of the Virgin Mary. Some described María Lionza as a white, affluent woman, identifying her with representations of a female figure with a penetrating stare, who possessed great material wealth, while others believed she was in fact a mestiza woman, daughter of an Indian chief and a Spanish woman who, during the Spanish conquest, tried to reconcile both sides and instill peace in the country. So then, who exactly was María Lionza? How was she represented? And what were her images used for? But before delving into these issues, let me provide a short description of a ritual of the cult of María Lionza in order to give you a sense of how this religious practice works and of the challenges that one has to face when doing fieldwork on it. The ritual in question was the first ceremony I attended during my fieldwork. It is therefore a ritual that occupies a special place in my memory, and which marked me deeply both from a personal and intellectual perspective. It was May 2005. I had arrived in Caracas two weeks 3

A Goddess in Motion

earlier. An anthropologist from the Central University of Venezuela who had worked on the cult of María Lionza had provided me with the phone number of Rosa,4 a spiritist who was part of a cult group that met regularly in a bar located in the district of Petare. I phoned Rosa and asked her if I could interview her. She suggested meeting the following day in Chacaíto, in the centre of Caracas. We went to a bar there and spoke for some time. I told her that I was interested in attending a ritual of the cult of María Lionza and she told me that she would ask for permission to see if I could attend the ceremony that her group planned to hold that Saturday night. “From whom do you need to ask permission?” I asked. “From the Queen,” she responded. “If she doesn’t give her authorization you will not be able to come.” “When you say the Queen, you mean María Lionza, correct?” I asked. “Yes, she is a queen, but she is also an Indian woman. It depends; she can appear as both.” That evening I received a call from Rosa confirming that María Lionza had given permission for me to attend the ritual. However, there were two conditions: I had to strictly follow the ritual rules that would be explained to me, and I had to promise not make dishonest use of the information I would obtain. Since Petare is considered to be a dangerous area, Rosa offered to collect me from my house in her car, a couple of hours before the ceremony, and take me directly to the place where the meeting would take place. I had to dress in white for the ceremony. That Saturday, around eight o’clock in the evening, Rosa collected me from my apartment in the center of Caracas. It was beginning to get dark. We left central Caracas to drive into the middle of Petare, a labyrinth of narrow streets built on the side of one of the hills surrounding the city of Caracas. The district is made up of a maze of brick houses piled one on top of the other. After some time in the car, we arrived at the group’s headquarters, located in the ground floor of a two-story house. Rosa introduced me to the group’s main medium. His name was José. He was a slim man, around 50 years of age, and appeared to be timid and distant. I made the most of the few minutes before the ceremony to meet the other members of the group, people of all ages. After a while, Rosa came to tell me that the ceremony was about to start. We went into a large room containing a magnificent altar measuring some two meters in height, where there were dozens of statues representing the divinities of the cult. At the very top, I saw the bust of María Lionza, depicted as a queen with white skin and black hair. José stood facing the images and the banco—his spiritual assistant, who was also his godson—stood behind him. José closed his eyes, began to tremble violently, and let out a scream. The spirit of a black slave from colonial times had entered his body. The spirit asked all the people present at the ceremony to introduce themselves. One by one, the members of the group approached the medium and gave him their hand, while uttering the word “amen.” My turn came. Before approaching the medium, Rosa asked 4

Introduction

me to remove my glasses. “It is dangerous. The spirit cannot see himself reflected; you have to ask if you can wear glasses during the ritual. And one more thing: don’t look directly into his eyes either.” That was the first time I realized that the cult of María Lionza incorporated a set of prohibitions related to seeing and being seen. I removed my glasses and approached the possessed medium. He asked me who I was and what I was doing there. I told him. He told me that I could stay and gave me permission to wear my glasses, mentioning nevertheless that I had to avoid meeting his eyes. Once all those present had been granted spiritual permission, we sat on the ground forming a circle. For the whole night, José was possessed by different spirits from the pantheon: a slave, an Indian, a malandro (delinquent), a chamarrero (old healer), and more. Each time a divinity wanted to leave the medium faced the altar, looked intently at the images, and expelled the spirit that had momentarily inhabited his body to then welcome another. The members of the group explained their problems, doubts, or worries to the different spirits who appeared. These gave them advice or criticized them, depending on the case. After a few hours María Lionza descended. According to what one group member told me, María Lionza had appeared as a young Indian woman. During the possession, María Lionza spoke with a soft and calm voice. Speaking a very lyrical and archaic Spanish, she spiritually blessed all the members of the group, who in turn thanked her by singing the “Ave María” together. After María Lionza, the spirit of El Negro Felipe descended, an important spirit in the spiritual hierarchy of the cult. Until dawn, El Negro Felipe spoke continuously to the members of the group. He drank rum and chain-smoked. He spoke a markedly vulgar and often crude Spanish with abundant jokes of a sexual nature. The moment that most surprised me was when a young boy, about fifteen years old, approached the spirit to ask him for advice. He had to make an important decision in his life: either to continue studying or to join a group of young delinquents who were associated with car robberies and drug trafficking. El Negro Felipe was extremely severe with him: he had to keep as far away as possible from that group of delinquents and continue studying to carve out an honest professional life for himself. The boy, upset and with his head hanging, appreciated his words. Following this, the young boy expressed his wish to speak to the spirit about the relationship he had with his father. He explained how distance had grown between them over time. A series of arguments and disagreements had damaged the relationship and now they barely spoke. Whispering, I asked Rosa: “Do you know his father?” “Of course,” she said, “it’s José, the materia hosting the spirit of El Negro Felipe!” That statement has remained etched in my memory. About eight o’clock in the morning, the spirit of El Negro Felipe left. José recovered his soul. We had been awake all night. Visibly tired, the group members went to shower one by one, dressed, ate 5

A Goddess in Motion

the traditional arepas, and left. José, without any particular signs of fatigue and holding a cup of black coffee in his hand, approached me, and with a slight smile, said to me: “Now you will have to tell me what El Negro Felipe said; I’m intrigued.” We went breakfast together and I explained him all the details of the ceremony that I could recall. He listened to me very carefully. He stated that he could not remember anything of the spiritual session for during the ceremony he was “not there,” only his body was present. He was especially moved when I referred to the episode regarding the relationship with his son. “It’s good that El Negro Felipe help us; we really need it.” The ritual that I have just described is not a paradigmatic or exemplary case of the cult of María Lionza. It is simply a concrete episode of a rather heterogeneous religious practice that presents enormous variants depending on the cult group. Thus, for example, in this ritual, there were no drums or curative practices—two regular elements in the cult. Having said that, this ceremony presents some frequently recurring elements such as the descending of diverse spirits into a single medium, the importance of relationships, the use of tobacco and rum, references to Catholicism, allusions to the social and political context of Venezuela. Moreover, in this episode, two important details can be observed, which I shall analyze in depth throughout this book: the presence of religious images and their primordial role in the carrying out of religious ceremonies and the existence of a series of ritual rules regarding the gaze, seeing, and being seen.

About This Book This book is devoted to the study of images of María Lionza. Its aim is to analyze how this goddess is represented and the relationships established with and through her images. It focuses on the practice of the cult of María Lionza in contemporary Venezuela (2005–2015). Having said this, it also includes a chapter about the increasing presence of images of María Lionza on the Internet, and another on the practice of the cult of María Lionza beyond the borders of Venezuela—specifically in Barcelona (Spain), my native city. The relation between the cult and new technologies and its spread to other countries via migratory processes are two subjects that are playing a fundamental role in the current evolution of this religious practice, and about which, to the best of my knowledge, no in-depth research has been conducted to date. Thus, this is a book about images of María Lionza. It is nevertheless important to point out that the analysis presented here is not limited to what could be called “religious images,” that is to say, to those material representations like statues or holy cards used by believers in the context of reli6

Introduction

gious ceremonies with the aim of coming into contact with spiritual beings. Rather, by adopting a relational perspective, what I propose in this book is to establish a comparison between the religious images and other visual representations of the goddess, such as artistic works, craftwork, murals in public spaces, or digital images created by the believers themselves and shared on social networks such as Facebook. Likewise, I shall not limit my study to the interpretation of material images—that is, of those images produced on a material support, such as statues, drawings, and paintings—but I shall also include that which Hans Belting (2011) called “corporeal images” and “mental images.” The former refer to those images made visible through bodies—as occurs in cases of spiritual possession or, all differences considered, theatrical representations—while the latter refer to those images that appear in the conscience of a person without being the internal transposition of an external reference—such as dreams, apparitions, visions, or figures of the imagination. My argument, which I shall develop in chapter 7, is that, despite their heterogeneity, all of these images are materially or ideally interrelated, to such an extent that it is impossible to study them without taking the others into account. Thus, the collection of images of María Lionza make up a kind of network in which each representation takes on a meaning and a function through the relations it has with the others. This network should under no circumstances be interpreted as a static and set pattern—it is not a transcendent system or structure—but as a dynamic mix of relations in which objects, practices, and discourses meet. One of the main effects of this network is the constant updating of the images of María Lionza, as well as of their roles and meanings. The concept of “practice” refers to what the people do with and through the images of María Lionza (worship them, observe them, destroy them, offer them), while the notion of “discourse” refers to the set of interpretative regimes associated with the images of María Lionza and without which these images could not even exist—that is, they could not be recognized as images by a subject5 ( Jacques Rancière 2003). Now we shall discuss the book’s subtitle, and more specifically the concept of “visual creativity.”6 With this notion I allude to two different, although intimately interwoven, things.7 On the one hand, I refer to the processes of production of new images of María Lionza and to the resignification of preexisting ones. In this regard, my interest lies in understanding why artists and believers constantly experiment with the images of the goddess and why they put such effort into reinventing her representations. Visual creativity also refers to the construction of visual compositions—such as altars—or the reinterpretation of ancient images of the goddess. On the other hand, by visual creativity I allude to the creative nature of the act of looking within the cult—the fact that looking is much more than just receiving external impressions; it is a way of actively engaging with the outside world. Thus, 7

A Goddess in Motion

within the cult, seeing has to do with provoking reality and not only with contemplating it. My argument is that, in one sense or another, visual creativity is consubstantial to the practice of the cult. It is indeed through acts of visual creativity that the relation with the spirits—and with other individuals through the spiritual world—is established, maintained, and reinvented. Therefore, visual creativity reveals itself to be one of the crucial elements making the cult work and evolve. The concept of creativity has been the source of several debates over recent years. A first distinction is that established among those authors who think that creativity is something that we are always doing (Hallam and Ingold 2007), that is, that is inherent to the unfolding of social life, and those who, taking artistic or religious activity as a reference, understand creativity as a singular act, aimed at producing an original idea or object (Steiner 2001). What I propose in this book is a definition of creativity that can be placed between these two extremes. In one regard, I understand creativity as the way in which the cult to María Lionza functions. Thus, I consider that novelty and improvisation are not exceptions in the cult, but rather they represent its own way of being and becoming. Having said this, it is important to bear in mind that this quotidian creativity is translated into a series of unique works and actions (art works, altars, rituals), that the believers and artists distinguish from acts of ordinary life and that require specific skills and knowledge. Unlike similar concepts such as innovation or production, the notion of creativity evokes the idea of the establishment of conditions that lead to the possibility of developing social life. Thus, creation is more than novelty: it does not simply mean producing something new, but is related with the idea of once again setting up the very foundations of how we conceive the world and act in it. Therefore, creation is linked to the notion of inception. And my argument in this regard is that acts of visual creativity in the cult have exactly this connotation: they are creative not because they are simply “new” but because they serve to re-establish the way artists and believers understand the cult and its main figures. Visual creativity is therefore one of the privileged ways in which the relationships between spirits and individuals (and between individuals themselves) are negotiated and updated. In this regard, there is no doubt that the strength of the figure of María Lionza—the fact that she may be present in very different social milieux where she plays a variety of roles—resides, at least partially, in her capacity to be imagined and represented in a variety of forms. Thus, what characterizes the goddess is an endless capacity to become or, as Michael Taussig would say, her permanent “possibility for figuration” (1997: 169). It is for this reason that in this research on the images of María Lionza I shall focus less on analyzing how María Lionza is actually represented (which would be impossible, given the number of images of her that circulate physically and on the 8

Introduction

Internet), and more on discussing the permanent process of representing her. It is the meaning of this incessant emergence of new images that I would like to grasp in this book. In short, my aim is to approach images not as an outcome but rather as a potentiality. Thus far, I have underscored the notion of creativity. However, creativity never arises from nowhere. That is to say that images of María Lionza in one way or another, are always linked to the historical and cultural period in which they appear. This is why in this book I shall discuss the political, economic, and social context in which the images of María Lionza have been made, used and, sometimes, destroyed. Moreover, it is important to note that “new” images of María Lionza, even the more groundbreaking ones, are always, at least from an external point of view, a reinterpretation of previous ones—that is, images are always images of previous images. Having said this, allow me to at this point clarify the concept of “context,” a notion greatly misused in anthropology and social science in general. We tend to think that images are found in a particular “context” in which they receive significance and function. From this perspective, it is said that it is important to know the “context” in order to understand what images mean and do. Inversely, the study of images becomes interesting because, through them, we can gain a better understanding of the political, social, and religious “context” of the historical moment in which they emerge. I consider this to be an erroneous approach, and one of the purposes of this book is to explain precisely why. In short, the problem is that this approach opposes images and context as two separate and distinct domains. Context appears as the static décor or the transcendent sphere in which images are placed. The relationship established between them is therefore that of a mutual reflection. Images reflect the context just as the context projects itself onto the images. However, between images and context there is no relation of opposition. One does not stand in front of the other. Images actively participate in the ongoing development process of social life in which we are all involved. Images are not in “a context” for they are constantly creating it. To illustrate this idea, I shall use the example of the most well-known image of María Lionza. In 2004 the monumental statue of María Lionza situated at the entrance of Caracas suddenly broke into two halves, apparently without any human intervention. This incident had a great impact on the Venezuelan population. Many Venezuelans—followers of María Lionza and not—interpreted it as a sign of the increasing polarization of the Venezuelan population due to the strong rivalry between Chavists and non-Chavists. The breaking of the image was seen, metaphorically and literally, as tantamount to the breaking of the social body. As a consequence, a violent debate about how this incident should be interpreted arose in the press and in day-to-day discussions. The opposition opined that, by committing this 9

A Goddess in Motion

sort of iconic suicide, the goddess sought to convey the idea that the Chavist administration was dramatically dividing Venezuela into two blocs. Chavists interpreted this accident as proof of the damage that the opposition was inflicting on the nation’s unity. It is clear that this episode cannot be fully understood from the above-mentioned image-context paradigm. Indeed, the broken image (and the debate that it triggered) was not just reflecting the existing political tension in Venezuela in 2004: it was fostering it. Between the political context and the image there was no external relation of opposition, complementarity, or causality, but rather an intrinsic relation of correspondence (Ingold 2013). One of the other goals of this book is to establish a dialogue between the cult to María Lionza and other religious practices with which it is connected, either in terms of familiarity (Umbanda, Santería, Dominican Spiritism) or in terms of clear opposition (Evangelism, Pentecostalism, official Catholic Church). The approach of this book is that the ensemble of religious practices that we usually call “Afro-American religions” or “Afro-Latin American religions” must be studied in terms of continuity and not in terms of rupture. Indeed, when we look at the specific ritual practices, we see between these religious manifestations that there is a constant process of appropriation and re-signification of objects, practices, and discourses that make it difficult, if not impossible, to study one without taking the others into account. Of course, these processes and exchange of elements are not homogeneous, nor do they spark the same opinion among believers. Thus, while some followers of María Lionza—usually called espiritistas (spiritists)—argue that their cult is compatible with Cuban Santería, others strongly affirm that these two different religions are completely unrelated. Needless to say, the exchanges between religions are linked to political processes and economic and migratory dynamics. Thus, the rise of Cuban Santería in Venezuela after 2000 is connected to the political agreements between the administration of Hugo Chávez and the Cuban state, which brought many Cuban citizens to Venezuela. From a methodological stance, this book is essentially based on fieldwork carried out in Venezuela and Barcelona between 2005 and 2015.8 During my fieldwork in these respective places—in which, as I shall explain below, audiovisual techniques played an essential role—I had the opportunity to interview mediums, artists, and esoteric art vendors, as well as to attend countless religious rituals, many of which included episodes of spiritual possession. From a historical analysis stance, most notable were the interviews conducted with elderly people residing in San Felipe, capital city of the state of Yaracuy, in the central western region of Venezuela, and one of the most important centers as regards the practice of the cult of María Lionza. Through these conversations, I was able to obtain very valuable information 10

Introduction

about the practice of this cult in the middle of the twentieth century. The archive material that I shall discuss particularly in chapters 1 and 2 comes from Venezuelan institutions such as the Fundafolk Foundation, the Bigott Foundation, and the National Library of Venezuela (Caracas).

An Underexplored Cult By adopting a relational approach toward the images of María Lionza, this book endeavors to contribute to studies on Latin American and Caribbean religions, on the one hand, and to visual anthropology on the other. I shall proceed to give more details regarding how this book positions itself in relation to these academic fields. Regarding the former, it is worth noting that unlike similar religious practices from the same cultural area—such as Cuban Santería, Candomblé, Vodou, Umbanda, Palo Mayombe, and the divination cult Ifá—the cult of María Lionza has to date received little scholarly attention. I would like to put forward at least two main reasons that can explain this fact. The first is that, contrary to the religions mentioned above, the cult of María Lionza never formed part of the so-called Afro-American or Afro-Atlantic religions ( Johnson 2014), that is, of the set of cults originally practiced by the population of African origin brought to the American continents during slavery. Indeed, as I shall develop in chapter 2, the cult of María Lionza has its origins, on the one hand, in the indigenous belief in maidens dwelling in waterfalls and associated with fertility and the occult forces of the forest, and on the other hand, in Catholicism—especially in the cult’s relation with the Virgin Mary, the worshipping of the saints, and the use of statuettes during ceremonies. It was not until the 1960s, when the practice of the cult spread to the main cities of Venezuela, that it began to incorporate some elements from Afro-American religions, mainly from Cuban Santería (Pollak-Eltz [1972] 2004: 5). This lack of original Africanness rendered this cult less interesting for historians and anthropologists dominating at least the first part of the twentieth century, who were interested in finding African retentions in the new world. In general, the perspective of these intellectuals was based on the idea of purity and ancestrality: their main commitment was to find continuity between Africa and the African-American culture.9 The works of these scholars established an intellectual corpus on Afro-American religions, which had an important influence within academia and even beyond it. Their contributions fostered new research, sometimes to reaffirm their theories and sometimes to contest them, thus contributing to making Afro-American cults known, visible, and valued as a subject of anthropological research. In many cases, such as in Candomblé (Sansi-Roca 2007) these studies repeatedly provoked a process 11

A Goddess in Motion

of objectification and appropriation of Afro-American religions by the practitioners themselves, thus creating a circle between academia and popular practice that we are only starting to get a glimpse of now in relation to the cult of María Lionza. Thus, for instance, in the case of Brazil, there is a long and solid intellectual tradition surrounding the subject of Afro-American religions. Most notable in this tradition are, for example, the studies by Nina Rodríguez (1906) about possession rituals, or, subsequently, the works of internationally recognized authors such as Melville Herskovits (1941, 1956), Roger Bastide (1960), Pierre Verger (1968) or, more recently, J. Lorand Matory (2005), Paul Christopher Johnson (2002), Roger Sansi-Roca (2007), and Stefania Capone (2010) about Candomblé, among many others. Based on this intellectual background, great interest has developed in Umbanda in recent years (Giobellina and González 2000; Hale 2009; Espírito Santo 2016). Umbanda is a religious expression that shares similarities with the cult of María Lionza but that, unlike the latter, is better-known and has a greater presence in academia. Similarly, as David Brown has argued, “Cuban Santería—also known as the Regla de Ocha, Regla de Ifá or Lucumí religion—has been studied since the last [nineteenth] century in Cuba and in the 1940s in the United States from diverse disciplinary perspectives and thematic bases” (2003: 3). The initial boost enjoyed by these studies at the beginning of the twentieth century, mainly at the hand of Fernando Ortiz (1937, 1939) continued during the pre-revolutionary period with the contributions of other Cuban researchers (Cabrera 1983; Lachatañeré 1942). From the United States, disciples of Herskovits such as William Bascom (1950, 1972) also undertook relevant research into Santería before and during the first half of the twentieth century. It is important to highlight that from the 1970s onward, salsa music produced in the United States contributed to disseminating AfroCuban symbols on an international scale, and in Venezuela as well. It was from the 1970s on, and from the 1990s in particular, that we witnessed a boom in works on Santería, both regarding those referring to its practice in Cuba, and other parts of the Caribbean, the United States, or Europe (Brown 2003; Carr 2013; Wedel 2003). As a result, Santería is a well-known and visible religious practice, which today sparks an evident intellectual fascination and is currently the subject of several debates and studies. This interest in Santería has contributed, indirectly, to boosting research into other Afro-Cuban religious practices such as the cult to Ifá (Holbraad 2012), Palo Mayombe or, to a lesser degree, the Abakuá cult (Moret 2014; Palmié 2013). Another case deemed of worthy of study within the family of Afro-American cults is that of Haitian Vodou. Like Candomblé and Santería, Vodou also enjoys an established intellectual tradition. The first texts date back to the late eighteenth century and were written by French missionaries and administra12

Introduction

tors. However, the contributions by Herskovits ([1937] 2007), Maya Deren (1951), and Alfred Métraux (1958) were responsible for bringing international renown to this religious practice. Outside the academic sphere, Vodou has been a recurrent theme in cinema and television, often characterized as a demonic practice, like a type of black magic. The volume of publications about Vodou is also considerable (Fandrich 2007; Laguerre 1989). In short, the so-called Afro-American cults have been the subject of continuous scientific production throughout the twentieth century, which today translates into a considerable presence in terms of conferences, academic publications, and doctoral theses. This contrasts greatly with the attention received by the cult of María Lionza, a religious practice that has developed in an almost clandestine manner throughout the twentieth century, eclipsed in academia by the Afro-American religions, the study of which benefitted from the long tradition of works devoted to African religions. But the cult of María Lionza has been absent not only from Afro-American literature but also from the literature referring to the indigenous communities of Venezuela (Coppans 1980, Henley 1982; Orobitg 1998). This is the second factor that helps to understand the low number of scientific works dedicated to this cult. If the cult of María Lionza has not attracted the attention of indigenists it is because, despite its clearly indigenous origins,10 this religious practice is undoubtedly a product of cultural and demographic mestizaje,11 of accelerated urbanization processes and social segregation as a result of the industrial development of Venezuela, and has very little to do with the actual religious practices of the indigenous communities of the country.12 Despite this, many followers of the cult of María Lionza define their religion as an indigenous cult. I shall tackle the connotations of this statement in political and identity-related terms in chapter 2. However, it should be acknowledged that during the 1940s and 1950s, a group of distinguished Venezuelan artists, folklorists, and linguists (Gilberto Antolínez, Hermann Garmendia, Alejandro Colina13) linked to the cultural movement known as indigenismo produced a considerable number of works on María Lionza. Still, these intellectuals were only interested in María Lionza from the perspective of the myth—and not as a contemporary religious practice. Their goal, with a clearly political dimension, was to prove that María Lionza was originally a pure indigenous religion that became corrupt through the uncontrolled practice of the cult by urban people. Their intellectual obsession was to find the original version of the myth of the goddess while their vision of the Indian was a mythical and idealized one, close to what Ramos has called the hyperreal Indian (1994). It is mainly this vision of the Indian that we see today among practitioners of the cult (Canals 2012a). Therefore, historically, the cult of María Lionza has found itself in a type of intellectual void, ignored by Afro-Americanist researchers and indigenists 13

A Goddess in Motion

alike. It is also important to mention that Venezuela—unjustly, I would say—has traditionally been a country that has been studied very little by anthropologists. It is likely that this lack of works can be explained, at least partly, by the predominant vision during the majority of the twentieth century of Venezuela as an oil nation, headed toward a process of modernization and Americanization of its way of life, which would uproot it from its indigenous and Afro-American past. Still today, the number of ethnographic studies dedicated to Venezuela is very limited, if compared for example with countries in the Andes region (Bolivia, Peru, Ecuador), Central America (Mexico, Guatemala), or other countries such as Brazil, Colombia, or Chile. Having said this, it is important to recognize that from 1999 onward, the year in which Chávez won the first presidential election, an unprecedented international interest in Venezuela emerged. From that moment on, a considerable bibliography appeared in social science, referring to the president and the Bolivarian revolution (see, for instance, Martínez and Farrell 2010). The majority of these texts focus, however, on the figure of President Chávez, and adopt an economic and geopolitical perspective. Abandoning the supposed scientific distance, many of these works openly state whether or not they support the revolutionary project. The cult of María Lionza has thus been explored very little throughout history. However, there are some exceptions to this oversight. At the beginning of the 1980s we began to witness the emergence of a new interest in the cult of María Lionza, both from Venezuelan scholars, and international anthropologists. Regarding the former, most notable are the works of Daisy Barreto, Jacqueline Clarac de Briceño, and Angelina Pollak-Eltz. In her work Genealogía de un mito (1998), Barreto provides the most rigorous study on the historical formation of the myth and the cult of María Lionza. Based on archaeological and linguistic evidences, she defends the idea that there is a “cultural filiation” between the actual practice of the cult and the pre-Hispanic indigenous communities of the central-western region of Venezuela. From this starting point, her main objective is to describe the process through which María Lionza become a national icon of the country. She describes how, during the 1940s and 1950s, an elite group of local artists and intellectuals used the figure of María Lionza to redefine the identity of the nation and building it upon its indigenous past. This intellectual endeavor was strategically re-appropriated by several governments and especially by that of Marcos Evangelista Pérez Jiménez14 (1953–1958), who established María Lionza, represented either as an Indian woman or as a white queen, as one of the main symbols of the nation—alongside Simón Bolívar. In doing so, Pérez Jiménez established a symbol that was capable of concealing the cultural and demographic diversity of the country under an ideology of modernization and mestizaje. As I shall explain throughout this book, 14

Introduction

these institutional symbols were quickly reincorporated and afforded new meanings by believers in the cult of María Lionza, among whom there were many artists, soldiers, and politicians who, while condemning the cult and calling it superstition and black magic, were practicing it in secret. In short, Barreto sheds light on how historically, in the relation between the cult, the Venezuelan state, and the urban intellectual elite, there has been no relation of opposition but rather one of mutual, although not explicit, appropriation. Furthermore, in the text La enfermedad como lenguaje en Venezuela (1996), Clarac de Briceño focuses on the healing rituals within the cult. She defines the cult to María Lionza as an example of popular medicine (medicina popular). She shows how, within the cult, there is no clear distinction between what could be called, from an occidental perspective, “physical” illness and “mental” illness (Clarac de Briceño 1996: 33). Problems in the body are associated with spiritual causes and vice versa. Moreover, an individual’s health problems are inevitably linked to social or collective factors, such as the breaking up of the family, loss of employment, or an individual’s negative social relations. In other words, illness lies within a framework of contextual phenomena. What is interesting is that between the cult of María Lionza, where healing rituals abound, and official medicine, there is no oppositional relationship, but rather one of complementarity. The cult incorporates a multitude of doctors’ spirits (the most renowned is José Gregorio Hernández) as well as techniques from hegemonic medicine, such as pharmacopeia. Many official doctors refer their patients to mediums from the cult when they realize that they cannot tackle illnesses of a spiritual nature. Finally, in her book María Lionza, mito y culto venezolano (1972), PollakEltz defines the cult of María Lionza as utilitarian, hybrid, and syncretic, three concepts that we find regularly in the literature of the cult and that I shall discuss in the second chapter of this book. She suggests that the cult has historically served as a refuge for the excluded sectors of Venezuelan society (prostitutes, Afro-descendants, homosexuals, or poor people, among others). This was the case especially from 1940 on when the cult spread to the main cities and social inequalities were reinforced. From a similar perspective, Elisabeth Nichols (2006) maintains that the cult of María Lionza has historically been a sphere of empowerment for women in a country like Venezuela, which has a strong patriarchal structure. Thus, according to the author, the cult of María Lionza has been, beyond social classes and ethnic differences, one of the strategies “that women have pursued in Venezuela as a means for challenging the ‘hierarchical’ orders of society” (2006: 76). Other Venezuelan researchers have also taken interest in the cult of María Lionza. Such is the case of Bruno Manara (1995), who provides a wide collection of versions of the myth, Nelly García Gavidia (1987), who analyzes the role of tobacco in the rituals, or Angelina Pollak-Eltz and Yolanda Salas 15

A Goddess in Motion

(1998), who focuses on the relation between the cult of María Lionza and Latin American Pentecostalism. It is also important to highlight the works of Michaelle Ascencio (2007, 2012) who tackles, among other subjects, the relation between the cult to María Lionza and Afro-American religions, especially Cuban Santería. Young Venezuelan researchers such as Anabel Fernández Quintana (2016) and César Escalona (2017) are contributing new perspectives on the current practice of the cult of María Lionza. It was also during the 1980s and early 1990s that a number of international scholars began to take interest in the cult of María Lionza. One of the main figures of this wave was Michael Taussig (1991;1997). His focus of interest was the relationship between the cult of María Lionza and the Venezuelan state. He argues that the cult of María Lionza should not be interpreted as simple opposition to the Venezuelan state, but rather as a structural part of it. His position is that between both there has historically been a dialectical relationship, that is, a relationship of opposition based on an implicit logic of mutual dependence and influence. Adopting a Hegelian approach, Taussig argues that the Venezuelan state—symbol of reason, order, and modernity— has needed the Other, that is, the irrational, the mythical, and the primitive, in order to define and to reproduce itself. In Venezuela, this Otherness has been embodied by the cult of María Lionza, which appears as the negative force that helps to perpetuate the state. Not only is there a mutual dependence between the state and the cult, but Taussig goes one step further and affirms that they operate in rather the same manner. Thus, he shows how, in a similar way to the ceremonies in the cult of María Lionza, the modern Venezuelan state has operated as a magical entity, a mystical one (1997: 125), able to transform reality with its sacred rituals—a theory that we also find in the book, with an almost identical title, by Fernando Coronil (1997). Likewise, Venezuelan citizens are continuously possessed by the state—that is, by its values, historical heroes, and moral principles—in the same way that mediums of the cult of María Lionza are possessed by the spirits of the spiritual pantheon. Inversely, the cult of María Lionza has developed not in opposition to the Venezuelan state, but by adopting some of its main principles. This is evident in the introduction into the cult of historical figures from Venezuelan history (Juan Vicente Gómez, Marcos Pérez Jiménez, Simón Bolívar, and even Hugo Chávez) as well as an intensified nationalism that reigns in its interior. The hierarchical system of spiritual cortes that gives order to the spiritual pantheon, and the strict rules in the cult as regards spiritual permission to participate in the ceremonies, could also be interpreted according to Taussig as examples of the mimetic relation that has existed in Venezuela between political power and popular religious practice. This mutual dependence between the cult and the state is epitomized by the duality of María Lionza and Simón Bolívar, who constitute a symbolic couple of 16

Introduction

the nation. The goddess would symbolize the forest and the body whereas El Libertador would evoke the idea of rationality and urban life. Thus, both figures would oppose one another as Nature and Culture do. Actually, what Taussig ends up with is a conceptualization of the hidden logics of the modern state in general rather than an ethnography of the cult of María Lionza. Thus, in the cult of María Lionza and its relationship with the Venezuelan state, Taussig finds a paradigmatic clarification of the “inarticulable magic and sacred design of the modern state” (1997: 37). On the other hand, the works by Francisco Ferrándiz (2004) are of special relevance for he was the first to profoundly tackle the question of the body and the senses within the cult of María Lionza. He argues that the cult includes a complex universe of colors, textures, smells, and sounds, which are a fundamental part of it. But, more importantly, he shows how, through spiritual possession, the body reveals itself as a political arena for subverting ordinary roles of sub-alternity and gaining agency among marginalized people. His work is based on a rich ethnographic account among young mediums in Caracas. He focuses on two sorts of spirits present in this cult, which began to acquire a great presence while he was doing fieldwork in Venezuela in the mid-1990s: the spirits of Vikings (vikingos) and those of delinquents (malandros). Both are spirits of great strength, who usually exhaust the medium hosting them, often to the point of causing self-injury. With regard to the former, he shows how followers of the cult of María Lionza took inspiration from the way Vikings were represented in the cinema, in comic strips, and on television, to create the spirits’ aesthetic. Thus, he points interestingly to a permanent passage between the images of the media and the corporeal images that we find in the ceremonies based on spiritual possession. Regarding the spirits of delinquents, Ferrándiz convincingly interprets them as both an expression of the generalized violence and poverty in Venezuela and as a strategy for tackling it. An interesting point underscored by the author is that the delinquents’ spirits are not judged in the cult as necessarily bad spirits. On the contrary, they are essentially seen as victims. Believers think that the spirits of delinquents can receive a type of spiritual pardon for the evil they committed in life if they help the living in spiritual ceremonies. Ferrándiz interprets this dynamic as a strategy to rewrite history from the point of view of those that were traditionally excluded from it. Finally, from an economic point of view, Ferrándiz shows how spiritism becomes an informal strategy of survival (rebusque) in a political context marked by high rates of youth unemployment, a topic Yunis Narváez Díaz (2005) also tackles. The works of Ferrándiz interestingly complement those of Barbara Palacio. In an important article titled “It’s All to Do with Words” (2001) she shed light, not on the bodily dimension of the rituals, but rather on the discursive one. Her main idea is that the cult includes a complexity in terms of discur17

A Goddess in Motion

sive expression that would have been overlooked as a result of the emphasis placed on the corporeal element of the religious ceremonies. The discursive complexity within the cult manifests itself in a variety of ways of speech. For instance, she argues that every single spirit is characterized by the way he or she speaks and by what he or she says. Thus, spirits of Indians usually speak what the believers call “Indian” and talk about the resistance against the Spaniards. Moreover, she notices that within rituals the words that spirits utter through the body of the medium—their advice, criticisms, and political opinions—have a strong impact on believers. The words spoken by the spirit matter enormously, and thus spark concrete actions among believers. In this regard, she adds that, contrary to what is usually thought, spirits talk not only in terms of subversion in a non-conservative, counter-hegemonic, and rebellious way—as the theory of Pollak-Eltz seems to suggest—but rather to reinforce Christian morality and middle class values. So, Palacio convincingly proves that an ethnography of spirit possession cannot be limited to analyzing what spirits do through the bodies of the mediums, but must also pay attention to what they actually say. In addition to these works dedicated specifically to the cult of María Lionza, we find sporadic references to this religion in articles and books dedicated to Afro-American cults (Briggs 1996; Reid Andrews 2004; Van de Port 2006), Latin American mestizaje (Wade 2005), the history of Venezuela (Coronil 1997), and more general anthropology books (Augé 1997). The cult of María Lionza is also evoked in a multitude of esoteric books (Blanco 1990) and on websites of dubious or no scientific value. It is important to mention that none of the existing works on the cult of María Lionza specifically tackles the question of its visual dimension, although most of them make references to it, especially with regard to the origins of the statue originally made by Alejandro Colina (see figure 1) and the proliferation of religious statuettes used during ceremonies. This book seeks precisely to fill this void by providing a rich account of the images within the cult based on an extensive and multi-situated ethnographic fieldwork. In this regard, I would like to point out that, from a methodological point of view, one of the originalities of this work is that it is the fruit of research conducted using visual means—namely video and photography. To the best of my knowledge, only Ferrándiz (1996) has seriously risen to the challenge of studying the cult with visual means and approaching the role of the gaze within the rituals. In this book, I would like to further explore this direction, since, as I shall develop in chapters 3 and 4, I am convinced that the use of visual methods can make a considerable contribution to an original understanding of this religious practice by providing a set of data and insights that may not have been otherwise obtained. In this regard, this book should be considered part of a broader project on the cult of María Lionza from the 18

Introduction

perspective of visual anthropology, which has led to the production of several ethnographic films and a website on this topic.15 I encourage the reader to confront these visuals productions about the cult and to establish a critical dialogue between them. This point leads us to the question of how this book situates itself vis-à-vis contemporary debates on visual anthropology.

Anthropology and the Visual The cult to María Lionza can be approached from many different angles. In this book I have chosen to approach it from the perspective of visual anthropology. As Jean-Paul Colleyn has argued (2012), visual anthropology should not be conceived as a distinctive academic field sensu stricto but rather as a “crossroads” (carrefour) in which diverse practices, theoretical approaches and academic traditions converge—history of art, anthropology, semiotics, cinema, photography, among others. Likewise, Marcus Banks and Jay Ruby demand in their book Made to be Seen: Perspectives on the History of Visual Anthropology (2011) that visual anthropology be understood in the broad sense, and not limited to the narrow field of ethnographic film and photography. Rather, they propose that visual anthropology be defined as an anthropology dealing with “the inescapable entanglement of the visual in all areas of life, from the spontaneous act of seeing to the deeply considered artifice of film and art” (2011: 16). In line with these perspectives, in this book, I understand visual anthropology to be a branch of anthropology that includes four different yet intimately connected areas of inquiry. First, visual anthropology is concerned with the study of images, understood as visual signs. Thus, visual anthropology explores the cultural and social life of different kinds of pictures (religious icons, artworks, advertising, photography, and others). In this regard, the image is considered to be the object of study of visual anthropology. The specificity of anthropology compared to other disciplines tackling related issues—such as visual studies or art studies— is its insistence on grasping, through the ethnographic fieldwork, the relationships that we establish with and through images. In other words, what interests us as anthropologists is how we interact with them and how they shape the relationship that we establish with others. Second, visual anthropology encompasses the use of visual methods in ethnographic research. This is the field that has produced an amount of works in recent years from different disciplines (Banks 2007; Spencer 2011). Let us specify that when we talk about visual methods we are referring to a range of strategies that go far beyond the use of the video and the photographic camera on the field. Thus, for example, anthropologists and artists are increasingly using drawing or painting as a means for ethnographic research. Moreover, film and pho19

A Goddess in Motion

tography can be employed in very different ways and for different purposes. We can film to make a video but also to record important events in order to subsequently discuss them with their protagonists, thus engaging in a process of video-elicitation. Visual methods do not only mean creating images on the field; these methods may also refer to the use of preexisting images to provoke ethnographic situations. During my fieldwork in Venezuela and in Barcelona, for instance, I endeavored to compile as many images of María Lionza as possible and to gather comments from followers of the cult, artists, craftspeople, and people on the street. I asked them to choose which image they deemed to be the most faithful image of the goddess and why. The debates that these images generated were of great value to me and shall be mentioned throughout this book. The third field of visual anthropology concerns what we could call visual writing, that is, those modes of publishing and disseminating the anthropological knowledge, including a variety of visual strategies. Visual writing includes not only ethnographic film and photography but also the production of websites, drawings, animated films, and exhibitions. These strategies enable us to combine images with text but also other sensory experiences such as sound and smell. Historically, the main debate that has surrounded visual writing is the relation between image and text. It has been claimed that, when writing visually, images should not be treated as a mere illustration of a previous text, but should acquire a certain autonomy, complementing the text (if there is one) and providing an original knowledge that cannot be reduced to the textual regime. In short, the relation between text and image should not be based on a relation of subordination but on an epistemological complementarity. Finally, visual anthropology is concerned with the study of visuality, understood as the cultural and social dimension of vision. Thus, vision is approached not in its pure physiological nature but rather as a cultural and social practice, as an intentional and skilled engagement with the outside world. This interest in visuality includes, on the one hand, the study of how people actually see—and, more precisely, on the processes through which they learn to see in a specific way through a process of visual socialization. On the other hand, visual anthropology analyzes the meaning of the act of seeing and being seen in each historical or cultural context. Thus, it strives to respond, through specific ethnographic cases, to questions like: What can be seen and what cannot be seen in a specific cultural context? What is the status of vision vis-à-vis the written text in a specific historical period? What does it mean to look and how do visual interactions between individuals take place in a specific social milieu? Thus, concepts like “regimes of visibility” (Van Winkel 2005) or “scopic regimes” ( Jay 1988) point to the idea of the more or less explicit existence of a set of principles—of a political, cultural, and social nature—that determine the meaning of the act of seeing and being seen. 20

Introduction

One of the objectives of this book is to bring together the four abovementioned fields of visual anthropology—the image as an object, the image as a method of research, the image as a mode of writing, and the study of visuality. With this approach, my aim is to reassemble the visual in anthropology, and to do so in relation to a specific ethnographic case. More specifically, my aim is to make it apparent that the different areas of visual anthropology mentioned above are inextricably linked, to such an extent that it is difficult to tackle one of them without referring to the others. Furthermore, my argument is that visual anthropology needs to be reassembled within the whole anthropological project, that is, that visual anthropology should cease to be considered as a sub-field or a specialty, and begin to be seen as a structural part of the anthropological endeavor. In this regard, I am convinced that the study of the visual (in the broad sense of the term) can make important and original contributions to the main debates in current anthropology and specifically in the study of contemporary religious practices.

Material, Corporeal, and Mental Images The main objective of this book is to explore the relations that individuals create with images and through them in the context of the cult of María Lionza. However, what is an image? The word “image” holds a multitude of meanings (Aumont 1990, Jenks 1995, Mitchell 1994), which point to rather different things. A first semantic distinction is that which distinguishes images directed at just our intellect, like when we speak about the power of certain words to “make a picture” and images “which have a visible form,” that is, “visual images.” It is the latter use that I would like to emphasize here. Moreover, visual images of María Lionza enter the category of “representative image” in its most common sense: the general definition of representation (or sign) carries with it the idea that it features something that is not there; that this thing, from our perspective, is “real or imaginary,” that is, as far as we grant it an existence in the world or not. In other words, the representative image has a referential approach, namely, it seeks to recreate or evoke something that lies elsewhere—the image can be defined, as Sartre (2012) would say, as the presence of an absence. Therefore, when I speak of “image” in this book, I am referring to a specific type of image: the representative visual image. It is for this reason that, bar a few exceptions, I shall use the terms “image” and “representation” as synonyms. There are a countless number of images of María Lionza, whose characteristics greatly differ from one another. At first, this set appears to be an extremely complex, even chaotic, whole. Therefore, the creation of a taxonomy of images of the goddess is essential before moving on to interpret them. 21

A Goddess in Motion

Evidently, several possible criteria for classifying images of María Lionza are possible. I have decided to classify them according to their support, in other words, according to their transmission medium. The notion of “support” holds great significance for the anthropology of images. According to Belting (2011), every image is necessarily incorporated in a support or transmission medium, precisely to make their visibility possible; even our mental or inner images. As far as experience is concerned, the image always appears on a medium or support and is inseparable from it. Yet, from the point of view of analysis, image and support are not identified with one another. The image is not reduced to its medium: it is somehow visible through it and, in fact, this serves as the basis for its presentation. Two examples may help this distinction to be understood. Let us suppose we are looking at a family album and we stop at a photograph of one of our loved ones. The photographic paper and the traces of light-sensitive chemicals are the supports of this image, the instrument through which it is presented to us. However, looking at this picture, we are not aware of perceiving chemicals on a piece of paper, but rather of seeing the face of this loved one. It is as if such a familiar face appears to us through the photograph—as it could have on other supports. Another example, this time belonging to another technique and taking a reference that is not drawn from first-hand experience: if we look at a statue of Poseidon carved in marble, we know that it is indeed a piece of sculpted marble we are looking at, which does not prevent us from recognizing that it is a portrayal of the Greek god in marble—hence his image—which is given to us to see. The image, therefore, always appears through a medium, yet it surpasses it. This necessarily takes place upon the perception of the image, that is to say, at the time the image becomes an image for a subject. This moment of perception appears to be the prerequisite of the image itself. In fact, for an image to be created as such, an act of animation is required that transfers it to our imagination by detaching it from its support-medium. Every image is therefore closely correlated with an onlooking body and an observed medium, with a support that makes the image visible and a subject who looks at it and who, so to speak, captures it “through it.” Following Belting’s classification, we might say that from the point of view of supports, there are three types of images of María Lionza: material images, corporeal images, and mental images. Material images are those that are produced by humans on solid materials, such as paintings, sculptures, frescoes, prints, or posters. These constitute images that belong to several spheres of Venezuelan society: religion, crafts, art, or advertising, to name but a few. Digital images are also a special type of material image. If I speak of corporeal images it is because María Lionza is embodied or represented physically, by mediums during possession rituals and also by dancers and 22

Introduction

theater, film, or soap opera actresses. Admittedly, we cannot handle the visible corporeal image during a possession ritual in the same way as the one offered by an actress. In the case of possession, the spirit of María Lionza is supposed to temporarily replace that of the medium, whereas on stage, the dancer or the actress plays a role she has rehearsed in advance. Whatever the case, what must be remembered is that María Lionza is not only visible in objects, but also in bodies. Finally, many believers, whether practicing the cult or not, claim that María Lionza can be seen directly in a dream or during an apparition of the deity. This is what I call a mental image of María Lionza. Indeed, somehow, every material or corporeal image is, in a manner of speaking, also a mental image, in the sense that every image produced on a solid or corporeal support is only perceived as such when it is seen by one or several subjects. Nevertheless, I shall use a much narrower meaning of the term “mental image,” which will denote the images that appear in consciousness and not as a result of perception—more or less immediate—by the mind of an external object or body through a sensory activity. I therefore propose conducting a comparative analysis of different images of María Lionza. But what kind of comparison does it entail? In other words, which elements in the different representations of the goddess must be compared? In this study, on the one hand, I shall compare the appearance of María Lionza in each representation. More specifically, I shall interpret the ethnic traits, the moral components, and the vision of femininity conveyed in the different images of the goddess in order to grasp all the symbolic complexity of the figure, marked by her multi-faceted and changing nature. Second, I shall compare the roles played by the different images of María Lionza. The question of the image’s function, essential for anthropology, takes us back to notions of context and viewer that I mentioned earlier as regards the concept of support. Indeed, every image performs one or several functions in a specific historical and cultural context and in relation to a given number of individuals who observe it and, possibly, increasingly establish another kind of relationship with the image. As a matter of fact, if we accept that anthropology is fundamentally the study of social relations and their mediations, the whole point of this research is to determine the social and symbolic relationships constituted around representations of María Lionza, that is to say, to see people’s interactions with the images and through the images and determine the roles given to them. At the same time, I intend to explore the possible links between these two paradigms of interpretation, that is, between the aesthetic aspect and the functional dimension of the image of María Lionza. For instance, when a group of believers wish to invoke María Lionza to perform a healing ritual, with which representation of the goddess do they interact? With that of a white woman, a mestiza woman, an Indian woman, or a black woman? And when scriptwriters for a televi23

A Goddess in Motion

sion channel plan to make a TV film about this figure, from which model do they draw inspiration? In short, it is a question of determining whether a link exists between María Lionza’s appearance and the role played by her representations. Furthermore, by focusing on religious images—that is, visual representations of supernatural beings—this book follows a long tradition in the study of fetishes or icons, which is as old as anthropology itself and which ultimately goes back to the studies by Edward B. Tylor (1871), Marcel Mauss (1924), and Lucian Lévy-Bruhl (1927). In all these authors’ works we find the basic idea that religious images appear, from the believer’s point of view, to be both identified with and differentiated from what they represent, that is, they maintain a relationship both of identity and alterity with the supernatural beings (spirits, gods, souls) that they depict—they are both indexes and icons to use the terminology of Charles Sanders Peirce (1931–58). This intrinsic ambiguity or contradiction of religious images—that is, the fact that they appear as objects acting as subjects—has been tackled by a wide range of scholars. Studies on religious images have also been used for posterior analyses on the nature of artistic works and objects in general (Gell 1998; Miller 2010). This debate around the religious image will be the focus of the third chapter of this book. The contributions of W.J.T Mitchell, David Morgan, and Birgit Meyer are of particular importance in the conceptual framework of this book, as regards the anthropology of images. In his book, What Do Pictures Want? (2004), W.J.T. Mitchell has proposed the study of images as vital signs, that is, as living objects with desires, will, and intentions. Thus, according to Mitchell, images do not only stand before us—as a passive object in front of an active subject—but they also want something from us or move us to interact physically with them. As I shall show throughout this book, the image of María Lionza often appears as a somatic image, that is, as an image having (and producing) bodily and emotional reactions. Second, in a classical work on popular religious images, Morgan has focused on the idea of visual piety, understood as the visual formation and practice of religious belief. He has shown how “the act of looking itself contributes to religious formation and, indeed, constitutes a powerful practice of belief ” (1998: 3). According to Morgan, looking, as a part of a broader bodily experience, is a way of enhancing the immanence of the spiritual referent “through the image” (1998: 43), that is, it has a strong relational nature. Thus, visual piety must not be understood in terms of contemplation and disinterestedness but in terms of interaction and strategic participation. Likewise, in the work Religion and Material Culture, Morgan rejects the understanding of religion qua prescription as it reduces a religion to a body of “assertions demanding assent” (2010: 2). Instead, he demands an understanding of religious experience, which enhances its ma24

Introduction

terial, corporeal, and experiential dimension. As he says: “belief shows itself to be a corporeal assumption or expectation, the cognitive predisposition of an embodied epistemology” (2010: 9). Finally, it is important to note that after the 1990s a set of works exploring the relation between religion and new technologies appeared. One of the questions tackled in these is that of the reasons explaining the ease with which religious phenomena have incorporated technological developments. Meyer contributes a response to the debate based on the concept of “mediation” (2009; Meyer and Moors 2006). She argues that the goal of religion as a social fact has always been to weave relations, or, in other words, to mediate. Thus, religious rituals must be understood as an effort to build bridges either between the profane world and the sacred world, or between different individuals and groups. According to the author, the definition of religion as mediation allows us to gain a better understanding of the reason why religious movements have adopted the media (television, radio, Internet) so smoothly and successfully to spread their messages and attract new followers. The media is not something added to religion, but it expresses the essence of religion itself. With this approach, Meyer makes a stand against “rupturist” theories, which uphold that the inclusion of new media by many religious movements has led to a radical change in these organizations—regarding how they perceive themselves and how they operate in relation to the others. The approach proposed by Meyer will help us, in chapter 6, to gain a better understanding of the current use of new technologies utilized by the followers of María Lionza.

Structure of the Book This book is organized into seven chapters. The first chapter provides an introduction to the different mythical and historical versions of the origin of María Lionza, while the second is dedicated to the cult of María Lionza, focusing on its history and its contemporary practice in the context of postChavist Venezuela. The third chapter focuses on the religious image. I shall particularly emphasize the study of religious altars, analyzing their appearance, their purpose, and the effects they have on the ritual and on the dayto-day life of believers. Chapter 4 analyzes some of the art works inspired by the figure of María Lionza. As I shall demonstrate, in the case of the cult of María Lionza, the artistic sphere and the religious sphere are closely linked: believers incorporate and reinterpret the work of artists for religious purposes while the majority of artists conceive their activity as a religious ritual. However, María Lionza is not only depicted in paintings, statues, and holy cards, but also through corporeal representation—spirit possession, theater, and artistic performances. Thus, chapter 5 is dedicated to the comparative 25

A Goddess in Motion

analysis of these different types of corporeal images in contrast to mental images, that is, dreams, visions, and apparitions, which play a key role in the cult and in the artistic production surrounding the goddess. Chapter 6 focuses on the presence of the cult of María Lionza beyond Venezuelan borders (mainly in Barcelona) and on the presence of this religious practice on the Internet, especially, on social networks such as Facebook. In the seventh chapter, I put forward a theoretical framework to interpret the set of images of María Lionza, as well as the relations that these maintain with myth and ritual practice.

Notes 1. According to the majority of believers to whom I have explained this anecdote, the fact that I received an image of María Lionza as a present and that soon afterwards I met a Venezuelan girl who gave me holy cards is no coincidence. The interpretation by the believers is that María Lionza was trying to contact me through her image because she wanted me to study her cult. Therefore, according to the believers, I did not decide to study María Lionza of my own accord; rather, the goddess encouraged me to study her cult. 2. Believers of the cult of María Lionza often refer to their divinity as a “goddess.” However, this term may be ambiguous, because it seems to suggest that María Lionza is conceived as a transcendent and all-powerful being with a mythical origin, when in fact, the majority of followers in the cult interpret her as the spirit of a historical person who lived either at the time of the conquest or during the colonial period. As a spirit, María Lionza is a goddess who is very close to human beings, not in an inaccessible afterlife, but on a plane of immanence. 3. In the cult of María Lionza, the medium or materia is a person who is capable of expelling their soul and hosting an outside spirit in their body. 4. Throughout this book I will use pseudonyms. I will also change the names of the cult groups. 5. As Jacques Rancière states: “Forms cannot go without words, which install them in a field of visibility” (2003: 101). This is the same as saying that the visual register and the textual or conceptual register are inevitably linked, without however being a direct transposition of the other. 6. In his magnificent book on Santería, David H. Brown also uses the concept of “visual creativity” at times to refer to processes of incorporating new iconographic patterns into Afro-Cuban religions. In this regard, throughout his book the author uses the concept of innovation, understood as a “conscious decision by individuals and groups” to restructure and reconfigure their ritual practices (2003: 10). 7. In this book, I focus on visual creativity, although there could be other modes of creation within the cult such as acoustic or discursive ones. Actually, all these forms of creation are mingled and, whenever possible, I shall try to establish connections between them. 8. The most extensive fieldwork I conducted in Venezuela was between 2005 and 2007. Since then, I have spent several periods in the country to update my observations. The

26

Introduction

9.

10.

11.

12.

13. 14. 15.

systematic fieldwork in Barcelona was carried out between 2010 and 2015. Between 2013 and 2015, I focused on studying the presence of the cult of María Lionza on the Internet. The topic of Afro-American culture has given rise to countless debates. The classic text by Sidney Mintz and Richard Price (1976) highlights the ethnogenesis processes and the uniqueness of the Afro-American culture in relation to the African culture. This work has been the subject of many commentaries, including those of Palmié (1995), Brown (2003) and Matory (2005), among many others. According to the majority of researchers, the origin of the cult lies in the Caquetía and Jirajara people from the interior of Venezuela, part of the family of Arawakan communities (D. Barreto 1990; O. Garmendia 2012). The term mestizaje can be defined in several ways. In a general sense, it refers to the encounter and fusion between different ethnic or racial groups. It also refers, as Peter Wade argues, to an ideology that developed in Latin America during the twentieth century, “involving a process of national homogenisation and of hiding a reality of racist exclusion behind a mask of inclusiveness” (2005). Thus, the connections between the cult of María Lionza and the different indigenous ethnic groups in Venezuela (Pume, Warao, Yanomami, and Pemon, among others) are difficult to establish. In fact, it is even difficult to speak about “indigenous cultures” in Venezuela, as a homogeneous and coherent group since, as pointed out by Luis Fernando Angosto-Ferrández (2015), the differences between these communities are huge. For more information about Gilberto Antolínez and Hermann Germandia see chapter 1. I analyze the work of Colina in chapter 3. Marcos Evangelista Pérez Jiménez (1914–2001) was a Venezuelan military officer in the army of Venezuela. He was the president of the country from 1952 to 1958. The films that I have made in relation to the cult of María Lionza are: A Glimpse into the Mountain of Sorte (CNRS-IMAGES, 2006), The Many Faces of a Venezuelan Goddess (CNRS-Images, Cellule Audiovisuelle du IIAC, 2007), The Blood and the Hen (CMRSImages, 2008), and A Goddess in Motion: María Lionza in Barcelona (Wenner-Gren Foundation & Jordi Orobitg Produccions, 2016). I also would like to invite the reader to browse the webpage: www.marialionza.net.

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Chapter 1 WHO IS MARÍA LIONZA?



“Nothing they say about María Lionza is true; as a matter of fact she was …” Many of the narrations offered to me by people who believe in María Lionza when I inquired about the origins of the goddess started this way. As a result, during my fieldwork, I managed to compile a large number of versions of what is known as “the myth of María Lionza.” The aim of this chapter is to analyze some of these versions in order to depict the plurality of views that exist of this figure. In the pages that follow, I shall refer both to versions of the myth that I have encountered in written documents and orally transmitted descriptions I or other researchers have gathered. Before commencing however, I would like to clarify two points. First, the fact that I am devoting the first chapter of this book to a commentary on written and oral versions of the myth of María Lionza does not signify that I give textual manifestations a predominant place over that of images. On the contrary, what I shall endeavor to demonstrate throughout this work is that in the cult of María Lionza, more importance is not accorded to text than to image, but rather, there is a mutual influence between the visual domain and the textual domain. The myths and legends, constantly reinvented by believers and intellectuals, create unpublished images of the deity, while new aesthetic representations of María Lionza—artistic, religious, and commercial—in turn foster literary and oral creation. Second, it must be remembered that every myth is a historical product; that is to say, a narration that takes on meaning in a particular social and cultural context. Myth is a foundational account, an evocation of the origins of time. Myth thus points to the question of essence (it has an ontological nature): not only does it describe when the world as we know it began, but it also provides a response about what makes the world continue to be as it is. However, beyond these considerations, it is evident that any myth is a discourse and, as such, it has a political and strategic component. The objective of myth is fundamentally to explain reality and put forward, often indirectly, strategies to 28

Who is María Lionza?

act therein. It is important to consider this fact when interpreting myths since too often these types of stories have been analyzed out of the context of their production, as atemporal narrations, as unproblematic traces of far-off times.

The Myth of Antolínez One of the most eminent versions of the myth of María Lionza is that published by Gilberto Antolínez1 (1908–98) on 6 March 1945 in the newspaper El Universal. This account by Antolínez has a twofold interest: it is one of the oldest documentations of this myth, and it has had considerable influence on several domains linked to the figure of María Lionza, in particular her artistic representations. This story, originally titled La hermosa doncella encantada de los Nívar (The beautiful enchanted princess of the Nívars), was obtained by América Antolínez de Coraspe, the sister of Gilberto Antolínez, in 1923 in the town of Nirgua in the Yaracuy region of Venezuela (O. Barreto 2005: 10). Antolínez explains that the inhabitants of Nirgua dated the events in this “legend” back to some time prior to the beginning of the conquest of Venezuela. Below is a short summary. One night, the Jirajara-Nívar Indians received an omen that one day a child would be born, daughter to a cacique, whose eyes would be of such a peculiar color that if this young girl saw them reflected in the lake, an enormous water serpent, a water spirit, would emerge from the lake and destroy the whole region, causing the disappearance of the Jirajara-Nívar. The omen was confirmed and, some time before the Spanish invasion, a Nívar cacique had a baby girl with blue-green eyes, a very rare color in this region. The tribe members suggested sacrificing her to the water spirit to appease its anger and prevent the omen from taking place. But her father refused, stirring up strong tensions in the group, which had been very united until then. Eventually, the Jirajara-Nívar decided to lock the child away in a secret place and to keep her there so that she could never see her reflection. Time passed and she grew to become a beautiful young Indian woman. But, one day, drawn by the call of the lake serpent, which was appealing to its victim, she escaped from her twenty-two guards. When she reached the edge of the lake she peered to look at her reflection in the water, but, instead of her eyes, she saw two deep black holes. From this abyss emerged the mystery of the other world, that of the dead and of gods. The young girl fell into the water and a huge and monstrous water serpent rose from the tremendous bubbling that followed. As it grew, it destroyed the village of the Jirajara-Nívar and the surrounding region, and eventually exploded. Bits of skin were scattered across the area situated between the mountain of Sorte, where the end of its 29

A Goddess in Motion

tail lay, and Tacarigua, where its head lay, exactly the spot where the main altar of the Cathedral of Valence can be found today. In this myth a triple association is established between the young Indian girl, the serpent, and Venezuela. Numerous signs point to a connection between María Lionza and the serpent: the shaman’s omen; the eye color, bluegreen, like the lake water; and María Lionza being drawn to the animal’s calling. Moreover, at no time is it said that the serpent devours the young girl or that she dies by drowning in the lake. After falling into the water, the young girl and the serpent become one. Furthermore, the story relates that following the explosion, the serpent’s body covers the land between Tacarigua (in the east of Venezuela) and the mountain of Sorte (situated in the west). The presence of the remains of the dead serpent in this land leads to the birth of the Venezuelan territory. The story thereby develops into a myth about the founding of the nation. Moreover, this myth establishes a connection between the Indian world— represented by the serpent—and Catholicism. In fact, the story states that the main altar of the Cathedral of Valence, built by the Spanish in the sixteenth century, is located today in exactly the spot where the serpent’s head lay after the explosion. How should this coincidence be interpreted? Why did the Spanish erect their temple precisely where the serpent’s remains lay? We could think that this passage evokes a process of cultural replacement. On the inert body of the serpent, the victorious Spanish built their new temple. Catholicism succeeded in imposing itself on the local religions. However, this superimposing of the Catholic Church over the body of the serpent can be interpreted in an alternate way. We could think that this passage of the myth expresses not only the idea of a break between the religious Indian world and Catholicism, but rather, continuity. The construction of the cathedral on the body of the serpent could indicate that just after the start of colonization, Indian religions and Catholicism began to share one and the same religious space, they became superimposed on, but did not replace, each other, giving rise to a set of unseen manifestations, which many researchers would later call “syncretic” or “hybrid,”2 and of which the cult of María Lionza would be a paradigmatic example. As I mentioned at the beginning of the chapter, the analysis of the myth of Antolínez—or that of any other account—cannot be conducted without taking into account the political, social, and intellectual context in which it was originally published. Antolínez was part of the indigenist movement3 (movimiento indigenista), a cultural and intellectual trend from the 1940s and 1950s, comprising an urban and non-indigenous intellectual minority, which studied and claimed the indigenous legacy of Venezuela. According to these intellectuals, the foundation of the Venezuelan nation occurred in the pre-Hispanic era and not when the Spanish arrived, as traditionally estab30

Who is María Lionza?

lished by official historiography (D. Barreto 1998). Therefore, the publication of the myth of María Lionza in a national newspaper, and especially the fact that it was presented as an indigenous myth about the foundation of the nation, responded to clear political intent aimed at redefining the historical and identifying foundations of the Venezuelan nation. It must be remembered that, according to Barreto, Antolínez was the creative spirit of the story of María Lionza as a myth (D. Barreto 1998: 4), in the sense that he popularized a version of the story of María Lionza containing this aspect of the creation of the Venezuelan nation. Antolínez himself admits, in documents never published during his lifetime, that he created a “modified” version of the original myth in order to compose a comprehensible and attractive story for the general public (O. Barreto 2005). For the indigenist intellectuals, the indigenous past appeared as Venezuela’s identifying reserves, as that set of cultural traits that afforded the nation its uniqueness. Antolínez and the other members of this movement formulated this discourse at a time when Venezuela was in a process of radical transformation on account of the development of the oil industry (Coronil 1997). It was a period of accelerated industrialization, growth of large cities, intense migrations from other countries (especially Colombia) and the injection of foreign capital. Venezuela was heading for an uncertain future, for the breaking up of its traditional and social economic structures. It was during this moment of change that the indigenous past was perceived and employed as an element of resistance, as an ideological resource to contain the social dynamics that threatened to dissolve the Venezuelan identity. This explains that the indigenist movement, of which Antolínez was part, developed with the approval and in some cases the explicit support of the military dictatorship of Marcos Pérez Jiménez (1914–2001), who ruled the country between 1952 and 1958. However, this does not signify that the indigenist intellectuals politically supported the regime; rather the contrary. Pérez Jiménez made the indigenous cacique a patriotic symbol, one of the ideological pillars of his political undertaking known by the name of Nuevo Ideal Nacional (New National Ideal), which was to favor social cohesion and the re-founding of the national identity. Thus, on the dictator’s orders, immense statues of indigenous caciques such as Yaracuy, Tamanaco, or María Lionza herself were erected throughout the Venezuelan territory. However, the Indian promoted by the regime was a mythical, unreal character, an idealization of the historical figure created by a non-indigenous minority with the aim of extolling the nationalist sentiment of the population. The glorification of these pre-Hispanic Indians took place at the expense of relinquishing the rights of the Venezuelan indigenous communities that, driven into poverty and marginalization, found themselves increasingly weakened due to pressure from large landowners and the threat posed by natural resource extractive companies. 31

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María Lionza as an Indian Woman A multitude of stories exist in which María Lionza is portrayed as an Indian woman. Some of these versions share common features with the myth of Antolínez, while others are considerably removed from it. In the majority of legends, gathered from the mid-twentieth century onward, María Lionza is a powerful, beautiful, sensual, and seductive divinity, protector of nature and symbol of love and fertility (Tamayo 1943; Jiménez Sierra 1971). Moreover, numerous stories recount that, due to her attractive physical attributes, María Lionza finds it easy to seduce hunters and countrymen who risk entering her mountain without authorization, and effortlessly reduces them to the rank of slaves. This erotic element of the deity is highlighted in numerous versions, which do not spare details in describing her physical beauty. By way of example, I quote the story by Rodríguez Cárdenas, a Venezuelan folklorist and contemporary of Antolínez, who affirms that as a child (that is to say, at the beginning of the twentieth century) he had heard a legend that said that at night a beautiful Indian woman, María Lionza, emerged from the water “with her long hair dripping down her breasts,” and that she enchanted men by subjecting them to her will (in Herrera Salas 2003: 174). The notion of María Lionza as a divinity that bewitched men with her physical splendor is widespread. I myself observed the popularity of this perception of María Lionza during one of the periods I spent on the mountain of Sorte. One day, upon reaching the edge of a fast-moving river with a group of people, they told me to cross it by jumping from one rock to the next. While I got ready to do so, they warned me to walk cautiously on the large rocks that would allow us to reach the other bank, since once upon a time these had been men who María Lionza had seduced and then punished by transforming them into stones on account of their lack of gratitude. Among these men there would also have been anthropologists who had not followed the necessary ritual rules when accessing the sacred mountain and studying the rituals taking place there. Furthermore, the concept of María Lionza as a goddess of love is very present within the cult, where rituals devoted to love and sexual relationships abound. Many couples with fertility problems undergo specific ritual treatments. This belief is so widespread that it goes beyond the boundaries of the cult. In this regard, in Caracas in 2006 I visited a psychologist and a sexologist from the upper class, both of whom employ the myth of María Lionza in their consultations and therapies. When she is described as an Indian woman, María Lionza is depicted as both a water and terrestrial divinity—she lives in the water but is also linked to the earth—to fruitful harvests, and to animals. In addition, she is often associated with blue butterflies, white stags, and rainbows, and she is partial to gold. Thus, for example, a 1946 version collected by Antolínez states that 32

Who is María Lionza?

María Lionza takes the form of a golden serpent and that she appears to visitors to her mountain. If they are not afraid when they look at her, she turns into a beautiful Indian woman (O. Barreto 2005: 77). Moreover, a multitude of versions say that María Lionza lives, surrounded by serpents, in an enormous water palace in the mountain of Sorte. Erminy Arismendi explains that this water palace contains mysterious dwarves (Herrera Salas 2003: 174) and men and animals serving the goddess (Martín 1982: 157). These all follow María Lionza’s orders in return for favors that the divinity would perform for them. The idea of a pact or favor appears frequently in these stories about María Lionza. She is a figure with whom we can establish contracts, for good or bad. Furthermore, many legends depict María Lionza as an Indian woman, associating her with the tapir. Among these legends, one of the most widespread, which I have frequently heard, is that of María Lionza as a young, attractive, and sensual Indian, the daughter of a cacique living in the Yaracuy region, in the center-west of Venezuela. By day, she stays in the lake in the form of a serpent, while at night she emerges from the lake and rides a tapir through the forest. The relation between María Lionza and this animal is so common that it has even been affirmed in the versions in which the goddess is portrayed as a mestiza or white woman. In order to gain a better understanding of the significance of the association between María Lionza and the tapir, it is important to specify two points about this animal. The first is semantic. In the Spanish of Venezuela, there are three words for tapir: tapir, danta, and onza. Of these three words, danta and onza are most used to refer to the animal accompanying María Lionza, who is, for example, often called la mujer de la danta (the tapir woman). The word onza is of particular importance since almost all believers agree that the name María Lionza is an evolution of that of María de la Onza (María of the tapir). Therefore, the word onza has a double meaning, which underlies the two main versions of the origin of the name María Lionza. In fact, in Spanish onza means both the Amazonian tapir and a gold coin that was in circulation in Spain and Latin America. This semantic ambiguity has led to a double interpretation of the expression María de la Onza: it denotes either “María of the tapir” or “María of money.” This second interpretation has led to a version that depicts her as a Spanish woman who has come to possess great wealth. In almost all the mythical stories of María Lionza the tapir is conveyed as the divinity’s form of transport. Therefore, the link uniting María Lionza with this animal has a strong symbolic meaning, which is worth analyzing here in order to grasp the full richness and complexity of the figure of María Lionza. María Lionza and the tapir have both features in common and opposing aspects. Among the features in common, both characters have an inherent relationship with water. Indeed, although a mammal, the tapir is a strong 33

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swimmer and needs fresh river water to survive. María Lionza is often described as a water divinity living beneath waterfalls and in lakes. In addition, the two figures have a strong link with nighttime. The tapir is a nocturnal animal that roams the tropical forests and María Lionza is, according to several versions, a divinity associated with the darkness and the full moon. Besides these shared attributes, María Lionza and the tapir also represent clearly opposing values, which lead us to think that each figure is a kind of inversion of the other. For example, from a physical perspective, the tapir is a robust and unattractive animal, always in contact with the earth, foraging with its snout in search of food. María Lionza is beautiful and svelte and is associated with the sky and spirituality. As a result, the tapir appears both as the opposite of and as an accompaniment to María Lionza. This association with the tapir reveals both the spiritual and terrestrial element of the goddess, that is to say, her belonging to both the divine realm and the realm of humankind, her both immanent and transcendent nature. Moreover, numerous myths recount the Indian origin of María Lionza, including elements from the Christian tradition—proving that there is continuity between the two worlds as the myth of Antolínez implied. According to one of the versions collected by Pollak-Eltz (1994: 157) in the Andean region of Venezuela (where the Catholic Church has a particularly important presence), after falling into the water following the serpent’s call, God killed the animal and exploded it as punishment for its pride and vanity. I have heard other accounts linking María Lionza to Catholicism, including that of Iván, a medium I encountered on the mountain of Sorte in 2007. He told me that she was an Indian woman captured by the Spanish during the conquest. One night, she managed to escape and was bewitched by the light of God, who bestowed her with powers and ordered her to do good. Many believers state that María Lionza is the Virgin Mary, which would explain the coincidence between the two names. Thus, among believers, a triple identification is often established between María Lionza, the Virgin Mary, and the Virgin of Coromoto, Patroness of Venezuela since 1951. This identification is condemned by the Catholic Church, which has historically opposed the cult (D. Barreto 1990).

María Lionza as a White Woman Certain depictions of María Lionza as a white woman have features in common with the accounts in which María Lionza appears as an Indian, for example, the beauty of the goddess, the presence of the mountain of Sorte, the figure of the tapir, and certain elements of Catholicism. Hermann Garmendia (1980) for example, contributes a version of the legend of María 34

Who is María Lionza?

Lionza, that he heard when he was young, in the region of Yaracuy, according to which she was the daughter of a Spanish couple. One day, drawn by a song emanating from the bottom of the lake, she dove into the water and disappeared. But she did not die; a tapir came to her aid and adopted her. Protected by this animal, living on the mountain of Sorte, she acquired magical powers and became Queen María de la Onza. Gustavo Martín (1982: 149) gathered another version; that of a follower of the cult to María Lionza called Juanita. According to this witness, María Lionza was a young white girl who lost her way while walking with her parents on the mountain of Sorte. Overcome by fear, she took shelter in a cave. There she encountered the Virgin Mary who gave her the name María Lionza. Then Christ appeared to her and ordered her to do good for humanity. At this moment, she acquired powers directly from God. From that point forth, although of white origin, she was the queen and protector of the Indians. Sometimes she comes down to Earth and appears to her followers on the mountain of Sorte. These two versions show that among the accounts presenting María Lionza as an Indian woman or a white woman, there is no break. Nevertheless, each group of versions incorporates different elements, of which one of the most original in the white versions is the notion of a pact. One of the most renowned versions of the character of María Lionza, which has been circulating in Venezuela since the beginning of the twentieth century, narrates that in the eighteenth century a white Spanish woman, called María Alonso, lived in the region of Yaracuy, near the mountain of Sorte (D. Barreto 1998: 35). This woman possessed a great number of onzas, that is, money. When she died, she became a spirit and was named María de la Onza, from where the current name María Lionza stems. The main characteristic of this divinity was that pacts could be agreed with her, since she offered wealth and power in exchange for offerings. Those who did not respect their pact were severely punished. Therefore, in these versions, she is a negotiating goddess who can demand as much as the staunch believer’s soul. This “Faustian” component of the myth of María Lionza, which I have heard from the mouth of believers time and time again, is ancient. In 1950, R. Olivares Figueroa, a Venezuelan folklorist, wrote in a manuscript journal some of the versions of the stories around María Lionza that were circulating in the country during his time.4 In one of these writings, Figueroa narrates the account of Manuel Vicente Cuervo in which the latter explained that for many people, María Lionza “is the devil’s wife. She plagues souls and buys them … In the pact, María la Onza undertakes to give money and wellbeing. He who sells his soul is obliged to work in the estates of María la Onza after death. Most people think that the majority of rich people have sold their souls to María la Onza.”5 This version contains a detail that is still very present among believers in the cult, namely, that extreme material wealth, 35

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especially if acquired suddenly, is always the result of an act of witchcraft. In the cult logic, an abrupt change of social status cannot be explained rationally—because society does not provide means for this to happen—and must be explained by supernatural causes linked to black magic; therefore, to fraud, betrayal, and dishonesty. For believers, no one can become very rich in an entirely honest way. In short, in the realm of imagination associated with María Lionza, the relation between the believer and the goddess when she is white usually takes the form of a sort of commercial contract, always established in full recognition of the gains and losses incurred by each party. It is highly likely that this characterization of María Lionza has its origins in the role of traders played by Europeans and their descendants in Venezuela after colonization. In any event, this version expresses a position of economic domination of whites over others.

María Lionza as a Mestiza or Black Woman There are several versions in which María Lionza is depicted as a mestiza woman. Some of these maintain that she was the daughter of a couple comprising an Indian woman and a white man, while others present her as having a mestizo or black father. According to the written documents preserved, we can affirm that the portrayal of María Lionza as a mestiza woman is as long-standing as that of her as an Indian woman. For example, in 1930, Assen Trayanoff, a Bulgarian explorer visiting Venezuela in 1924, reported in his travel journal that “María Leonza is a half-Indian half-white woman of exceptional beauty”6 (Manara 1995: 24). One beautiful version of the myth of María Lionza is that afforded to me by Carolina, a woman selling esoteric material from the mountain of Sorte. I asked her for her version of the myth of María Lionza and she responded that, to explain it to me, she would have to show me a picture. That evening I went to her house and she showed me a drawing of a black-haired, whiteskinned woman. According to Carolina, it was María Alonso, a 16-year-old white woman with green eyes, the daughter of Spaniards, who had arrived to Venezuela during the conquest, and could be no other but María Lionza. Her mother was a duchess and her father a nobleman called don Juan Carlos de Yaguarín. He was killed by Indians. Frightened, María Alonso fled and hid on the mountain of Sorte. There she met an Indian woman who bore a remarkable resemblance to her. Many years later, a young mestiza girl was born, the daughter of a Spanish woman and an Indian man, identical to the Spanish woman and the Indian woman. According to this believer, therein lies the mystery “of the three Marías.” This story holds great interest because it portrays María Lionza’s mestizaje in two ways. On the one hand, through 36

Who is María Lionza?

this “third María” who resembled the first two—the Indian woman encountered in the forest and María Alonso, the Spanish woman—but who was the daughter of a Spanish woman and an Indian man. On the other hand, the mestizaje is suggested by the union of the three women who are in fact the same, but with three different ethnic portrayals. Together, they suggest the idea that María Lionza is a figure belonging to several sources, and therefore a mestizo figure (Wade 2009). The conclusion of this story can be applied to all the mythical versions of María Lionza. In fact, the mestizaje of María Lionza can be interpreted in two ways. From one perspective, María Lionza is mestiza since she is described and represented as having the physical traits usually attributed to different ethnic groups. Therefore, and in the same way there are white, Indian, and black representations of María Lionza, there is also a mestiza representation of the character. From a second, more general, perspective, and beyond the different ethnic characterizations of the character, María Lionza is a figure whose ethnic group cannot be determined since she is a fusion of all of these origins. In this way, she is also a mestiza figure. This double usage of the term mestizaje has a strong presence in Venezuelan society and in the cult of María Lionza in particular. On the one hand, it is often said that Venezuela is a “mestizo society” (una sociedad mestiza), in the sense of a “syncretic society” derived from the meeting of different cultural sources—Indian America, Europe, and Africa. On the other hand, the expression “una sociedad mestiza” is used in a racial-like sense to refer to the fact that Venezuela is demographically composed of Indians, blacks, whites, and mestizos. This double usage reveals that the discourse of mestizaje does not do away with ethnic differences, but it leaves a place for Otherness and ethnic or racial difference (Wade 2005, 2010). I have not found oral or written versions of the myth that explicitly presents María Lionza as a black woman. However, I have seen images in which María Lionza is represented in this way, revealing the autonomy of the visual domain compared to the domain of text. In addition, María Lionza is often associated with black divinities such as Yemanyá or Ochún (Cuban Santería), or even Mami Wata, a divinity from West Africa equally linked to the water and the serpent, who is also present in Haitian Vodou and other Caribbean religious systems, such as Dominican spiritism. Through these identifications, María Lionza is indirectly connected with African religions, and thus, with negritude.

María Lionza as a Historical and Literary Character Since the 1950s, certain authors have endeavored to demonstrate the historical existence of María Lionza through archival documents. Homero Salazar 37

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(1998), for instance, has devoted an entire work to narrating the life of María Lionza and her transformation from a human woman into a divinity. Many believers were familiar with this version and consider it to be the true version of the life of María Lionza. Salazar begins his work by stating that the story of María Lionza “indeed took place in Venezuela” and “that it is true” (1998: 15). According to the author, in 1502, shortly after the arrival of the Spanish, the cacique Yaracuy and his wife, Tupí, had a baby girl with green eyes. Yaracuy refused to accept the child because it was a girl and, in addition, because she had strange-colored eyes. But Manaure, Yaracuy’s friend and advisor, made him understand that killing his own daughter was a terrible act. He suggested naming her Yara in honor of her father and bringing her to a beautiful and remote mountain so that she would grow up in a peaceful place far from the war between the colonizers. Surrounded by fruits, flowers and animals, the girl grew to become a beautiful and sensual Indian girl with a pure and generous heart. Those who had seen her said she was very sweet and pleasant, and that with her supernatural abilities, she performed miracles to help the most destitute. This reputation led the Italian administrative workers brought by the Spanish crown to name the place where she lived the mountain of buona sorte (that is to say, good luck), giving rise to the current name of mountain of Sorte. One day, a nun visited Yara and asked her to be a mediator between the indigenous people and the Spanish in order to attempt to reach an agreement between the two groups and put an end to the bloody war. The nun also told her that, to gain the respect of the colonizers, she should dress like a Spanish woman and change her name. Yara accepted both conditions; she dressed like a Spanish woman and took the name María del Prado de la Talavera de Nívar. Then Yara, astride a tapir, appeared to Ponce de León, the Spanish chief. This appearance astonished the Spanish, who called Yara ‘‘María de la Onza,” that is to say, María “of the tapir,” which in turn became, María Lionza. During the meeting, Yara told the Spanish about the suffering her people were subjected to and strove to find a solution to the conflict. As the two parties began to discuss their positions, Yaracuy was captured and killed. Aggrieved by the death of her father and disappointed by the Spanish, Yara decided to halt the negotiations. She rebelled against the occupying forces and went to live on the mountain of Sorte from where she would never again emerge and where she would become a divinity. Years later, in 1552, El Negro Miguel, a black slave born in Puerto Rico, revolted against the Spanish and founded an independent kingdom near the mountain of Sorte with his wife Guiomar. They began to perform Haitian rituals to contact the spirit of María Lionza, thereby giving rise to the cult practiced today. This version presents three particularly relevant elements. First, it depicts María Lionza as a benevolent divinity and mediator between the Indian 38

Who is María Lionza?

world and the Spanish world. Then, it contains explicit references to historical characters such as the conqueror Ponce de León (1474–1521) and El Negro Miguel, a black slave brought from Puerto Rico who in 1555 revolted against the Spanish in the region of Nirgua (Yaracuy). Lastly, this version of the myth establishes, through Haitian Vodou, a connection between the cult to María Lionza and other religions practiced in the Caribbean. This association points to the continuity existing between the cult of María Lionza and other similar religious practices (Vodou, Cuban Santería, Dominican Republic Spiritism, Umbanda, Palo Mayombe). This continuist vision between the different “Afro-American cults,”7 which I shall defend throughout this work, is rare because these have habitually been studied as independent manifestations or, in any event, vaguely connected (Santiago and Rougeon 2013). Another version of the myth associates María Lionza with one of the cruelest Spanish conquerors: “According to another version, María Lionza was Lope de Aguirre’s sweetheart and accompanied him until, horrified by his evilness, she escaped, taking with her the tyrant’s treasures. She took refuge in the mountain, followed by some men who were faithful to her, and she became renowned for her generosity, helping people in need who, to show their gratitude, deified her”8 (Manara 1995: 76). María Lionza in this case is a woman (probably white) originally linked to the Spanish and to the horrors of the conquest. Nevertheless, she changed sides, setting up on the mountain of Sorte—which symbolizes the Indian world—and devoting her life to helping the poor, thereby redeeming herself of her former life. The writer Bruno Manara offers his own vision of the historical origin of María Lionza. According to him, she was really María Marqués, a beautiful young Spanish girl who had travelled to America in 1800 from the Canary Islands. On the basis of historical references that the author deems trustworthy, Manara maintains that the boat on which María Marqués was travelling was shipwrecked during a hurricane. Despite the strong storm, María Marqués managed to swim to the Venezuelan coast, specifically the Puerto Cabello beach, where she encountered some Arauco Indians who had gone there in search of salt. When they saw her emerge from the water, with her white skin and light-colored eyes, they thought that she was a divinity from another world (1995: 264). What is notable about this version is the reference to the Canary Islands, which still today maintains a particularly close relationship with Venezuela as a result of the successive migrations between the two lands. Certain historical versions associate María Lionza with Simón Bolívar. Bolívar is considered to be the father of the Venezuelan nation and has a fundamental role in the cult to María Lionza. Certain believers state that María Lionza was the wife of El Libertador (the liberator). Others maintain 39

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that the pair never met but that today, “in the spiritual world,” they work together to do good and to help Venezuela. Hermann Garmendia, another Venezuelan folklorist less associated with the indigenist movement, states that María Lionza has no connection with the Indian world (1963: 89) and that belief in this divinity is nothing more than “distortion” (1980). Basing his argument on documents that he deems official, Garmendia maintains that a wealthy Spanish woman named “María Alonzo” lived in the region of Yaracuy in the eighteenth century. To guard her wealth and to scare off potential thieves, she fabricated legends and mysteries about herself, in particular about her supernatural abilities and her knowledge of witchcraft. Daisy Barreto summarizes the historical references to the name “María Alonso” or “María Lionza” in her doctoral thesis. She reveals that the origin of the name María Alonso dates back to the colonial period and is closely linked to the toponymy of the Yaracuy region. In this regard, an encomienda (land control document) dated between 1629 and 1635 indicates that “in the town of Santa María de la Victoria del Prado de la Talavera, María Alonzo, widow of the mulatto Simón Diaz, who was one of the first conquerors of the province of Nirgua, is granted the possession of three indigenous women from the nation of Guamonteis de los Llanos and an Indian woman from the Jirajara people with her son” (1998: 43). In 1782, the name of Nuestra Señora María de la Onza del Prado de Talavera de Nívar appears, linked to one of the parishes of Nirgua, a town in the same region of Yaracuy. Furthermore, in a report from 1778, the mountain range called María Alonzo is indicated as a dividing border between the Yaracuy and Lara regions. Lastly, at the beginning of the nineteenth century, the document Estadístico de la Provincia de Barquisimeto en 1833–34 reports, once again, the toponym María Alonso to name the hill that during the twentieth century would be known as the Montaña de María Lionza. It is important to consider that Yaracuy was a region with a strong indigenous presence during the entire colonial period. Diverse documents from the era refer to the religious activities of the indigenous communities in the region, which mainly took place in waterfalls and inside caves. Moreover, these communities were particularly hostile toward the Evangelization process that spread from the sixteenth to nineteenth centuries. Everything appears to indicate, as Barreto argues, that over time the references to the white woman María Alonzo began to be assimilated, first, into the toponymy of the region and, subsequently, into the set of indigenous religious practices taking place there; practices that gradually began to incorporate Catholic and, later African elements. This fusion process, however, never fully diluted a fundamental duality in the figure of María Lionza, which is still present today: that which counters the rich white landowner of Spanish origin and the indigenous woman as40

Who is María Lionza?

sociated with nature and resistance against the Spanish occupation and the Evangelization process. On the other hand, following the publication of the myth of Antolínez in 1945, different genres of literary texts have been inspired by the figure of María Lionza. One of the most renowned is the poem María Leonza by José Parra, released in 1954 in the newspaper El Nacional. This poem depicts María Lionza as a young Indian girl who, fleeing a Venezuelan king, went to live on the mountain of Sorte. There she became a benevolent divinity, a sort of double of the Virgin Mary. Contrary to this version is the erotic novel La diosa es un pretexto (2005) by Jorge Gustavo Portella. María Lionza appears as a woman thirsting for sex, as a symbol of carnal pleasure and irrationality. One of the literary examples of María Lionza that I find most remarkable is a children’s story published in the magazine La montaña mágica in 1986. The story begins with a description of the identity, origin, and physical appearance of María Lionza: “María Lionza’s original name is Yara. She was born in the Yaracuy region and was a very beautiful indigenous girl with green eyes.”9 The story narrates that one day, as Yara walked through the forest, an enormous serpent, fascinated by the young Indian’s beauty, swallowed her before diving into the lake. In the water, the serpent began to swell until it exploded, making the lake water overflow and wiping out the whole Indian village. Only Yara, who had remained in the animal’s entrails, survived. After this incident, she became the queen of nature. The Spaniards called her “María” like their virgin, and gave her the pet name “Onza,” meaning “tapir,” because she was often seen astride that animal. They built a chapel in her honor and, over time, began to call her María Lionza. In addition, this story specifies that María Lionza sometimes fell in love with the most handsome men in the forest where she lived, and where hundreds of pilgrims worshipped her. This story identifies María Lionza with the Indian Yara, a divinity who is part of the pantheon of the cult to María Lionza. This identification is common but, as always occurs with this cult, it does not follow the general rules: Certain believers state that María Lionza and Yara are the same figure while others claim that Yara is María Lionza’s mother or her Indian version. Moreover, this account links the Indian Yara to nature while also associating her with the Virgin Mary and Catholicism. Indeed, according to the text, María Lionza feels a strong physical attraction toward men—an aspect historically absent in the pyschological characterization of the Virgin Mary (Carroll 1986). This story is accompanied by illustrations that I consider important to mention here because they convey the differences that can be established between the texts of María Lionza and the complementing images. On the one hand, María Lionza is depicted, in the story, as “a very beautiful Indian 41

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girl with green eyes.” However, the drawings of the character reveal a girl with rosy white skin and brown hair; in other words, a white woman. On the other hand, María Lionza is drawn donning a gold crown. However, in the text there is no reference to this element. Therefore, while the text conveys the Indian version of the goddess, the drawings reflect that of María Lionza as a white queen: the image is therefore not a transposition of the text, or the text that of the image. The representation of María Lionza as a white woman alongside a story depicting her as an Indian woman reveals the value accorded to different ethnic models in Venezuela. It must not be forgotten that in this case it is a children’s book seeking to portray the goddess as a benevolent and saintlike divinity. In the religious world of Venezuela, the values of purity and kindness are essentially associated with Catholic figures—Christ, the Virgin Mary (Carroll 1986), and the saints—who are always portrayed as having white skin. The vast Catholic iconography, so present in Latin America, has contributed momentously to this identification. Conversely, brown or blackskinned divinities—including María Lionza when she is depicted with these features—are usually ambiguous from a moral point of view: they can do both good and bad. In addition, the Indian or black divinities are associated with passions of the body, the world of death, and hidden forces of nature. As a result, it is highly probable that, in a more or less conscious way, this ideology regarding racial types conditioned the drawing of María Lionza in this children’s story, to the point that it brought about a collision between the text and the accompanying image.

The Myth of María Lionza Today Countless versions of the myth of María Lionza exist today within the cult to María Lionza. The most frequent are those that describe her as an Indian or mestiza divinity. Normally, each cult group identifies with a particular version of the myth, which is transmitted via the main medium and accepted by its followers. Having said this, many believers admit to having learned the version of the myth that they consider to be true in books, magazines, films, or on websites. The increasingly common process of learning about the myth of María Lionza through written documents proves that “popular” cults in Latin America are no longer only transmitted orally, as customarily argued by researchers. Beyond the sphere of the cult, it becomes difficult to determine to what extent the myth of María Lionza is today a myth of national scope as it was for the first fifty years of the twentieth century. Although it is true that a vast majority of Venezuelans know of the figure of María Lionza and elements 42

Who is María Lionza?

of the mythical realm surrounding her—such as her association with the serpent, the tapir, and the mountain of Sorte—it is also true that increasingly fewer people are able to provide an in-depth explanation of any of the versions of the origin of the character. Gilberto Antolínez, a very popular intellectual until some decades ago, seems to have fallen into oblivion. The lack of knowledge of the myth among the general population is largely due to its scarce presence in the media, in the field of culture, and in teaching. In fact, if people have some notions of the myth of María Lionza it is largely due to their connection with the cult. Everyone in Venezuela is aware of the existence of the cult of María Lionza, although the image they usually have of it is one of a violent and aggressive practice, much like witchcraft, superstition, and black magic. It is worth noting that it is precisely in the indigenous areas of the country that the myth and cult of María Lionza is less present. Although it refers to the indigenous world, the myth of María Lionza and the cult associated with it are clearly part of the non-indigenous or mestizo world. It is in this regard that I have stated in another work (Canals 2012) that it is not an indigenous myth, but rather a myth about the indigenous. However, regardless of this, some mythical versions of María Lionza—such as that of Antolínez—may contain symbolic elements from the “indigenous culture” (the serpent, tapir, or the link with water). Lastly, many individuals who declare that they do not believe in the cult to María Lionza paradoxically defend a version of the identity and origin of the goddess. The most paradigmatic case is that of the Evangelicals, the presence of whom has grown considerably in Venezuela in the last twenty years (Smilde 2007). In 2014, a member of a Pentecostal church of Caracas told me “I don’t believe in María Lionza; it is pure superstition. She is the wife of the devil, the opposite of Christ.” This statement is a good example of what I call a negative belief, that is to say, a belief whose subject is something in which the person states he or she does not believe. In this type of statement “believing in something or someone” does not mean only acknowledging their existence, but rather accepting this belief as a legitimate or true belief. Thus, when this Evangelical believer said “I don’t believe in María Lionza,” he was not saying that María Lionza did not exist, but that she existed as a negative force, as an ally of the devil, and not as a benevolent being as many people maintain. From the perspective of this Evangelical believer, it is not the goddess who is false, but the value accorded to her. Many Venezuelans not linked to the cult to María Lionza, but less belligerent about this than Evangelical believers, also follow the pattern of negative belief. In this regard, it is common to hear comments such as: “María Lionza exists but I don’t believe in her.” In this case, this statement simply means “I acknowledge the existence of María Lionza but I don’t follow her cult.” Here 43

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“believe” is a synonym for “practice.” Thus, many Venezuelans state that the entity known as “María Lionza” is undoubtedly some sort of undetermined supernatural force. The myths, images, and cult that we know are simply products of the imagination and ignorance created with the aim of making this impersonal energy visible and conceivable. However, through these representations and “false beliefs” (altars, prayers, rituals) the mediums and people practicing the cult would succeed at contacting this force. For this reason many “unbelieving believers” fear the cult even though they do not believe in it, or can easily become followers depending on their personal experiences.

Conclusions The first observation to be made about this collection of accounts of the myth of María Lionza is the enormous disparity between versions. This astonishing plurality is, at first, disconcerting. Having said this, a comparative analysis of these versions allows us to propose some general principles. A comparative analysis of the myths and representations of María Lionza shows how this divinity is characterized by three essential pluralities. TABLE 1.1 • Triple Plurality of María Lionza

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First, by an ethnic plurality (she is represented as an indigenous, white, mestiza, or black woman); second, by a moral plurality (at times she appears as an evil deity and at others as a benevolent one); and, third, by a plurality regarding her femininity (at times she is represented as a figure of great beauty with an explicitly sexual component and at times she is depicted as a mature women without any particular physical attractiveness). An especially complex aspect of this goddess is that she frequently appears as associated with other deities. It is not uncommon to meet believers who claim that María Lionza is the Virgin Mary or who identify her with figures like the Indian Yara. Several elements appear in a recurring manner in the different versions of the myth of María Lionza. Among these, some are habitually associated with a specific perception of the character: the serpent, the tapir, and water are frequently associated with the Indian depiction of the figure, while money is generally linked to the white interpretation of the deity. These associations—and herein lies the complexity and interest of the question—are not however decisive. In some versions María Lionza is presented as a white woman astride a tapir or as an Indian woman of great material wealth. Moreover, certain attributes usually appear together. For example, the femme fatale characterization is regularly linked to the Indian version of the goddess and we can assume that this is a result of the imagination that has been created, in the criollo10 or mestizo context, around the beauty and sensuality of Indian women. Conversely, the characterization as a mother, without any particular sexual attributes, is often associated with the portrayal of María Lionza as a white woman, and more specifically, the figure of the Virgin Mary, as a result of the influence of Catholicism. Once again, however, these associations are extremely adaptable and represent a trend more than a general rule. Another aspect that should be highlighted is the extraordinary creativity of the myth, constantly being reinvented by men and women, regardless of their ethnicity or social class. This reinvention can take different forms, of which I would like to highlight three: dreams, literary creation, and historical accuracy. As is the case with the images, the believers’ reinvention of the myth usually stems from a dream. The believer dreams about the goddess’s life and interprets this dream as a message from the hereafter. This channel of reinventing the myth is, above all, visual. The mythical account is, so to speak, the description of a sequence of mental images that the believer has “seen.” Next, there is the reinvention by writers who use the figure of María Lionza as a source of inspiration for their fiction. In this case, the reinvention of the myth follows the model of literary creation. Lastly, there are historians and linguists who deem that they base their theories on the life of María Lionza on archival documents. In this case, it is not the realm of revelation or that of creative imagination of the artist, but rather that of scientific research: the myth is not a product of the divinity (dream) or of 45

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the individual (fiction) but belongs to a domain that is considered to be objective like that of the historical past. These three channels of reinventing the myth are nevertheless mutually connected: the accounts of writers and historians are interiorized by believers while the mythical versions afforded by the latter after dreams and revelations are immediately incorporated into novels and history books. Having reached this point, we could ask ourselves: which is the true version of the myth of María Lionza? It would be fruitless to attempt to respond to this question. Instead, I think that all the versions of the origin of the deity should be interpreted as one single myth or as a type of myth of myths. From this perspective, there would not be an Indian, white, mestizo, or black version of the story of María Lionza, just as there would not be one religious version versus a historical version of the character’s life. All of these accounts, as different as they may be, would make up one unique myth whose main characteristic would be the extraordinary plurality and complexity of this figure. From a wider perspective, we can state that the myth of María Lionza, perceived as one single myth comprising countless versions, would express some of the distinctive traits and dominant values of Venezuelan society itself: a moving, changing, mestizo society in which Catholic values coexist with the memory of an often idealized Indian past and in which African heritage is regularly disregarded under a general ideology of mestizaje in which whiteness nevertheless continues to have a higher social status.

Notes 1. Gilberto Antolínez (Cocorotico, 1908–Caracas, 1998) was one of the great pioneers of folklorism and indigenism in Venezuela. A writer, journalist, and painter, he conducted several studies of comparative ethnolinguistics and mythology. During his lifetime he published one book, Hacia el Indio y su Mundo (1978), leaving an immense collection of works unpublished. These are finally being published for the first time thanks to the work of the editor Orlando Barreto. 2. “Syncretism” and “hybridity” refer to the idea of the combination or amalgam of heterogeneous elements. Both terms have a long tradition in social anthropology and science. The main problem they present is their demarcating nature, since they establish a distinction between two types of cultural manifestations: those that are hybrid or syncretic and those that are not. Thus, these concepts carry a value in terms of purity or authenticity. We know that every cultural fact is the result of a historical process or, as Claude Lévi-Strauss (1962) would say, the consequence of some type of “cultural bricolage.” 3. Venezuelan indigenismo must be situated within the context of a continent-wide phenomenon that started in the Mexican Revolution (1910–20). In all cases, indigenismo was part

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4.

5.

6. 7. 8.

9. 10.

of nation building and, specifically, creating a “new” nation rooted in an indigenous past rather than in European conquest and supremacy. I found this version in the archives of FUNDAFOLK (Folklore Foundation of Venezuela, Caracas). I would like to thank Mr Gustavo Silva for providing me with access to this content. “[E]s la mujer del diablo. Acosa a las almas y las compra … En el pacto, María la Onza se compromete a darle dinero y bienestar. El que vende el alma queda obligado a trabajar después de muerto en las haciendas de María la Onza. La generalidad cree que la mayor parte de los ricos tienen vendida el alma a María la Onza.” (Archive of FUNDAFOLK, Caracas). “María Lionza es una mujer medio india medio blanca, de una belleza excepcional.” The expression “Afro-American cult” applied to the cult of María Lionza is highly problematic. For a discussion of this point, see chapter 2. “Según otra versión, María Lionza fue la querida de Lope de Aguirre y lo acompañó hasta que, horrorizada por sus maldades, escapó llevándose los tesoros del tirano, se refugió en la montaña seguida de algunos hombres que le fueron fieles, y se distinguió por su generosidad en ayudar a los necesitados de su tiempo, que, agradecidos, la endiosaron.” “El nombre primitivo de María Lionza es Yara. Nació en la región de Yaracuy y era una niña indígena muy bella y con los ojos verdes.” Criollo is one of the terms used in Latin America to refer to those individuals of European descent, born on American soil.

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Chapter 2 THE CULT OF MARÍA LIONZA



The relation between myth and ritual is one of the classical themes of the Anthropology of Religion and has been the subject of intense debate since the beginning of the discipline. Two clearly opposing stances can be distinguished in this controversy, in which we find a wide range of nuances: on the one hand, those authors who, inspired by the theatrical model, have tended to interpret ritual as the production or acting out of a previous myth; and, on the other hand, those authors who have defended the complete autonomy of ritual in relation to myth, highlighting its corporal, social, and emotional nature (Segalen 2009; R. Stein and P. Stein 2005). The cult of María Lionza demonstrates that the relation between myth and ritual is complex and cannot be reduced to either of these two extremes. In this regard, during religious ceremonies María Lionza believers frequently evoke certain narrative elements that regularly appear in myths about the deity, such as her association with the tapir and the serpent, the plurality of ethnic identities attributed to her, or the notion of a financial pact. Conversely, other references that appear in some versions of the myth are completely absent in the ritual ceremonies. Such is the case of the relation between María Lionza and historical figures such as Ponce de León and Lope de Aguirre. Additionally, the cult of María Lionza includes countless elements that do not appear in any mythical version. This is the case with the Viking spirits, the use of tobacco as a divination tool, or the ritual technique of velación (spiritual purification). Therefore, at least in the case of the cult of María Lionza, myth and ritual continue to be relatively independent logics. This partial disconnection between one and the other is not new, as demonstrated by ethnographies conducted during the 1970s (Pollack-Eltz), the 1980s (D. Barreto) and the 1990s (Ferrándiz, Taussig). Moreover, what emerges from these works (and what I myself observed during my fieldwork) is that the cult has gradually gained ground over the myth, that is, as the ritual practice has become more popular, incorporating elements from other 48

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religions, the myth has been relegated to a secondary role. The myth essentially survives as a support for the ritual. It is with regard to this dialectical relation between the myth and cult of María Lionza that I seek in this chapter to provide a summary of the history of this ritual practice as well as of the characteristics of its contemporary expression.

An Afro-Americanized Cult Due to its peculiar historical formation, there has been intense debate between intellectuals and believers about the definition of this religious practice. One specific school of thought has defined it as an indigenous cult (Antolínez 2005; D. Barreto 1998), while another has tended to include it within the family of Afro-American cults (Azria and Hervieu-Léger 2010). Lastly, many have outlined it as a syncretic cult, as I mentioned in the previous chapter. We shall now analyze these three theoretical stances. Is the cult of María Lionza an indigenous cult? This question has been on the table for decades. The debate about the indigenous nature of this Venezuelan religious practice has been formulated on the basis of two main standpoints. The first has emphasized the cultural continuity between the cult of María Lionza as we perceive it today and certain sacred ceremonies presumably practiced by indigenous people prior to the arrival of the Spanish to Venezuelan territory. On the basis of archaeological remains and the survival in the cult of some symbolic elements from the indigenous world—such as the serpent, the streams, the tapir, and the adoration of female divinities linked to fertility—the theories of said position have defended the “cultural affiliation” (D. Barreto 1998) between the current form of the cult of María Lionza and the pre-Hispanic indigenous cosmogony. On the other side of the debate, we find the authors who have taken a stance in favor of the eminently modern—that is to say, urban—nature of the cult of María Lionza, minimizing the importance of the survival of indigenous elements therein (Ferrándiz 2004; Taussig 1997). From this second perspective, we should no longer seek the origin of the cult of María Lionza in the pre-Hispanic era, but in the 1940s when Venezuela was radically transformed by an oil boom that led to massive migration of the rural population to the large urban nuclei and an unprecedented influx of individuals from neighboring countries. Therefore, it was in the hustle and bustle of cities, and in the context of a mestizo and industrialized society in which social and economic differences would violently increase, that the cult of María Lionza would develop and spread, acquiring its current form. Despite appearing to be radically divergent, the difference between both positions does not so much lie in the content, but in what is attempted to be 49

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achieved with this. On a purely historical and anthropological level, nobody calls into question the fact that the cult of María Lionza, as we perceive it today, has very little to do with sacred practices that the indigenous people would have performed before the arrival of the Spanish. Fundamentally, what is really at stake in this debate—and hence why such an intense intellectual controversy is provoked—is determining to what extent the indigenous contribution has been historically decisive in the establishment of a cult that was elevated to the rank of national religion during the second half of the twentieth century. The first standpoint—which is related to the indigenist trend of the 1940s and which has mainly been defended by Venezuelan intellectuals—emphasizes the cultural autonomy of Venezuela, anchoring the autochthonous cultural manifestations (such as the cult of María Lionza) to a past unrelated to the European and African past; the second standpoint underlines the indissoluble link between the Venezuelan national identity and the Hispanic and African world. Therefore, the controversy essentially has a political basis and shows to what extent the indigenous matter is and has been paramount for the definition of the Venezuelan identity. Furthermore, the cult of María Lionza has usually been described as an Afro-American cult (Azria and Hervieu-Léger 2010; Martín 1982) similar to Cuban Santería, Vodou, or Bahian Candomblé. From a historical standpoint, however, this definition is only partially correct and may lead to confusion. Unlike the abovementioned Afro-American religions, the cult of María Lionza is not a cult with decidedly African roots, brought over from Africa by slaves during the conquest, and followed mainly by African descendants in American territory. The region from where the cult originates (Yaracuy) was not chiefly populated by descendants of black slaves. It should be taken into account that the cult did not evolve in the same manner in different areas of the country. Thus, while in the Andean area the African influence was minimal for a long time, the influence of the African culture was decisive on the Caribbean coast or in the region of Lake Maracaibo (Acosta Saignes 1984; Ramos Guédez 2012). The generalized incorporation of AfroAmerican elements into the cult of María Lionza started in the 1960s, especially through Cuban Santería. The waves of migration to Venezuela from Cuba as a result of the Cuban revolution and, subsequently, the internationalization of Cuban music produced in the United States (music in which references to the gods of the Yoruba pantheon were frequent) help to explain, at least partially, the incipient Cubanization of the cult of María Lionza from the 1960s onwards. It is for this reason that, rather than an Afro-American cult, I prefer to define the cult of María Lionza as an Afro-Americanized cult, in the sense that it is a cult born in Venezuela from a combination of indigenous and

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Catholic elements, which throughout the twentieth century incorporated ritual techniques such as Santería, Voodoo, Candomblé, and Umbanda, until acquiring its contemporary form. From a theoretical perspective, the problem posed by the concept of Afro-America—or by the “Afro-American culture” (Mintz and Price 1976)— is that it is employed to refer to at least two different phenomena. On the one hand, Afro-America refers to “a multiracial society based on the historical experience of plantation society” (Reid Andrews 2004: 7), in which elements from the African, European, and possibly the indigenous world would have mixed to give rise to unprecedented cultural forms. On the other hand, this concept is used in a more restrictive manner to refer to the process of “overseas African diaspora” (Reid Andrews 2004: 7). The latter is the significance it is afforded in the United States, where “Afro-American culture” is solely understood as “black culture” and where Afro-America has an African ascendance. As I have stated, although the cult of María Lionza could be considered to be Afro-American according to the first meaning, it is clear that the second does not apply. In line with George Reid Andrews (2004), Nathaniel Murrell (2010), and Michaelle Ascencio (2007), I prefer to keep the term Afro-American religions for Santería, Candomblé, Vodou, and, at most, Umbanda, and not apply it to the cult of María Lionza. Lastly, given their compound and hybrid nature, Afro-American cults and the cult of María Lionza have often been classified by anthropologists and historians as “syncretic cults” (Nichols 2006). Nonetheless, the use of the notion of syncretism in its restrictive sense—that is, to differentiate one type of cult from another—is problematic and has been widely criticized (Yelvington 2006). The main criticism suggests that if we regard a cult as syncretic when it is the product of the fusion and resignification of heterogeneous influences, then we must necessarily accept that all religions are also syncretic. Therefore, there are no syncretic religions because there is simply no such thing as pure religion (that is, religions which are not syncretic). Having said this, should we consider the cult of María Lionza as an indigenous, Afro-American, or syncretic cult? I believe that all of these terms are unfitting: the first is restrictive, the second inaccurate, and the third is theoretically obsolete. I tend to define the cult of María Lionza as a mestizo cult, that is, a cult born in American territory which, since its foundation, has been practiced by individuals from different ethnic groups—but essentially by those called “mestizos” or “criollos”—and which, since its establishment, has incorporated, to different degrees according to the areas, indigenous, European, and Afro-American elements, giving rise to a unique cultural manifestation that cannot be linked exclusively to any of these different traditions.

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Past and Present of the Cult of María Lionza In ethnographic literature as well as in everyday language, the term “cult of María Lionza” refers to a multiplicity of purification,1 divination,2 healing,3 and initiation4 rituals in which a medium is possessed by the spirit of María Lionza or of other divinities of her pantheon. Nevertheless, this definition is very partial, since it neglects other forms of adoration of this divinity and the other spirits in her pantheon in which no possession takes place. Based on archaeological and ethnohistorical inquiries, most of the scholars conclude that the origin of the cult can be traced back to a group of sacred indigenous practices of the pre-Hispanic era originating in the Yaracuy region, in the central-western part of Venezuela, where the cult is still intensely practiced today (D. Barreto 1995, 1998). These rituals, performed by Caquetian and Jirajara ethnic groups, consisted of the adoration of female divinities associated with the water of rivers, the serpent, and the rainbow. These divinities—many statuettes of which have been found near lakes or inside caves, such as the famous Venus de Tacarigua—played roles as mistresses of fertility and the harvest and, more generally, of the forces of nature. Since the beginning of the Spanish colonization, these religious practices have felt the influence of Catholicism. Over the years, the cult has integrated Catholic elements such as the adoration of saints, the Christian cross, the construction of religious altars, and the use of holy cards. Over time, the cult of María Lionza has incorporated characteristics of the cults of African origin being practiced in Venezuela, especially in regions with a significant population of African descent, such as Lake Maracaibo or the coastal region of Barlovento. According to Daisy Barreto (1990: 12) and Jacqueline Clarac de Briceño (1970: 359), the oldest direct references to the myth and the practice of the cult of María Lionza come from oral witnesses from the beginning of the twentieth century. These witnesses speak of the existence of a cult based on devotion to the goddess María Lionza and the spirits of ancestors, to the Indian caciques and the heroes of the independence of Venezuela. This cult would have existed in the Yaracuy region, in the center of Venezuela. The lack of precise information renders it difficult to describe this cult before the 1930s. During this whole period, qualified by Alecia Ramírez as “the period of silence” (1990), the cult of María Lionza would have been an Indian cult in the region of Yaracuy, typical of the native religions of South America, associated with the adoration of a female divinity associated with lakes and mountains. Clarac de Briceño (1996: 118) affirms that already at that time, this divinity was an ambivalent being: She was considered, on the one hand, benevolent since she guaranteed fertility and fruitful harvests to those who worshipped her; and, on the other hand, malevolent, as her followers feared that she would cause draught, floods, or disease if they did not give her 52

The Cult of María Lionza

any offerings. The historian Carlos Edsel states, in an interview published in 1988, that the oldest historical document quoting the cult of María Lionza is a legally binding act from 1765 (D. Barreto 1998: 44). This document gives an account of the trial of several Indian youths accused of holding religious cults associated with fertility of the land, women, fruitful harvests and fortune for men in caves in the Yaracuy region. At the end of the nineteenth century, the cult felt the decisive influence of Alan Kardec’s spiritism,5 which entered Venezuela through Brazil. During the 1940s, coinciding with the oil boom and under the dictatorship of Gómez, which lasted from 1908 to 1935, the cult of María Lionza, which had been essentially rural, migrated to large cities such as Caracas. During the dictatorship of Marcos Pérez Jiménez, who ruled the country with an iron fist from 1953 to 1958, the cult spread, partly due to the use made by the state of some of its main figures, such as María Lionza, Guacaipuro, and Tamanaco. Both Gómez and Pérez Jiménez, with the support of the Catholic Church, had the police persecute cult followers. From the 1960s onward, as I have mentioned, the cult began to experience a process of Africanization, due to the influence of Cuban Santería and Haitian Vodou—a process that is still occurring today (in 2016) and that is reinforced by the political ties between Venezuela and Cuba (Ascencio 2012: 80). From the 1980s onward, Brazilian Umbanda entered the cult, mainly due to the spread of the esoteric industry, which became a transnational endeavor. It is impossible to say how many followers of the cult are in Venezuela. What many scholars agree is that, given the number of esoteric boutiques and the presence of believers in the pilgrimage centers, the cult of María Lionza must be considered the second religion of the country in terms of numbers after Catholicism, although Santería and Evangelism, until only recently rare in Venezuela (Smilde 2007), are gaining ground. The distinction between the cult of María Lionza and Catholicism, however, can be quite misleading, since most of the cult’s followers also declare themselves to be Catholics. The possession rituals devoted to María Lionza and the other gods of her pantheon take place mainly in Caracas, in San Felipe, and on the mountain of Sorte, about 270 kilometers from the capital city, but also in other towns, including Valencia, Maracaibo, Cumana, and Ciudad Bolívar. Over the last few decades, these religious practices have spread to neighboring countries, such as Colombia, Cuba, and the Dominican Republic, along with the United States and Europe, especially Spain (Canals 2014). One of the main difficulties when analyzing this cult is its lack of homogeneity. The cult does not possess any book establishing general ritual norms, nor does it recognize the figure of any prophet or priest who dictates the basic contents of the ceremonies. Furthermore, any attempts at creating an orthodoxy in the cult of María Lionza since the 1970s have failed misera53

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bly—such as that by Beatriz Veit-Tané, a renowned medium who tried unsuccessfully to unify the cult and to build a cathedral in honor of María Lionza in the center of Caracas (1975). As a result, what we observe is that each group of believers pays homage to the deity “in their own way” (Fernández and Barreto 2001–2002). From a social structure perspective, believers in the cult are organized into centros (centers) or caravanas (groups). Each centro has one or several mediums called materias. The medium is the person who has the ability to expel their own spirit and receive that of one or several spiritual beings. According to D. Barreto, until the 1950s the mediums were mainly men (1998: 25). Nowadays there are as many women as men. A considerable number of materias are homosexuals, although historically they have rarely admitted this—homosexuality has been and is still taboo in the country and homophobia is widespread. Having said this, recent works point toward a greater visibility of homosexuals in the cult and even lesbians or transsexuals, a group that had been completely marginalized until today.6 Moreover, each centro is made up of one or two members, known as bancos (benches), who are responsible for providing all the material required to correctly perform the ceremonies, for helping the medium to enter a trance state, and for interpreting their gestures and words. In literal terms banco means “bench,” that is, against what (or whom) mediums support themselves to perform the ritual. The medium is usually the leader of the group, although this role can also be assumed by the banco. The materia and the banco are usually related. It is therefore common that the medium is the godfather or godmother of the banco, although they could also be their father/mother or uncle/aunt. The centers gather in places of worship, called, since the 1960s, portales (portals) (D. Barreto 1998: 124). These places of worship are mainly composed of an altar, often also called a portal, containing, among other elements, pictures of María Lionza and other divinities from the pantheon, crucifixes and occasionally photographs of the deceased parents of cult followers. In almost all the manifestations of the cult, the followers make numerous offerings to the images of the spirits of the pantheon, of which candles, drinks, fruits, and flowers are the most common. As regards the social origin of the followers, the majority belong to the lower social classes (Ferrándiz 1995: 133), although there are also some members from the wealthier classes or from the political and intellectual world, such as university professors, lawyers, and politicians (Clarac de Briceño 1970: 359; Pollak-Eltz 1994: 162). Traditionally, the cult has also been particularly present in the military structure (Taussig 1997). As regards the ethnic origin of the followers, the cult is open, without distinction, to “white,” “black,” “Indian,” and “mestizo” believers. The followers are very proud of this eclectic social and ethnic representativeness of the cult. From their per54

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FIGURE 2.1 • Altar honoring María Lionza. San Felipe, 2014. Photo: Roger Canals.

spective, this demonstrates its universal nature and is the clearest example of the ethical values of respect and tolerance on which it is based. The pantheon of the cult of María Lionza includes a series of divinities, also referred to as hermanos (brothers), espíritus (spirits), or entidades (beings). These are the spirits of individuals who actually existed (for instance, deceased relatives, former soldiers, or political figures), of divinities or mythical characters (God, Buddha, or María Lionza, for instance), or characters from comic strips or television (such as Tarzan). The pantheon is divided into different cortes (courts), that is, groups of spirits with common ethnic, social, and historical affinities. Furthermore, the courts are subject to a hierarchy; the degree of purity of the spirits is the classification criteria. The purest spirits, or, as the followers say, those with the most “light” (luz), are the highest courts in the pyramid structure of the pantheon, while those that are impure, that is, with less light, are placed in the lowest courts. The degree of light of the spirits is measured in relation to their “spiritual strength.” For the spirits of individuals who have actually existed, the classification criterion is the quantity of sins committed during their life. The level of light of each spirit can vary and increase, particularly according to their interventions in healing and divination rituals, to the point that they can even 55

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be redeemed of all their old sins. This means reaching the highest degrees of light of the pantheon. Thus, the spirits of former offenders occupying the lowest levels of the pantheon can be purified by them helping the destitute and thereby obtaining a higher place in the pantheon. This dynamic of spiritual redemption, which is extremely reminiscent of the Christian religion, opens the door to social pardon for those who have led an immoral life. In the possessions, each court and, more specifically, each spirit, manifests itself differently. One medium can receive numerous spirits belonging to different courts during a single session. Each center prefers to “work” (trabajar) with the spirits belonging to one or two courts only. It is impossible to determine the number of courts continuing the pantheon, since new spirits and new courts are constantly being introduced. Nor is there any consensus among believers about which spiritual beings belong to each court. Thus, while certain believers place María Lionza in the Corte India (Indian Court), others place her in the Corte Celestial (Celestial Court), alongside the angels and the Catholic saints. Moreover, certain spirits occasionally descend (descienden) into a medium without belonging to any court.

The Pantheon of Spirits Despite this, numerous approximations can be established about the structure of this pantheon. The figure occupying the highest position in the pantheon is the Christian God. Notwithstanding this privileged position, he never descends into mediums. Followers explain that this is due to his immense purity, in other words, to his “excess light,” which prevents him from being able to be received in the body of a medium. The Celestial Court is placed just below God. According to Ferrándiz (1995: 136), of the spirits of this court, only the angels sometimes descend in rituals, but this is rare. The figure of María Lionza occupies the third position on the ladder of purity of the pantheon. Unlike God and members of the Celestial Court, María Lionza is present at almost every ceremony in prayers, and through the visual supports representing her, and she can even sometimes descend during the rituals (see chapter 5). On the same level as María Lionza there are Don Juanes, spirits guarding the mountain of Sorte, from whom cult followers must request permission to enter this sacred space. These requests are made using tobacco and prayers. At the beginning of the twentieth century they represented natural phenomena, such as the wind, river, or mountains. Nowadays, their number and functions have increased and we find, for example, Don Juan of money, love, or desire. Just after María Lionza we find El Indio Guacaipuro (the Indian Guacaipuro) and El Negro Felipe (the Black Felipe). Since the 1940s, these three 56

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figures have made up a certain unity which some believers and intellectuals have called “the Venezuelan trinity.” El Indio Guacaipuro is a historical character who died in combat during the colonization wars (Reyes 2009: 39). Since the 1950s, he has symbolized the heroic resistance of Indian caciques against the Spanish on the one hand, and Venezuelan identity and the feeling of belonging to the country on the other. He is a very strong spirit who tends to fatigue the medium. Guacaipuro is the main figure of the Indian Court, also made up of the spirits of caciques: Tiuna, Tamanaco, and Paramacoto, among others. It is important to highlight, as indicated by other authors (D. Barreto 1998: 172; Pollak-Eltz 2014: 42), that the Indian Court became integrated into the cult in the 1950s when the Venezuelan company Cambio Itálico issued a series of decorative medals in silver and gold, with the heads of various indigenous caciques. The author of these drawings was none other than Centeno Vallenilla, one of the most renowned artists dedicated to the figure of María Lionza. The widespread distribution of these coins not only popularized the Indian caciques, but, more importantly, it provided Venezuelans with material images of the Indians that could be exchanged, transported, and placed on altars. The popularization of this court is thus closely linked to the dissemination of the material image. We observe here a pattern that we shall continue to see throughout the book, namely: how material culture (and images in particular) drives the spread and reinvention of religious practices. In other words, it is not a case of a belief existing and then of using certain objects that are required to practice it; rather, the objects often precede the actual belief, exercising the role of a catalyst of new religious practices. Therefore, here we are witnessing an example of what we have called visual creativity, in this case consisting of the resignification, with religious objectives, of images that initially had a commercial value, with a strong ideological element. It is important to bear in mind that the glorification of the caciques was part of a government program to extol the national sentiment and to redefine Venezuelan identity. In the representation of Las Tres Potencias, María Lionza and Guacaipuro are accompanied by El Negro Felipe. Although his historical existence is still a source of debate (Amodio 2009: 163), the most widespread version of his life depicts him as a Cuban slave of African origin, a hero in the island’s fight for independence (Pollak-Eltz 1994: 158) who also participated in the fight for independence in Venezuela with Simón Bolívar’s troops, where he was the only black man officially occupying an important rank in the army. The spirit of El Negro Felipe dominates the Corte Negra (Black Court), where we also find other black rebels from the colony such as El Negro Miguel (Herrera Salas 2003) or Pedro Camejo, also known as Negro Primero, three historical figures often confused by believers. When he descends during possession rituals, he manifests in the medium either as a joyful and entertaining 57

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spirit who drinks rum, makes jokes of a sexual nature, and often adopts a provocative attitude (Clarac de Briceño 1970: 371), or as a nostalgic spirit who recounts the suffering of black people during the Spanish colonization in Venezuela (Pollak-Eltz and Salas 1998: 268), referring to the often hidden racism that continues to reign in Venezuelan society. I had the opportunity to attend several rituals in which the spirit of El Negro Felipe descended. One in particular that took place in Guama (Yaracuy) in 2014 stands out in my mind. The medium was a woman. During the possession, El Negro Felipe, continuing to drink and smoke, questioned a group of young boys about their sexual behavior, specifying that they could enjoy themselves, but that they had to be careful regarding diseases, and especially, about respecting the girls’ wishes. It is interesting to note in this regard that in the cult of María Lionza, the subject of sex appears to be essentially linked to the Black Court, that is to say, to the court of the former slaves of the colony. The estampa (holy card) of Las Tres Potencias reflects the existing relationship between these three divinities. María Lionza appears in the center foreground of the image. On her left, we see El Indio Guacaipuro and on her right is El Negro Felipe. María Lionza’s central position and, even more importantly, the fact that she is in the foreground, symbolizes both her power and authority and her role as a unifying element between the representatives of Indians and Blacks. For the worshippers, the link between these three divinities has a double significance: on the one hand, it is the divine expression of the mestizaje (mixed heritage) of the Venezuelan population through the

FIGURE 2.2 • Holy Card (Estampa) of Las Tres Potencias. 58

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representatives of the three races making up the country’s ethnic fabric; and, on the other hand, it represents the paradigm of harmony and historical reconciliation between these three cultural sources. In short, the three powers symbolize, simultaneously, both what Venezuela is and what it should be. I will take this opportunity to refer to the image of María Lionza used in this picture, which is the same as that used on holy cards of María Lionza as a queen (figure 0.2). Bruno Manara agrees with Angelina Pollak-Eltz (2004: 36) and other authors, underscoring that: What is presented today as the “official” image of María Lionza is the result of an error or a falsification, since originally it was the portrait of Eugenia María de Montijo (1826–1920), wife of Napoleon III, renowned for her beauty and leadership skills. A copy of the popular portrait of the admired empress of the French people was found in the 1930s in the office of the general secretary of the legal committee of the State of Yaracuy, who was at that time the poet Manuel Felipe Rojas, from Campo Elías. Since, besides being a poet, he also had the reputation of being a warlock, some thought that the queen in the portrait that the poet had in his office was María Lionza, and it was stolen. A modest anonymous artist drew it again, painting a crown with six points, giving her longer hair, touching up her necklace and adding a hand holding a yellow flag, a symbol of the Indian Court, bearing the words: Protector of Waters. Goddess of Harvests. This is how the holy image of María Lionza began to circulate. (Manara 1995: 44)

This is another example of the visual creativity that runs through the cult. The genealogical study of the canonical image of María Lionza reveals the complex ties of iconic affiliation that are associated with her. The holy cards of María Lionza are images of the image painted by an artist inspired by the painting that Manuel Felipe Rojas had, which was the reproduction of an original portrait of Eugenia María de Montijo. Like the texts, the images are mostly images of other images. Through their social life they acquire new roles and new meanings. This historical explanation of the genesis of the holy image of María Lionza is mainly absent in the practice of the cult. As I shall show in the following chapter, many believers state that María Lionza is as this image depicts her—in other words, that this image is a faithful portrait of the goddess’s appearance. To support their statement they base it on dreams or apparitions that they have had, or on the idea, widespread in the cult, that María Lionza generated her own portraits. Having said this, some believers maintain that it is possible that this image is not a representation of María Lionza, but another figure. However, if it functions as a religious image—that is, if it enables believers to connect with the divinity—it is because the attributes evoked by this image (serenity, intelligence, elegance) are ones that María Lionza also possesses. It is for this reason that the goddess would agree to be questioned “via” this representation. 59

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The other courts are situated just after Las Tres Potencias in the structure of the pantheon. Among these, some are more established than others; that is, they already have a certain seniority in the cult and they are recognized by all the centros as belonging to the pantheon of María Lionza. The Corte Libertadora (Liberating Court), for example, brings together important soldiers from the War of Independence, such as the generals Simón Bolívar, José Antonio Páez, and Rafael Urdaneta. On the same level of purity, we find the Corte Médica (Medical Court), made up of illustrious doctors from Venezuela’s history, such as, José Gregorio Hernández, Luis Razetti, and José María Vargas. The cult therefore represents a sort of national memoire, a reclaiming of historical characters who, through possession rites, are evoked to act on the present. There is still a large number of other courts made up of spirits with “lower light.” The Corte Vikinga (Viking Court) is one which has become very popular since the 1990s (Pollak-Eltz and Salas 1998: 272). According to Ferrándiz (2002: 89), followers of the cult of María Lionza took inspiration from the representation of Vikings in films, animation, and on television to create the aesthetics of the spirits of this court. Believers do not agree with this explanation. They maintain that Vikings are part of the cult because they arrived in America and came into contact with the Indians prior to the Spanish in 1492. This effort by the believers to chronicle the cult of María Lionza should be interpreted as an attempt to legitimize its elements for those who accuse it of being false belief and witchery. The Black Court includes the spirits of black slaves, African chiefs, and Afro-Venezuelan cimarrones.7 It should not be confused with the Corte Africana (African Court) where the divinities of the pantheon of Cuban Santería can be found, including the orishas from the Yoruba religion, known in Venezuela as Las Siete Potencias Africanas (the Seven African Powers). One of the most popular courts is the Corte Malandra or the Corte Calé, composed of criminals killed during street clashes (Freddy, Ismael, and Elisabeth, among others). These are spirits with very low light, because they represent individuals who committed a large number of sins during their life (Ferrándiz 2004). Other courts are: La Corte Chamarrera (chamarrero denotes the traditional healers from the Venezuelan countryside), La Corte Gitana (the Gypsy Court, very much in fashion), La Corte China (the Chinese Court), and La Corte Cubana (the Cuban Court). On another note, the presence within the pantheon of divinities from a court called the “Chinese” Court, which has been in existence since the 1960s, is worth highlighting. It is true that it is not a very popular cult—I have heard about it on very few occasions and I have not met anyone who has attended a possession ritual in which a Chinese spirit descended—but it demonstrates that orientalism within the cult of María Lionza is not novel. 60

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On one of the oldest postcards I have found representing the figure of María Lionza, dating back to the 1940s, the suitability of using “oriental aromatic substances” to cure physical and mental problems is discussed. Another example: on an engraving from the beginning of the century, from the 1930s to the 1940s, the figure of María Lionza is represented with a Chinese man.

The Mountain of Sorte The cult of María Lionza is practiced throughout almost the entire Venezuelan territory. Having said this, Sorte, considered to be the official center of pilgrimage and the home of the deity, assumes a particular importance. Hundreds of believers visit it every weekend, and this number can climb to the thousands during Holy Week and on the 12 October, the day Christopher Columbus arrived in America, historically known in Venezuela as the Día de la Raza (Day of the Race), which Hugo Chávez re-baptized as Día de la Resistencia Indígena (Day of Indigenous Resistance). At midnight on this day, followers celebrate the Baile de Candelas (Dance on Embers), a spectacular ritual during which mediums possessed by Indian spirits dance on burning embers. The ritual, which dates back to the 1960s (Fernández Quintana 2016), has become a mass show with huge media coverage and attracts visitors and journalists from far and wide. The mountain also welcomes numerous followers on 20 November, María Lionza’s birthday. As we observed in the previous chapter, the majority of legends recount that María Lionza lived on this mountain, and her spirit still resides there. In fact, María Lionza and Sorte are partially related, in such a way that all the natural phenomena that take place in this space are attributed to the wishes of the deity. I remember for example, that one day in 2007, under a clear blue sky, a bus full of Austrian tourists arrived at the mountain of Sorte. They disembarked with their digital cameras, their Spanish interpreter, and five or six armed soldiers to guard them. I noticed that their presence perturbed many of the believers. Although some of them attempted to sell them something or to perform a religious demonstration in exchange for some money, the majority of the followers of the cult who saw them considered this visit to be an inacceptable incursion on their sacred land. Several minutes after the beginning of the tourists’ visit, when they were observing a ceremony unfold, a downpour began. Tata, a young man who accompanied me during my fieldwork on the mountain of Sorte, said to me: “María Lionza is responsible for this rain. She does not like people like that in her house.” Tata’s interpretation allows another characteristic of the belief in María Lionza to show through, which is that of the absolute lack of chance. In fact, in the logic of the cult, all events have a concrete, explicable, and compre61

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hensible cause and, as a result, nothing that takes place is arbitrary. Therefore, the material world appears as being completely ruled by supernatural forces the origin of which is always somebody’s desire. Indeed, if an individual falls ill, it is because someone else envies them; if an unemployed person finds work, it is because the Queen (La Reina) has “opened up the path” for them; lastly, if it rains on the mountain of Sorte, it is because someone wants it to rain. Even my presence on the mountain of Sorte had a divine origin for many followers that was beyond my will. For them, María Lionza had appealed to me to provide the world and, particularly, Europe, with a true and sincere image of this cult. I was constantly contradicted when I said that I had chosen to study María Lionza, with believers declaring that it was she who had chosen me. Numerous believers went as far as telling me that I had gone to Venezuela to find “a part of myself,” since, in another life, I had been a Venezuelan who believed in María Lionza. The massive influx of believers to the mountain of Sorte has led to an increasing degradation of this space in environmental terms. Many believers perceive this fact with concern and interpret it as an offence to the deity. These followers affirm that, on account of the dirty nature and the “non original” religious practices that are being carried out continuously on the mountain (animal sacrifices and the use of chemical substances), María Lionza would decide to leave her home or, at least, to take refuge in the most remote parts of the mountain. The mountain of Sorte, as a result, would lose its power. To mitigate this process, groups of believers regularly come together to clean the mountain. The material cleaning of the area acquires a symbolic value of purification from the ritual practice itself, since these believers demand a return to the original—that is indigenous—practice of the cult. Within this current of recovering the sacred mountain of Sorte and the original practice of the cult, in 2008 a group of young believers, university professors, and intellectuals, mainly from the region of Yaracuy, resurrected a project that had been started eight years previously and that sought to have the myth of María Lionza recognized as Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity by UNESCO8 (Luigi, Aranguren, and Moncada 2008). This project includes the creation of a mythical and sound map of the mountain, which is currently being worked on (March 2015). The initial intention of this group of activists was to include in this declaration the cult of María Lionza—and not only the myth, as was finally the case. However, the Venezuelan authorities in charge of managing the dossier demanded that the project be removed on account of its bad reputation. In the summer of 2014 I interviewed the majority of this team of intellectuals and believers. They had obtained the support of the government of the region of Yaracuy but they still needed to obtain backing from state organizations in order to be in a position to pre62

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sent the application on an international level. The majority of the members had little confidence in the process succeeding on account of the historical rejection demonstrated by Venezuelan leaders toward the cult of María Lionza. The members of this group did not approve of the COYATUR projects (the tourism department of the region of Yaracuy), which would have built a large amphitheater on the mountain of Sorte for tourists and national spectators to watch the Baile de Candelas in the utmost safety and comfort. The project also included the construction of hotels, restaurants, and spas on the mountain. Both projects—that of the heritage status and that of transforming the cult of María Lionza into a tourist event—reveal once again the tensions that have historically existed between the different groups of the cult, and between the cult and the Venezuelan authorities.

Indigenism, Santería, and Evangelicalism The development of the cult of María Lionza is today conditioned by three currents: indigenism (understood as the movement demanding recognition of the nation’s indigenous legacy), Cuban Santería, and Evangelicalism. Each of these movements exercises a different influence on the cult. During recent years we have witnessed a process of global recognition of indigenous peoples (Comaroff and Comaroff 2009). In the mid-twentieth century, to be indigenous meant to live in shame, now it is increasingly a source of pride. Demographic censuses reveal an increase in the number of individuals who define themselves as indigenous, even in those territories where there has been no indigenous presence for centuries (such as Puerto Rico). A strategic use of indigenous identity for political, economic, and legal purposes can be observed, as well as an increase in the pan-indigenist sentiment worldwide. Furthermore, indigenism is associated with a set of values such as respect for nature or for the elderly, the use of traditional medicine and the criticism of materialism, Western rationalism, and consumer society. It is for this reason that part of this indigenist movement, especially when it is taken on by the non-indigenous urban population, appears to be linked to a type of New Age animism or mysticism. This movement of pro-indigenous recognition has been felt within the cult of María Lionza. Indeed many believers seek to recover the indigenous roots of the cult, expelling that which is African and, to a lesser extent, Catholic. One of the objectives of this project of re-indigenizing the cult is that of reconnecting the ritual practice with the myth. According to these believers, it is in the oldest versions of the myth—such as that of Antolínez—where guides for a correct practice of the cult of María Lionza can be found. Some 63

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of the groups related to this current link the cult of María Lionza—and in particular her Indian Court—to the great indigenous American family. An example of this is the Cacique Atahualpa group, which defends the link between the cult of María Lionza and the cultures of pre-Hispanic Mexico. Another example is that many materias of the cult of María Lionza prefer to define their activity in terms of shamanism—a concept associated with the indigenous world—rather than in terms of possession, a notion that refers to the African religions. In short, the indigenous past is associated with purity, spirituality, and traditional knowledge. In the case of Venezuela, there is an indisputable continuity between the indigenism movement of the 1940s and the contemporary neo-indigenism that emerged from 2000 onwards. One of the elements in common is that in both cases the indigenist movement is supported by the Venezuelan state, although in different ways. Unlike the government of Pérez Jiménez, the proindigenist discourse of Chávez, shared by the presidents of other countries such as Rafael Correa (Peru) and Evo Morales (Bolivia), has been accompanied by specific policies to recognize and support indigenous communities, as can be observed in chapter 8 of the Bolivarian Constitution approved in 1999. Nevertheless, there are also elements in common. In this regard, it is revealing that the great Chavist initiative to recognize indigenous rights is called Misión Guacaipuro, with Guacaipuro being the paradigmatic example of the indigenism of the mid-twentieth century. This demonstrates that today, as in the past, the native continues to be a mythicized figure reinvented by the non-indigenous population for political purposes (Canals 2012). One of the original points of contemporary indigenism is that it carries a set of values such as environmentalism and body health that fifty years ago, when Guacaipuro was elevated by the Pérez Jiménez dictatorship to be a national symbol, did not exist. This has had repercussions on the cult of María Lionza: Indian spirits are no longer strong and warlike spirits; now they are also fair and wise. María Lionza is no longer only associated with the Earth and fertility; now she is explicitly defined as an “organic” divinity identified by many believers with Pachamama. There is also an important current of believers and artists who link the cult of María Lionza to feminism. In this vein, a film festival was held in 2015: Primer Festival de Cine de la Mujer María Lionza: La Mujer y la Simbología Patriarcal (First cinema festival of María Lionza: Women and patriarchal symbolism). This event seeks to recognize the cult as a genuinely feminine religion and María Lionza as a metaphor for the power of women. According to the organizers, with whom I spoke directly in 2014, believing in María Lionza should be a means of strengthening the self-esteem of women and of empowering them with a view to women acquiring a more active role in Venezuelan society, which 64

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is ruled by a strong patriarchy. Here we see how religious beliefs serve to express a non-conformist social and political movement. Moreover, the relation between the cult of María Lionza and Santería is long-standing. During the 1940s and 1950s the cult incorporated figures such as Changó, Elegguá, and Yemayá, who made up the African Court. However, they were isolated figures who adapted to a set of ritual practices that were clearly different to Santería and that had entered the cult of María Lionza through channels such as popular Cuban music, in which references to the Orisha are constant. The true process of the Afro-Americanization of the cult of María Lionza began in the 1960s and became vertiginously pronounced from 2000 onwards. It was at this time that possession also began to be generalized as a ritual technique. Until the 1940s spiritist sessions followed the model of shamanism (Taussig 1997: 90). During my first fieldwork visit in Venezuela in 2005 I observed that the subject of the relation between spiritism and Santería was causing great controversy. Some believers said that they were two completely different religions; others stated that, without confusing them, they maintained a very close link that facilitated the creation of a bridge between the two. In many cases the believers who became involved in Santería did so after having been initiated in the divination cult Ifá. Then I observed how many altars of the cult included elements from Santería such as tureens, shells, and the figure of Santa Barbara, identified with Changó. In some cases Santa Barbara was put on equal footing with María Lionza herself. On account of the contact with Santería, animal sacrifices in the cult had increased. At that time an increasing number of believers in the cult of María Lionza were converting to Santería. Nowadays this process is very common. Many believers explain this step as an almost natural evolution. In the summer of 2014 a young medium told me in the mountain of Sorte: “Usually an individual starts with spiritism and then moves onto Santería. I still love the spirits of the cult of María Lionza, but I work as a santero (Santería priest).” This testimony reveals how, by not perceiving them as two conflicting religions, the move from spiritism to Santería does not imply breaking with the universe of the cult of María Lionza. In fact, many santeros from the cult of María Lionza continue to show great respect and devotion for the deity and they employ ritual techniques from spiritism if the circumstances so require. This is one of the main differences between the conversion to Santería and the conversion to Evangelicalism, a religious current that is gaining ground in Venezuela (Smilde 2007). It is important to consider that, unlike countries such as Guatemala, Brazil, and Mexico, Venezuela is a country in which Evangelism had a scarce presence (Pollak-Eltz and Salas 1998). Now this is changing. There are an increasing number of Evangelical churches and their messages inundate Venezuelan public space. For followers of Santería or spir65

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itism, Evangelism forces them to cut all ties with these popular religions: it is forbidden to have any link between being a santero or follower of the cult of María Lionza and believing in the word of Christ. In fact, Evangelism has traditionally been very belligerent with this type of religion, which it considers to be superstition, witchery, and simply the work of the devil (Pollak-Eltz and Salas 1998: 34–35). Several episodes have taken place on the mountain of Sorte in which groups of Evangelists have destroyed altars of the cult of María Lionza (the last of which I have evidence was in May 2014). In San Felipe, a city located near the mountain of Sorte, the inscription: Jesucristo, rey de Yaracuy (Jesus Christ, King of Yaracuy) appeared on a wall in the center of the city in 2014. The use of the term “king” is not coincidental: in Venezuela—and in Yaracuy in particular—it is common knowledge that María Lionza is known as the Queen and that Yaracuy is her sacred land. This comment, which points to a clear attempt at religious replacement by the Evangelists, was interpreted by believers in María Lionza as a provocation—akin to a declaration of war. What are the reasons behind this radical rise in Evangelism, especially Pentecost Evangelism? According to Smilde (2007: 29), one of the factors behind the rise in this doctrine is that, unlike “popular cults,” Evangelism offers a total rebirthing of the individual, a radical rupture with their past life. This promise of being “born again” (Smilde 2007: 5) is in keeping with a capitalist ideology, which is presented as modern and rational. With a dualist and often aggressive discourse, Evangelism guarantees professional and personal success through the application of a set of strict rules: no drinking, no smoking, being work-focused, reducing one’s sex life, and so on. The life model proposed by Evangelism is radically removed from the generalized traditions of “Venezuelan society.” The cult of María Lionza, conversely, establishes continuity: within the cult of María Lionza members can drink, smoke, laugh, and talk about sex. Unlike God, Christ, or the Holy Spirit— rather abstract beings—the spirits of the pantheon of María Lionza, many of which are the spirits of deceased people, are “like us”: they have conflicting sentiments and emotions, they can become angry or have fun, adopt a serious and solemn attitude, or take part in a party, dancing and drinking. Additionally, during a spiritist session the different spirits that descend into a medium can contradict each other. This means that when a believer enters the cult of María Lionza they do not have to stop being who they are. The divinities will call upon them to improve certain aspects of their personality or to change certain aspects of their life, but they will not force them to change their self. In short, while Evangelism operates on the basis of a rather simple and dual discourse, the cult of María Lionza tends to move in ambiguity and complexity. It is worth insisting on the fact that Evangelism emphasizes values such as professional promotion or individual wealth, rarely 66

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evoked in the cult of María Lionza. The main difference however lies in the relational dimension of the cult of María Lionza, which opposes the individualist principle of Evangelism. The cult starts from the premise that the personal situation of an individual is intrinsically linked to social matters: if someone is unlucky in business it is because someone else has sent bad luck their way; if someone does not manage to find a sentimental partner, it is because there is a jealous spirit holding them in exclusivity. Evangelism reduces this social realm to the exclusive relationship between the individual and God. The only principles are therefore the individual’s will to change and the divine will to affect the life of the individual. This reduction of the relational context of Evangelism in relation to the cult of María Lionza often appears in terms of efficiency—another concept that is close to economic liberalism. Thus, an ex-believer of the cult of María Lionza explained to me that being Protestant was more practical, because instead of having to look after others, now he only had to look after himself. Evidently, not all Evangelists are that hostile towards the cult of María Lionza or to the modus vivendi of the large majority of Venezuelan society. It is also true that this existential rupture professed by Evangelism with regard to the former life of its believer rarely takes place and there are connections between Evangelism, popular Catholicism, and “popular religions” such as the cult of María Lionza. The belief that the spiritual possession that can act “in everyday life in both positive and negative ways” (Smilde 2007: 30) or the idea that “the life of the individual and the family are spiritual concerns” (Smilde 2007: 124) are some examples of this. However, it is unquestionable that in a time of crisis, defined by political and economic instability, the radical Evangelical discourse has taken root in Venezuela, largely due to the more or less explicit support it has received from the Venezuelan state, as I shall demonstrate below.

The Cult of María Lionza and Chavismo One of the most relevant parts of the constitution approved by popular referendum in 1999 under the rule of Chávez was article 59 on religious freedom and the equality of cults. This law replaced an ancient law that gave Catholicism a dominant position. Of course this last change did not please the Catholic Church, which since then has mainly opposed the Chávez government. The law of freedom of cults opened the door to the recognition of popular cults, and particularly the cult of María Lionza. However, this recognition never materialized. During his lengthy mandate, Chávez rarely mentioned María Lionza, and only made some reticent actions in relation to her cult, such as the inauguration of a replica of Co67

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lina’s statue at the entrance to Chivacoa, near the mountain of Sorte, in 2006. Beatriz Veit-Tané—one of the most important priestesses of the cult (Veit-Tané 1975)—was also recognized as “Living Heritage of Venezuela.” It is likely that Chávez gauged the poor electoral gain that would arise from publically defending a cult that many people still perceive to be superstition and witchery. Nor has there been any movement, organized by believers, seeking recognition of the cult, as appears to have been done in relation to the plan to declare the cult Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity. Furthermore, it is very possible that Chávez did not trust in a cult that was historically subversive toward political power. Bringing visibility to the cult meant assuming an excessive risk for a government that sought to exercise control over all spheres of society. The subversive dimension of the cult is finely illustrated by an episode that I experienced in 2006, when Chávez was enormously popular. During a ritual on the mountain of Sorte, the spirit of Bolívar descended into the body of a medium to give his opinion on the political situation. El Libertador obviously referred to Chávez. This is very relevant if it is taken into consideration that Chávez used Bolívar as one of the focal points of his political discourse. In fact, as almost all the former Venezuelan presidents had done—Antonio Guzmán Blanco, Juan Vicente Gómez, Marcos Pérez Jiménez (Carrera Damas 1973; Coronil 1997)—Chávez presented himself as a continuation, almost as a reincarnation, of El Libertador. It was as if Chávez had been possessed by the spirit of Bolívar (Taussig 1997). During the visit, the spirit of Bolívar reproached some of the comments made by the Venezuelan president, accusing him of using some of his words without permission. However, in the end he advised the believers to continue giving him their support in the elections. This is a magnificent example of the intrinsically political and subversive dimension of this cult. The spirit of Simón Bolívar possessing a medium also emphasizes the fact that in the cult of María Lionza the deceased “are alive,” that is to say, they continue to intervene in reality. A widespread opinion maintains that Hugo Chávez, like other Venezuelan presidents, would have had contact with the cult of María Lionza during his years of formation. The same is said of Gómez, Pérez Jiménez, and Rafael Caldera. Some even say that when he was a young soldier residing in Barinas, Chávez would have made pacts with María Lionza in order to become president of the country. It is also common to hear that during the rapprochement with the Cuban government in the mid-2000s, Chávez became initiated in Cuban Santería. At that time, Chávez would have had a number of commitments and obligations to this religion that he did not meet, and which would have led to his death (what is being said implicitly is that Cubans are responsible for the death of Chávez). Lastly, in July 2014 I mainly heard the theory that Chávez “died an Evangelical.” 68

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It is rather strange that it is said that Chávez died an Evangelical since during his mandate he was characterized for being very belligerent with certain Protestant communities, especially with those of the United States. David Smilde states that Chávez would have maintained contact with local Protestant leaders before the Bolivarian Constitution, as a strategy to weaken the Catholic Church (2007). Whatever the case, what is undeniable is that, despite his initial anti-Catholicism, Chávez’s relationship with Christianity changed over the years. Biblical references in his discourses became increasingly present. Chávez often spoke of the Venezuelan nation employing terms such as “salvation” and “spiritual regeneration.” In fact, Chavismo always had a messianic connotation (Hawkins 2010). The dual vision of the global political panorama that characterizes Chávez, and in which a clear dichotomy between Good and Evil is established, evokes the ideological stances of Evangelism. References to the figure of the devil are also habitual. The speech given by Chávez at the UN in 2006 referring to President Bush as the devil is renowned. In 2007 a congress titled Pentecost Evangelical Spirituality and the Bolivarian Commitment was held in Maracaibo, demonstrating the links between the socialism of the twenty-first century and Evangelism. The flaming criticism of gambling, tobacco, and alcohol that Chávez showed in the later years also revealed an asceticism and puritanism typical of the Evangelical movement. Lastly, in one of his last appearances, Chávez allowed himself to be photographed kissing a crucifix, an image that gave rise to enormous controversy. Despite rumors that he converted to Evangelism late in his life, the death of Hugo Chávez had a strong impact within the cult. It is important to bear in mind that the majority of believers in the cult of María Lionza supported and continue to support Chávez. Therefore, it comes as no surprise that the image of the former president can already be found on many cult altars, although this image already existed when Chávez was alive, proving that he was already considered a supernatural being before his death. Taussig (1997: 108) refers to a religious prayer devoted to Chávez. At the time, Chávez was in prison for an attempted coup d’état. The prayer has a Catholic structure and begins with: “Oh Chávez que estás en la prision” (our Chávez who art in prison). Despite having a religious image, believers state that the colonel’s spirit cannot enter the body of a medium during possession rituals because his death is still recent; most believers maintain that seven years must pass after a person’s death before their spirit can present itself in a religious ritual.

Conclusions During July 2014 I observed a certain dispiritedness among believers. Many complained about the little institutional support they received from the gov69

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ernment or from entities such as INPARQUES upon expressing the difficulties involved in practicing the cult in public spaces such as the mountain of Sorte on account of the current precarious situation in Venezuela. In addition, they complained about the increasing pressure they received from the Evangelical Church. It is probably due to all these factors that the hegemonic position the cult had in Venezuelan religious space until only ten years ago seems to have significantly dwindled. Proof of this is the low number of images of spirits of the pantheon in public space. During my first field trip to Venezuela in 2005, for example, it was usual to see representations of María Lionza, Guacaipuro, or El Negro Felipe on the windows of buses. In July 2014 I did not see any. The mountain of Sorte, which in 2006 or 2008 boasted a majestic appearance, with a high number of groups, presented a bleak image in July 2014. Apparently, many believers had stopped going there for fear of being attacked. In parallel, a considerable number of believers confessed to me that their sons and daughters preferred not to be initiated in spiritism and tended more toward Santería, Palo Mayombe, and Evangelism. Bearing this in mind, we could be led to think that after years of a considerable rise in the number of followers (1980–2010), currently the cult of María Lionza finds itself in a situation of stagnancy or actually of recession. Personally, I tend to think that what we are witnessing is a process of increased invisibilization. It seems that the cult may be returning to the logic that defined it in the 1970s, when it was largely practiced in secret, in people’s houses or in remote natural areas. The cult continues to have millions of followers in Venezuela and beyond and it has not lost the creativity and strength it has always had (the appearance of new courts or the growth of the cult on the Internet are good examples of this). Many young boys and girls are entering the cult (I observed this myself in 2014), but they prefer not to say so. Between the indifference of the government and the manifest hostility of Evangelism, everything seems to point to the cult having to seek refuge in the margins of society, where it was founded and from where, essentially, it has never managed to escape.

Notes 1. The objective of the purification rites is to purify the body and spirit of the followers to protect them from bad influences. In the language of the cult, these rites are known as ensalmes or velaciones. 2. The aim of divination and consultation rites is to foresee the future of followers or to afford them advice. The mediums find the spirits’ responses in cigar smoke and, to a lesser extent, in cards, or even, in the movement of empty snail shells.

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3. Nowadays healing rites are very common. The rituals always follow one same pattern. The patient lies down on the ground with their head close to the altar, and is surrounded by candles. Then the medium positions himself at the patient’s feet, facing the altar, and invokes the spirits to heal the sufferer. At the end of the session, powder is spread around the patient and is then burned to get rid of the bad influences that the patient may be carrying. Sometimes the interventions are more physical. For example, I have seen a woman suffering from terrible leg pain which prevented her from walking. The medium brought candles toward her skin and rubbed the sore leg with rum while reciting prayers. There are also rituals in which the mediums, often possessed by the spirit of a former doctor, perform real operations with knives and medical instruments. Some currents of the cult are radically opposed to this type of practice since they do not respect any hygienic measures and thereby represent a danger for the patients and only fuel the cult’s bad reputation. 4. The aim of the initiation rituals is to initiate a follower as a medium, in other words, to teach him or her the technique of possession. In the language of the cult, these rituals are known as velaciones de fuerza or velaciones de desarrollo. The followers can become a medium through heritage, although usually, they must pass a series of tests imposed by the head of the group. I observed that these two possibilities to become a medium—heritage and learning—nevertheless often appear together. 5. In 1857, Alan Kardec (1804–1869), of Protestant education, wrote his most important book, titled Livre des Esprits. Greatly influenced by Cartesianism, evolutionism, and the theories of Saint Simon and Fourier, Kardec wanted to perform a rationalization of the world of spirits. In fact, he considered rebuilding scientific thinking including paranormal phenomena one of the legitimate fields of study. Kardecism was very successful in Brazil at the end of the nineteenth century before spreading throughout Latin America. 6. I would like to thank the Venezuelan anthropologist César Escalona for this information. 7. In colonial America, the cimarrones were the rebel and fugitive slaves, who led a life of freedom in isolated areas. 8. The Cerro de María Lionza (mountain of María Lionza) was declared a natural monument in 1960. In 2013 the cult and myth of María Lionza were declared Intangible Cultural Heritage of the region of Yaracuy.

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Chapter 3 THE RITUAL IMAGE



María Lionza appears as an image; this means that she “allows herself to be seen,” that she “becomes visible” to a potential spectator; in short, that she is represented on some type of support. The aim of this chapter is to analyze a type of image: believers call them imágenes religiosas (religious images). Among this type of image, I will only study the statues of divinities presiding over the altars.1 Indeed, as I shall reveal in this chapter, altars are one of the best examples of what I have called visual creativity in the cult of María Lionza. These religious statues are very popular and are used by believers of the cult of María Lionza as much during as outside of rituals. At first, everything appears to be quite simple: the religious images would be representations of the gods that the believers use to contact the hereafter. Nevertheless, a detailed observation of the interactions created around these images shows that their nature and their role are much more complex. Consequently, the questions I shall endeavor to answer in this chapter are the following: how is María Lionza represented in the ritual context? What functions do religious images perform? And, especially, what makes an image of a deity be considered “religious” and, therefore, distinguished from a “non-religious” image? First a note about the support of the statue. The most unique characteristic of the representative statues, that is, statues used for reference purposes, is that they do not merely illustrate the visible appearance of the body or the objects that they represent, in the way pictures do; on the contrary, they reproduce them by modeling the inert material to look like them. Moreover, the three-dimensional aspect and the materiality of the statues means that the subject contemplating the statues can place themselves in different places in relation to the object, and thereby discover unseen aspects each time they change position. Furthermore, the spectator can grasp the formal characteristics of a statue not only by looking at it, but also by touching it. The statue is designed not only to represent the appearance of its referent, but 72

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in a certain way to duplicate the body (it is precisely on account of the high mimetic value of the sculptures that, historically, iconoclastic actions were particularly harsh toward this representative technique). This has implications in terms of the interactions that are created with the images, that is, the meaning that we attribute to them and the functions that they develop in a particular cultural context. In particular, the sculptural medium promotes the subjectivization of the image and the establishment of interpersonal relations with the representation. Thus, as I shall demonstrate, of all the images of the goddess, the believers achieve a relationship of more intense affection and intimacy with the sculptures. Since when have statues of divinities been found on the altars of the cult of María Lionza? Older believers I interviewed during my fieldwork in Venezuela agree on the fact that at the beginning of the twentieth century most rituals of the cult of María Lionza took place in natural areas—in front of trees or large stones or in the middle of rivers—and that the presence of images in these spaces was rare, being limited to some representations of María Lionza, Catholic saints, or emblematic figures such as El Negro Felipe or José Gregorio Hernández (D. Barreto 1998; Taussig 1997). The oldest reference to the use of images that I have found relates the existence of a representation of María Lionza to the nineteenth century.2 As the cult expanded during the 1950s, the presence of religious images in the rituals increased. From the 1960s onward, and mainly on account of the influence of Santería and Umbanda, the cult left behind a model of ritual technique that was similar to shamanism and incorporated trance and spiritual possession to such an extent that these became the central part of the ritual. The evolution of the cult, consequently, is defined by a process of the multiplication of elements of a material culture—in particular images and offerings—and the consolidation of possession as a privileged ritual technique.

Picturing Spirits This chapter contains a number of photographs of religious images. In methodological terms, it is worth specifying that, to take a photo of religious images, in the majority of cases, I had to perform a series of ritual steps that I believe should be mentioned here, since they provide indications of the value accorded by followers to the statues of the divinities. Furthermore, it is an example of the fact that the camera can provide access to certain knowledge of a different cultural context that could not be accessed without it: in other words, following Jean Rouch, the camera is not necessarily an obstacle for fieldwork—as we so often hear—but on the contrary, it can become a trigger for anthropologically significant situations (Henley 2010). 73

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Prior to taking a photo of religious statues, permission must first be requested from the leader of the group who is often the owner of the image and the main medium. If the leader gives a favorable response permission must then be sought from the spirits. The explanation given to me regarding this requirement by a medium from Sorte could not have been clearer: “since it is them [the spirits] that you want to photograph, you have to ask their consent. Would you like someone to take a photo of you without telling you?” This comment already indicates that images of the gods are loaded with a strong subjectivity that puts them on equal footing, in certain cases, with the gods themselves—that is, that they are, as Paul Christopher Johnson would say, “spirited things” (2014). From a technical standpoint, certain aspects must be considered: the use of flash, for example, is completely forbidden, since believers in María Lionza deem that it could bother or even injure the divinities. This request for permission from the spirits can be executed in several ways, of which tobacco is the most common (Flores 1991). Using tobacco we direct ourselves to the gods, and in return, we obtain a response. Barefoot, with our gaze fixed on the statues on the altar, we must take the cigarette in our right hand and smoke it while mentally revealing to the spirits what we wish to do and then asking for their permission. The cigarette ash is then interpreted by the medium who will decode the message that the gods wanted to transmit through them. This reading of the tobacco is based on certain rather widespread codes: if the tobacco ash is whitish and the cigarette has burned away equally on all sides, it means that the “paths are open,” that there is divine permission and that the photo can be taken. Alternatively, if the ash is black, if one of the sides of the cigarette did not burn away or if the cigarette went out before the person had finished smoking it, this means, either that the spirits have not given permission or that the smoker may have health, relationship, family, or money problems. Often, after smoking the cigarette, the remaining part must be thrown on the ground three times, with a click of the fingers each time it is let go. The way in which the cigarette, still burning, falls, also reveals the gods’ wish as well as the fate of the person asking. After falling, if the burning side of the cigarette is pointing toward the altar, it is a good sign, while if it points elsewhere, it is a bad sign.

The Image of the Queen A large number of statues of María Lionza can be found on the cult altars. However, there are two particularly widespread and popular representations: the bust presenting María Lionza as a fair-skinned or slightly mestizo queen or the renowned statue of María Lionza as an Indian woman astride a tapir. 74

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The most usual image of María Lionza on the altars of the cult is that which the followers call La Reina (the Queen). It is a bust that usually measures about 50 centimeters. This image is made in plaster and presents María Lionza as a fair-skinned or mestizo woman, with black or sometimes dark blonde hair. María Lionza wears a rose on her chest, dons a crown, and has a calm and serene expression. Sometimes she holds a golden scepter. The bust of María Lionza as a queen is often placed on the altars between the bust of El Negro Felipe on the left and that of El Indio Guacaipuro on the right. These three busts often make up a single sculpture During my fieldwork in Venezuela, I also saw statues of the Queen in which María Lionza appeared as a black woman. This is a relevant point since there are no mythical versions that depict the goddess in this way.3 Once again, this reveals how image and text follow relatively autonomous logics. It is evident that the meaning of the images is much more ambiguous than that of the words. Images may present with great detail but often they can explain very little. While the term “black” or “afro-descendent” leaves no room for discussion, the representations in which María Lionza appears with brown skin are always open to debate. In 2007, I witnessed a lively debate between believers on the mountain of Sorte about an image in which the deity was represented with very dark skin. A group of believers maintained that it was a representation of María Lionza as a black woman while the

FIGURE 3.1 • Altar to honor Las Tres Potencias. Barcelona, 2016. Photo: Roger Canals.

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other group, reluctant to accept this interpretation, upheld that she was a “dark mulatto” or, at most, an “Indian and black mix.” The frequent difficulty of the racial identification of the image of María Lionza reflects a problem that has existed in Venezuela—and in Latin America in general—since the time of the conquest; namely, the difficulty of fitting the multiplicity of bodies and appearances, fruit of the biological and cultural mestizaje process, into permanent and abstract categories such as “white,” “Indian,” “mestizo,” and “black.” The representation of María Lionza as a queen is often based on the model of statues of the Catholic saints, that is, a statue of a full body with a style resembling baroque hyperrealism. The image is dressed, wearing makeup, and donning a wig. Like for the Catholic images representing the Virgin Mary, these statues of María Lionza are paraded in the streets of towns and villages of Venezuela during certain festivals. Since 2012, there has been an increase in the number of statues of María Lionza made using clothes mannequins. Believers apply makeup to the statue, do their hair, and dress them like princesses from fairy tales, emphasizing their sexuality.4 It is impossible not to relate this fact to the influence of beauty pageants and the cosmetic and aesthetic surgery industry in Venezuela, both of which have taken root in the country since the 1950s. Furthermore, it is difficult not to connect these sophisticated sculptures with the aesthetic canons that dominate in the music

FIGURE 3.2 • Diosa de Venezuela. 2016. Photo: César David Escalona Díaz

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and television industry. What we can observe today is that contact with the divinity takes place via an aestheticization process of her image. In recent years, it is becoming usual to see, especially on the Internet, María Lionza or other spirits from her pantheon characterized on the basis of gay or queer aesthetic canons, another example of the ability of this image to both adapt to and foster the social changes of each moment.

The Indian Woman Riding a Tapir The other canonical representation of María Lionza is that in which the deity appears as a naked Indian woman astride a tapir and holding aloft a pelvis (see figure 0.1 in the introduction). This plaster statuette is a replica of the sculpture created by the artist Alejandro Colina5 in 1951 under the administration of Marcos Pérez Jiménez, who wanted María Lionza to be a symbol of the Venezuelan nation. More specifically, the statue was erected for the Juegos Deportivos Bolivarianos (Bolivarian Sports Games), which were held in Caracas from the 5 to the 21 of December 1951. The Olympic flame was put inside the pelvis held by the deity (Manara 1995: 50). The statue was placed in the middle of the Autopista del Este (eastern motorway) of Caracas (see chapter 7), where a copy of it still remains, and it very quickly became an icon of the Venezuelan capital and a very popular and renowned representation both among the wealthy classes, and among artistic circles and cult followers. From the 1960s onward, the latter began to make offerings to the sculpture (D. Barreto 1998: 180) and then to reproduce it in the form of small plaster statuettes, which have been placed on the altars and used as religious images, as is still done today. Unlike the statues in which María Lionza appears as a queen, this representation emphasizes the sensual or even erotic component of the goddess. This erotic aspect is more discernible in the plaster statuettes than in the original piece by Colina. In fact, in this monumental statue, María Lionza is depicted as a woman with a serious face, an athletic body with powerful legs and strong arms. The plaster statuette has a more rounded shape, a less muscular body, and a more delicate face. Once again, this demonstrates the sexualization process of the religious image of the goddess within the cult that we mentioned above. This sexualization process of the image entails several contradictions. For example, statues of María Lionza as an Indian woman on a tapir are often dressed by believers. María Lionza’s nudity is therefore hidden. Why? Cecília, a renowned medium I had met on the mountain of Sorte provided me with the answer to this question. She told me that she had decided to dress the image of the goddess “for decency. A divinity like her should be dressed.” According to the priestess, it was unthinkable that, in 77

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such a sacred place as the mountain of Sorte, María Lionza could “be seen” naked. This response reveals the adoption by some believers of a discourse on the body, which continues to be that of the Catholic tradition: flesh must be hidden, the shape of the body disguised; this is on account of a type of moral dignity, an assimilation of the body into the profane domain and, inversely, of the spirit into the sacred domain. This discourse, applied to this image of María Lionza, leads to disconcerting results. Let us take a further look: believers adore the statue of a beautiful naked Indian woman astride a tapir with her arms raised, symbolizing the force of nature, fertility, and the power of the body. It is an explicit sexual symbol—the tapir evoking masculinity and María Lionza, femininity. Now, by an overlapping of religious discourses, this same image is modified—but not replaced!—by the believers themselves with the aim of hiding that which is precisely one of its essential characteristics: the value of the nudity of the body as a sign of the holy nature of this figure. In fact, paradoxically, the effect produced by placing clothes on the statue of María Lionza as a naked Indian woman is none other than the reinforcement of the erotic nature of the character. Clothes, far from being a secondary aspect of the person, are precisely used to publically express internal qualities (both on a physical and psychological level). Clothes therefore reveal the meaning of that which they hide, pointing to what is to be observed while also rendering it invisible. Since its introduction in 1953, Colina’s statue has been a source of controversy (Colina 2002). The statue was initially conceived to be situated within the campus of the UCV University, between two sports stadiums. Once the Bolivarian Games had finished, the university itself pushed for the statue to be removed from the university campus. Aware of the popularity of the cult, there were fears that the statue would become a meeting place for believers of the cult and that rituals would be performed on campus. The government of Pérez Jiménez did not approve of a statue that had been raised to the rank of a national symbol becoming the center of an uncontrolled cult of possession that was traditionally subversive with authority. It is important to bear in mind that the government of Pérez Jiménez, always supported by the Catholic Church, did not hold back from qualifying the cult of María Lionza as “fraud” and “paganism,” and publically denied its existence, subjecting its followers to harsh harassment (D. Barreto 1998: 107–9). As reported in the newspapers of the time, many spiritists, esoterical groups, curanderos (healers), and mediums were persecuted and sent to prison according to the Ley de Vagos y Maleantes (Law of Vagabonds and Criminals), which has since been abolished (D. Barreto 1990: 24, 1998: 111). It was precisely to avoid the congregation of believers that Pérez Jiménez decided to place the statue right in the middle of the Autopista del Este, one of the most crowded, dangerous, and inaccessible places in Caracas. This has not discouraged devotees 78

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of María Lionza, who over the past seventy years have risked their lives to bring offerings to the deity. Currently there is a replica of the image on the eastern motorway. The original, now restored, is in the Central University of Venezuela (UCV) campus. The debate surrounding its location puts believers—who wish to reinstate the statue in its original location, that is, inside the UCV—against the university and municipal authorities, who wish to maintain its current location or, at least, place the statue of the goddess in a small square on the outskirts of the city, far from the university and the most popular and crowded parts of the city.

Birth and Death of Altars As objects, the life of statues is composed of a time of birth, a time of use, and an end. Although some images have an artisan origin, the majority are manufactured in factories, which means there is a large number of identical images of María Lionza spread across almost the entirety of Venezuelan territory. One of the largest factories manufacturing religious images is the Santa Bárbara factory, located in San Felipe, near the mountain of Sorte. I was shocked to discover that the owners of the factory are not Venezuelan, but Colombian, and that they have no association with the cult. They define themselves as “nonbelievers” and refer to the company simply as a negocio (business). From a technical perspective, the production process of the images remains quite artisan in this factory. To begin, the plaster is melted and poured into molds. Once the plaster cools, the sculpture is removed from the mold and painted with brushes and sprays. The statues are then packaged and stored on shelves. Later, they are distributed to the perfumerías in the region, where believers come to buy them. For the majority of believers, the first direct contact with the images is established through money. Visibly, the religious image is, in the context of its production and purchase, simply merchandise, that is to say, a purely material, neutral object with no religious or transcendental element. I remember this same impression upon seeing a shop tender in Maracaibo mechanically packaging an image of María Lionza while offering the client a discount if he bought a second statue. Some hours later, this same image was presiding over an altar before which healing rituals were taking place. In Maracaibo again, I asked John, a renowned medium, if I needed permission from the gods to film the inside of his perfumería, where there were many religious images. He told me that it was not necessary, revealing the lack of religious value attributed to the images when they are in the shops. 79

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This can be considered the material birth of images; so, what is their end? The religious statues gradually deteriorate until the moment at which they are abandoned. This deterioration is evident in the permanent altars located in public cult areas, for example, the mountain of Sorte, where the images are exposed to climate changes and used by numerous believers. Moreover, images comprising temporary altars are forgotten or abandoned after the believers have used them. However, the images can also be destroyed in acts of iconoclasm, which are becoming increasingly common, and are usually perpetrated by Evangelical groups. The religious statues of María Lionza occupy very disparate places in Venezuelan society as a whole—they can be found in shops or reinvented as a piece of art in museums, for example. Nevertheless, altars are their, shall we say, natural place, and rituals are the situation in which they acquire a more meaningful role. So, what is an altar? The term that best defines the nature of an altar is that of “composition.” An altar is a composition of different material images and elements in which a series of connections are established. These connections are visualized by the position that each image has in relation to the others. It is important to bear in mind that each image has a series of associated experiences, from which it acquires a certain agency, or, in other words, a subjectivity or intentionality. A statue, for example, may have been given by a deceased relative. Another could be the representation before which a group member, who has since become a renowned medium, was initiated. Therefore, through this composition of elements, not only are links woven between the divinities, but in particular between the believers— dead and alive. An altar is a type of historical collage; in other words, a visualization of a social memory. There are two types of altars: permanent ones and temporary ones. The former are found in private apartments and houses, and in natural or urban public spaces. In apartments, the altar is usually located in the corner of a small room dedicated to prayer and to the performance of rituals; while in houses in the countryside it is placed inside a small shed built behind the house. Temporary altars are essentially built during pilgrimages under the guidance of the medium who decides on the position and place of each element. Altars are a visualization of the structure of the pantheon of the gods. Having said this, each cult group can have a particular view of the cult mythology that, consequently, will be reflected in the construction of the altar. The configuration of altars varies according to the aim of the ritual to be performed and the calendar date. If a medium plans to perform a healing ritual during which they will seek to summon the spirit of a doctor, they will probably place the statue of the latter in a preferential place on the altar or place several replicas. Moreover, altars are modified according to festivals. During Holy Week, for example, the altars are filled with Catholic images; 80

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on 5 July, the National Day of Venezuela, they are decorated with flags of the country and statues of Simón Bolívar. Lastly, the cult groups can place the statue of their protective god in a privileged place on the altar. I would now like to briefly comment on an altar that I saw on the mountain of Sorte in 2008. The statues are placed on a small pile of stones covered in talc, as a symbol of purity. The most interesting element of this altar is that the statue of the Three Powers is not given the uppermost place. This is reserved for the image of La Negra Francisca (the Black Francisca) for two reasons according to the group leader. First, this divinity was the protector of the group. The followers told me the miracles she had performed to help them and the support that they had received from her in some of the most challenging personal situations. Having said this, in my opinion, the most interesting reason for this replacement was that, according to the group leader, María Lionza had “yielded” the most important place on the altar to La Negra Francisca in order to publically draw attention to the black community. This statement is very revealing and I would like to underline three aspects of it. First, it shows the subjectivity that these statues possess. If the statue of La Negra Francisca occupied first place, it was because María Lionza “had yielded it to her.” The act of “giving up the place” is an act of personal initiative, and thus of subjectivity. This subjectivity attributed to the god is confused with the subjectivity of the image: “giving up the place” to La Negra Francisca denotes giving it up to her image. This therefore appears not as the reproduction of the god, but, in this context, as the god herself. Second, the group leader’s explanation reveals that the building of altars responds to divine requirements, that is to say, that in the logic of the cult, it cannot be explained by the personal choice of the believers. Lastly, the acknowledging attitude of this group toward the black community demonstrates that in the cult, and, particularly, in the realm of its images, there are ethical and identity-related discourses. It is no coincidence that María Lionza “gave” her place to a divinity of African origin: among “the three races” making up the ethnic fabric of Venezuela, blacks are unquestionably those who enjoy the least political and social recognition (Wright 1990). In Venezuela there is a generalized discourse of mestizaje according to which everyone would be, in a manner of speaking, mestizo. Venezuelans repeat that in their country “everyone has blood of different colors.” This does not prevent physical appearance and notably skin tone from being determining factors in the establishment of the social status of a person—despite the efforts of Chavism to increase the standing of Indians and Afro-descendants. It would be therefore incorrect to consider the altars of the cult of María Lionza a simple reflection of Venezuelan society, since they are more a strategy to act on it. In other words, the nature of the altars is performative. By putting the image of La Negra Francisca at the fore, the aim of these believers 81

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is not to represent reality, but to transform it. This altar is therefore not a visualization of the place occupied by black people in Venezuela today, but a distinctly political action to change their social status.

The Presence and Absence of Spirits The anthropological analysis of the image cannot be limited to describing its material and aesthetic characteristics: it must contextualize it in the spaces where it is found and interpret it in relation to the network of social relations of which the image is a part—and, in turn contributes to resignifying. What relations do the believers, and in particular the medium, establish with the images during the ceremonies of the cult of María Lionza? The altar is the place around which the ritual is organized—and also the campsite in the case of pilgrimages. When the medium expresses his intention to enter into a trance state, all the group members stop their activities and gather around the altar. The medium positions himself a few meters from the altar and keeps his gaze fixed on it, while murmuring prayers. The banco stands just behind him but does not touch him, while the rest of the group stay further away from the images, forming a semi-circle; none of the participants in the ceremony can place themselves behind the altar. The moments preceding the crisis may be accompanied by songs and drums that help to trigger the trance, although, on other occasions, entering a trance state is performed in strict silence. During the ceremony, it is forbidden to wear black clothes or to cross one’s fingers, arms, or legs, and for women to have their hair tied or plaited, since this could introduce bad energies or cortar (cut) the spiritual flujo (flow) between the people and the gods. When he is ready to go into a trance, the medium closes his eyes, lowers his head, stretches out his arms, and with a cry “expels” his spirit from his body. He then remains there, inert, his back curved, as if lifeless. This moment of crisis, which may be quite brief, generally worries many members of the group and especially the banco, in charge of assisting the medium during the possession and largely responsible for the success or failure of same. The danger of the crisis lies in the fact that once the soul has been expelled, the medium’s vital signs are very low. If the spirit of a god does not arrive in a short space of time, the medium could die. After several seconds, the medium lifts his head, straightens up slowly, and begins to speak and gesticulate in a different manner than usual. The spirit that has just descended introduces itself or is introduced by the banco, who greets it and asks it to bless the group, which welcomes it warmly. Then all the group members individually greet the possessed medium and seek his permission to stay for the ceremony. This greeting is carried out in a very precise manner that consists of facing 82

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the possessed medium—but without looking him in the eye—leaning the head slightly, and giving him one’s hand. During the ritual, the person or persons for whom the ceremony is being performed—for example, a sick person in the case of the healing rituals—are located between the medium and the altar. After the ritual, when the spirit “decides” to leave (the divinities always decide) the medium, still possessed, stands before the images once again. He repeats the process described above: he relaxes, “expels his spirit,” and remains visibly inert for a few moments before “recovering” his soul or “welcoming” another god. Throughout the ceremony, but especially during the moments of crisis, no one can position oneself between the medium and the images, not even to quickly pass by. This prohibition is one of the rare rules that I saw being scrupulously applied and followed by all the groups with which I carried out my fieldwork. Believers justify this rule by arguing that the presence of a body between the altar and the medium could cut off the spiritual energy, that is, interrupt the process of spiritual replacement. This rule seems to indicate that the altar is a type of bridge, opening, or passage by which the spirits move between this world and the hereafter. The term used by believers to refer to the altar, portal, would appear to confirm this interpretation. Another important rule concerning the behavior toward the images during the ritual is that none of the participants should turn their back to the altar, unless the medium instructs them to do so. This rule is, according to the believers, a measure of respect: turning one’s back to the images would be like turning one’s back to the gods that they represent. The reason for this prohibition seems to me to be rather more complex however. Essentially, if we cannot turn our back to the statues of gods it is because they “see” through their images and in a very precise direction. In other words, it is because the images have a gaze, that is, subjectivity. The view of the gods through the eyes of their images can also be observed in another example: when the medium seeks to go into a trance and he wishes to access the world of spirits with a view to temporarily replacing his soul with that of a god, he looks the statue in the eyes. This act can be explained by the belief that the eyes are the window to the soul, the part of the body that provides access to the person’s spirituality. These two, very generalized, rules concerning the statues during the rituals seem to indicate an ontological ambivalence inherent in the statues in the cult of María Lionza—and to a certain extent in all religious images (Feedberg 1989; Goody 1997; Malamoud and Vernant 1986; Engelke 2007; Houtman and Meyer 2012). The first rule suggests that the images are a door of communication with the spirits, inaccessible and banished to a place, the hereafter, which is completely foreign to the human world. The second rule refers to the idea of a certain identification between the image and the divin83

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ity. In the first paradigm access to the gods is obtained “through the image” while in the second they are present “in this.” Numerous characteristics of the cult of María Lionza appear to reinforce the theory that there is a distinct separation between the divinity and its representations and, as a result, that sculptures have a uniquely representative nature—to reproduce the appearance attributed to the gods—and a mediation function between this world and the hereafter. The first aspect in favor of this idea is the discourse of believers who, when I explicitly broached the subject of the images, always opposed the possibility of there being an identification between god and image. In this regard, I remember that at the beginning of my stay in Venezuela, a believer in María Lionza from the outskirts of Caracas told me, a few minutes before entering a ritual, that the statues of this divinity placed on the altars did not possess any divine and supernatural value, but that they were simply trozos de yeso (lumps of plaster), sólo imágenes (only images), which we could abstain from perfectly for the rituals. She emphasized several times that the followers of this cult were not “idolaters”—a position that she considered “primitive”—in other words, that they did not confuse the divinity and its representation. In addition to the believers’ discourses, other elements question the identification between image and divinity. First, as suggested by this believer’s comment, if there is no difference between the referent and the representation, how should we comprehend the fact that there are thousands of identical images of each divinity circulating throughout almost the entire Venezuelan territory? For some time, I thought that religious images were subjected to a kind of “rite of passage,” (Van Genepp 1981) which separated them from the profane domain, where they had been produced, and the divine domain. But this ritual is practically nonexistent. Furthermore, I have seen believers accidentally break an image and it did not seem like they had injured—or killed—a “god.” The image was replaced by another and the ritual continued calmly. So then, the problem is as follows: why do believers use the images if they consider them to be perfectly unnecessary? In response to this question I received three different answers from the followers of the cult. First, according to them, the images help the medium to concentrate, thereby helping him to go into a trance. As I have already pointed out, when he wants to enter a trance state, the medium looks at the images, closes his eyes, and then requests permission to perform the ceremony. Then, he replaces his spirit with that of a divinity. It is at this moment of spiritual request preceding the trance that, according to several mediums with whom I have worked, the medium internally visualizes the images of the gods, which renders the contact with them easier and more direct. This fact is highly significant since it shows that, when the medium closes his eyes and thinks of the divinity in order to enter a trance state, what he is doing is 84

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subjectively reproducing the material image, which becomes a mental image and is more or less consciously identified with the divinity. To ask the gods’ permission, he asks their image, even if it is internally. Next, the images of the altar reveal the structure of the pantheon that the group of believers deems correct; this has a pedagogical value, which is especially useful for the youngest members of the center. With these images of illustrious characters and representatives of the ethnic and social fabric of Venezuela, the altars are the main architecture of popular memory in circulation in the cult (Ferrándiz 2004: 71). This role of evoking the memory of the cult played by the altar images is particularly important to uphold the myth. Lastly, still according to the followers, the altar images have a recognition value of respect toward the gods. These like to see their representations lit by candles and decorated with offerings. It is important to add to these three arguments that which, in my opinion, is more suggestive of the value accorded to the images by the believers. Numerous followers told me, always after a few minutes of conversation and in an implicit manner, that the divinities “use” the altar images to transport their force through them and “send it” to the medium. This would justify the prohibition of standing between the medium and the altar during ceremonies. This role of mediation is nevertheless not obligatory or essential to perform the rituals. In fact, many believers complain about the excessive quantity of images on the altars, saying that it is “not very spiritual.” However, many elements support the fact that images play a decisive role in the development of the rituals. The careful observation of the interactions that the believers establish with the religious images leads us to question the fact that they are “only images,” “pure materiality,” “simple objects” with no sacred component. These interactions between the believers and the statues are generally very close and affectionate. As occurs with Catholic images, the followers talk to the statues, caress them, hug them, dress them, and do their hair. This closeness does not always take the form of an amicable relationship. Indeed, it is common to see believers reproach the image of a god for the little help and support that, according to them, he had promised to them. In short, the relation with the image follows the subject-subject model rather than the subject-object model: it takes the model of an interpersonal relation. Moreover, if we conceive images as having a uniquely representational value, the act of offering, such a daily event in the practice of the cult, becomes rather enigmatic. Indeed, where is the sense in placing food in front of the images if they are nothing more than “lumps of plaster”? The question of what happens to this food after it has been placed in front of the statues makes the followers very uneasy, to such an extent that talking about it is almost taboo.6 85

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Nevertheless, what really questions the theory of the pure materiality of the images—that is to say the radical separation between the representative and the represented—are the movements that the believers attribute to the statues in “exceptional” cases. For example, it is said that chamarreros (traditional healers) like to chew chimón (tobacco). The followers put some of this tobacco in front of the statues of the gods to please them and to demonstrate their respect and affection. The believers affirm that statues have been seen chewing on several occasions and that there are often remnants of chimón trickling out of their mouth. The most astonishing episode that I have experienced related to the movement of images was in the house of Flor, a medium from Baruta, a district in the outskirts of Caracas. One day, while at her house, I asked Flor if I had permission from the gods to film her altar. She told me to stand just in front of the image of María Lionza and to ask her personally for permission. Facing the statue, I had to improvise aloud a request for permission to have the right to film in this context. Once I had finished my request, I waited for a moment and then looked at Flor, expecting her to transmit the deity’s desire. But instead of doing this, she smiled and she said to me: “Did you see?” “See what?” I replied, completely disconcerted. “María Lionza moved her head up and down in approval.” What had Flor seen? From an anthropological standpoint, there is no use in attempting to explain this episode by saying that it was a visual illusion of the medium or simply a lie aimed at either certifying the spiritual authority of the medium or at impressing me in the hope of converting me to the cult. Nevertheless, from an anthropological perspective, we can seek to understand the characteristics of the “world” of which Flor is a part and in which it is possible that plaster statues move. It is true that, as in Catholicism, the movement of statues is considered in the cult of María Lionza to be a miracle. This does not mean that it is an exception, a discordant fact, or an aspect that is removed from the symbolic universe of the cult. The miracle is not located outside the ontological borders of the cult, but within its limits. In other words, miracles reside in the margins of the possible, but not beyond these. These three features of the altar statues—the fact that they are almost always present during rituals, the relationship that believers forge with them, and the autonomy of movement attributed to them—refer to the idea that images are not (or not yet) a neutral and easily dispensable object, but a necessary element to perform rituals, equipped, at least potentially, with subjectivity or agency (Chua and Elliot 2013; Gell 1998; Sansi-Roca 2010). More specifically, these characteristics suggest the idea of a certain identification between the image and the divinity, between the object and the subject, or, in other words, between the referent and its representation. Cecília’s action of dressing an image of a naked María Lionza mentioned at the beginning of this chapter indicates that images are objects that take on the characteris86

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tics of a person. If we accept the theory of identification between the image and the divinity, the possession ritual changes direction. The images are no longer a channel of access to the divinities, but the divinities themselves; the divinities of the cult are no longer located in the transcendent and inaccessible hereafter, but they are inherent to their image or, better said, they are confused with it. The two paradigms that I have exposed in an attempt to explain the relation between image and divinity—that of identification and that of differentiation—are incapable, by themselves, of providing an explanation for the nature and functions of the image of María Lionza in the context of rituals. A new perspective must therefore be adopted that goes beyond this dichotomy while incorporating the above stances. This is what I shall endeavor to do through the notion of “double regime of image” used by Georges DidiHuberman in his work Images malgré tout (2003).

The Double Regime of the Photographic Image Didi-Huberman only uses the notion of “double regime of image” in relation to the photographic image, although he states that it can be applied to the image in general (2003: 47). The work Images malgré tout places itself at the center of the controversy about the referential value of photographs and their legitimacy as a source of information for historical and ethnographical research. As the author indicates, this controversy has been defined by two radical positions, based on two opposing views of the nature of the photographic image. The first view, currently a minority, defends the total objectivity of the photographic image. Although Didi-Huberman does not specify, this objectivity would be the result of two factors, as André Bazin states in his renowned article Ontologie de l’image photographique (1945). On account of its technical and chemical characteristics (Bazin is evidently speaking of analogical photography), photography has an incomparable mimetic power, which means that the photographic image is a trace of reality. Photography, to use the expression of William Henry Fox Talbot (1800-1877), is “the pencil of nature”: not a representation of nature, but the channel that we give the latter to represent itself. The photographic image therefore has a natural and necessary relation with its referent that always renders it ontologically “true” and forces us to believe in it—a stance that Roland Barthes also shared in his book Camera Lucida (1981). Rather than representing the world, photographs capture it. It is for this reason that photographic images, from this perspective, can be understood in terms of presence and not in terms of representation: the object represented is in the image and not only represented by it. According to 87

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Charles Sanders Peirce (1931–58), photographic images must be considered an index rather than an icon. The uniqueness of the photograph resides in the fact that the spectator is obliged to believe in the existence of the object or referent that it displays. The fact that photography can use special effects does not render this theory invalid, since the notion of special effects only has meaning if there is an original to alter. In this regard, photography is a particularly valuable element for historical research, since it provides us with a trustworthy and irrefutable knowledge of reality. This objectivist current of the photographic image has been strongly contested from postmodern stances, which have questioned the referential or indexical power of photographs. According to this current, the belief in the ability of photography to depict the world exactly as it is would simply be gullibility, for several reasons. First, everything that is real is not visible and everything that is visible is not likely to be photographed. Photographs are therefore not an image of the world, but only an image of what can be photographed. In addition, this image is far from being a direct, automatic, and impersonal copy of reality, but instead a technically and historically composed cultural product. Every photograph is the result of a subject’s desire and is conditioned by the chemical and mechanical characteristics of the film and the camera. The photographic image is, moreover, a necessarily partial and incomplete object, incapable of showing the entirety of the phenomenon that it seeks to capture. Its “defective” nature prevents the researcher from formulating general hypotheses based on it. Lastly, in addition to the question of special effects, we know that, since the beginning of photography, reality has been recreated and reconstructed numerous times, which casts a doubt over the referential power of any photographic image that is supposed to have a “documentary” value. The fact that we often are unaware of the context and the moment at which photographs were taken means it is impossible to formulate explanatory hypotheses of a historical nature based on them. The idea this postmodern current leads to is clear: we can rarely guarantee the referential value of photographs (if this exists at all). This has been exacerbated by the appearance of digital photography, which certain authors do not refrain from calling “post-photography.” Authors such as Joan Fontcuberta (2010) go as far as stating that the appearance of digital photography forces us to rethink the history of photography itself. Photography should be detached from its documentary value in order to understand it above all as a construction, as a skill, or in other words, as a discourse. Confronted with this postmodern criticism, Didi-Huberman sets out to save the indexical value of the photographic image; in other words its referential value. But the author’s defense is not based on the return to old objectivist theories but on a concept—that of the double regime of image—with which he endeavors to go beyond the two mentioned stances. According to 88

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the author, the photographic image is not a pure transposition of reality or a simple subjective and ideological construction incapable of affording us reliable information about the world, which can be used practically by historical research. Photography therefore has an “immediate” and, at the same time, “complex” nature. The immediateness refers to the instantaneous and partially impersonal nature of photography, to its trace value, to its undeniable mimetic power, or its ability to automatically transpose the appearance of the object. On the other hand, the complexity indicates its historical, intentional, and subjective element, its dependence on contingent conditions where it was taken as well as the technical and chemical (or technological) features of its production. These two components are inseparable and, in addition, one needs the other: the mimetic potential of photography can only be materialized by the action of a subject while the creative and even fictitious potential of photography cannot be achieved without the presence of a referent or an external object.

The Two Sides of the Religious Image In what way is Didi-Huberman’s theory on photography useful to understand the nature and function of the religious images of María Lionza? Let us return to the main problem of the images in the cult: the link that unites these images to their referent is seemingly contradictory. In certain cases, it appears that the images are only a simple representation of the divinities and that their role is only that of a bridge between this world and the hereafter, while in other cases the statues are clearly identified with the divinities themselves. As a result, the images of María Lionza (and almost all religious images, as this is a generalized pattern) have both a direct and indirect relation with their referent, or, to use the terminology of Didi-Huberman, an “immediate” component and a “complex” component; in other words, a double regime. The “immediate” component of the statue of María Lionza refers to the identification between image and divinity, that is, to the direct and natural relation between referent and representation. The second, on the other hand, refers to the cultural aspect, that is, to the fact that they are a historical product, created by believers with certain intentionality and following certain aesthetic criteria. Like in photography, these two perspectives need each other: the image of María Lionza is evidently a product of human intentionality; nevertheless, in order for it to achieve the role of religious image—that is, for it to be “true” (Belting 2007)—it must have a close link with the divinities, reasserted by the “miraculous” movement of images. Each of the two perspectives considered independently is incapable of providing a sat89

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isfactory interpretation. In fact, María Lionza cannot be all of the images that represent her. Mass-produced, these images, identical to each other, lack individuality. Furthermore, believers know that the design of the divinity figures changes according to the time and the trends; in other words, they are a historical and contingent object. It is also important to consider that there is no consecration ritual for the images, detaching them completely from the world of things and transforming them into a sacred object. Lastly, numerous “limit events,” such as that of the woman who accidentally broke a statue and simply replaced it with another, show that, for the believers, the images are a lifeless object, a pure materiality. In their discourses, they reject all ideas of idolatry and refer to anything material as an inanimate entity. However, all the interactions established with the images as well as the norms that regulate the use of these have only one meaning if the images “are” the divinities themselves. In other words, the image in the cult is confused with the cult of the image. In this regard, my opinion is consistent with that of Alfred Gell when he states that: “the essence of idolatry is that it permits real physical interactions to take place between persons and divinities. To treat such interactions as ‘symbolic’ is to miss the point” (1998: 135). If the images are not the gods, what is the sense in praying to them, making offerings to them, or even reproaching them? If the images do not look at us, why can we not turn our backs on them? Keeping the secret game of images—the fact that they are and are not the divinity at the same time—entails certain taboos: for example, the fate of the offerings. The miraculous movement of statues is less an exception than a necessary episode for consistency in the cult. The connection between the images of María Lionza and the divinity herself has, for believers, a mimetic component: the image resembles the deity and, consequently, it becomes her double. The image, connected to María Lionza through a link of resemblance, thereby acquires a supernatural component. In the logic of the cult of María Lionza—and of Catholicism in general (Morgan 1998)—this likeness relating representation and represented has consequences in terms of sensations, of the experience of the religious. Thus, being in contact with the image of María Lionza is like being in contact with the divinity herself. Having said this, the link between image and divinity is, at the same time, one of Otherness: representation and represented are not completely identified; they remain two different things. The limits of the game are established by two types of events that push the connection between mimesis and Otherness to the extreme. That of the somatic reactions of images involves a total subjectification of the representation, thus a complete identification between image and god: this is the maximum example of mimesis (Taussig 1993). On the other hand, when the image is treated like merchandise or like a completely disenchanted object, the identification 90

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between representative and represented is broken off: we are faced with a connection of total Otherness between María Lionza and her image. André Bazin said that the specificity of photography lies not in the aesthetic characteristics of the image, but in its production conditions, in other words, in its genesis. This genesis is defined by the capturing of the exterior reality through a chemical and mechanical process in which the subject is absent or, at most, there is a secondary intervention. According to Bazin, the moment of the genesis is decisive because it is then that the link between represented and representative, between reality and copy, between referent and image, is established. Didi-Huberman also underlines the importance of this genetic instant of photography. The bulk of the author’s arguments are devoted to shedding light on the conditions of creating photography to be able to contextualize it and then perform a well-founded and, consequently, legitimate interpretation. What is this moment of genesis in the sculpture of María Lionza that would authenticate this link between image and divinity? Clearly, it is not the material production of the images. Those made in the factories are images of images. If these replicas have a power it is precisely because they are replicas of an original image, and it is exactly because they refer to this original image that these statuettes made in factories have a link with the hereafter. This characteristic once again brings the image of María Lionza close to the Christian cult of icons. Hans Belting states in this regard that, since the Middle Ages, “the making of many replicas of icons in the Middle Ages reflects the belief that duplicating an image would extend its power” (1994: 6). In the case of the images of María Lionza, the problem lies in knowing how to access the referent of the image—that is, the divinity—and through what process its representation materializes as a statue. This is where the domain of dreams, visions, and apparitions intervenes; in other words, the mental image. Believers of the cult state that María Lionza can make herself “directly” visible through these three channels. These moments of “immediate” contact with the divinity are in the majority of cases the reference to create material representations of the divinity, including religious statues. Thus, for example, many artists or craftspeople represent María Lionza as they have dreamed of her or as they “saw” her in moments of inspiration, in the same way that believers choose one or another image of the deity to pay her homage depending on the visions they have had. The relation between the divinity and its own image can nevertheless be even more direct. For example, I have found believers who have assured me that the divinities could make their own image by themselves in order to ensure that it would be faithful. On the mountain of Sorte I met Dani, a young medium who had taken the name of the spirit that he hosted most often and with which he identified. He told me that the spirit of the Indian 91

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Tiuna, who would have lived during the conquest, had embodied the body of an artist in order to sculpt his own image “himself.” In this case, the body, including its skills, is the mediator or agent between the divinity and its representation. In certain cases, the figure of the artist-intermediary disappears and the process of creating the image becomes an “immediate” materialization of the divinity. The complexity of the relation between resemblance and functionality is apparent in one last case: when the believers admit that the images do not faithfully represent the divinity, but use them nevertheless in ceremonies. This occurs, for example, with the statue of Lino Valles, a Venezuelan professor who passed away and whose spirit is currently part of the pantheon of divinities of the cult. The believers openly affirm that the statue or the holy card of Lino Valles does not resemble the face of the true professor at all. However, the image is considered valid by believers since the values that it transmits— intelligence, serenity, honesty—match the professor’s nature. As a believer once told me, the spirit “accepts” the representation and “adapts” to it.

Conclusions Three main ideas can be drawn from this study on the statues of María Lionza in the cult. First, that the images of María Lionza and the other divinities in the cult are an important element in the performance of rituals and that they are not simply “lumps of plaster” as the believers state—this statement already reveals a certain attitude towards the image. Second, that the religious image in the cult of María Lionza has both a direct and indirect relation with the divinity represented—what I have called a double regime. Lastly, there is a close connection between the similitude and functionality of the image. The direct access to the referent of the religious image, that is, the divinity, is essentially guaranteed by dreams, visions, and apparitions; showing the relation existing, in the cult, between the material image and the mental image. I started this chapter by posing the question of defining the concept of the religious image. More particularly, I was questioning what made an image of María Lionza be considered “religious” by a certain group and what were, from their perspective, the specific features of this image compared to a, shall we say, “nonreligious” representation of the deity. I would like to seek to provide an answer to these questions on the basis of the conclusions obtained from the study of the aesthetic and functional characteristics of some statues of María Lionza. As regards the definition of the religious image, it is clear that this is not only an “image of the religious”—that is to say a more or less figurative representation of the appearance attributed to the sacred beings—but an image 92

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that participates in that which is religious, which maintains a certain link with this (Lévy-Bruhl 1927). Through this link, the religious image can assume the role of connector or mediator between this world and the hereafter. As regards the second question concerning the elements that would accord a religious value to the images, the question is rather more complex, and it is difficult to generalize. The sacred nature of the images of María Lionza is not given by the matter of which they are made. In theory, all material is valid to produce a representation that may later acquire the qualification of religious. The religious nature of the image does not stem from the person who made it nor from some type of rite of passage that would have detached it from the profane world to confer on it a sacred nature. We have seen that these images are mass-produced in factories like any other merchandise and that this rite of passage is very rare and, in any case, not necessary for the performance of rituals in the presence of images. The link with the religious takes place mainly due to the representational characteristics of the image, or perhaps because it is plausible from a mimetic point of view. In other words, it depends on its representative power, that is, on the link of resemblance between the image and the deity attributed by believers. It is only if the image provides a faithful portrait of the spirit that it can assume the role of mediator with the hereafter. Consequently, the problem, for the person who makes the image and the person who receives it, is knowing which is the face of the spirit, or in other words, accessing the referent. We have seen that this direct access to the divinities was guaranteed by the realm of dreams, visions, and apparitions. Sometimes however, when one is faced with an unprecedented image that they have never seen before and of which they have never dreamt, the verification of the link occurs strictly intuitively, but this case is quite rare. At a production level, the religious image is always made under the inspiration and even the possession of the gods. It is in this paradigm that the effectiveness of this type of representations is constructed. Consequently, any religious image is, essentially, a self-portrait of the gods. So, to return to the two paradigms set out above: once the image has been made, if it is faithful from the believer’s perspective, it objectively has a link with the divinities, which increases or decreases according to the context. The contextual component is, at least for the statues, decisive: we have seen that in some contexts the link with the hereafter is practically nonexistent, like when the image is packaged on the shelves of a shop; while in other contexts it is complete, for example, when independent movement is attributed to the statues. In short, the religiosity is not a fixed and permanent attribute that certain images possess, but rather the consequence of a specific situation, in other words, of a social event aimed at establishing relationships between individuals through the mediation of the gods. 93

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Having reached this point, we must ask ourselves: how does this general theory on religious images fit into what was said at the beginning of this chapter regarding altars in the cult of María Lionza? I have highlighted three key elements. First, that from the beginning of the twentieth century to the present day, the presence of religious images in ceremonies has been debated to such an extent that it has become a decisive aspect of rituals. The cult has thus undergone a kind of “pictorial turn” (W.J.T. Mitchell 1994), which has intensified the importance of the visual register, in many cases to the detriment of the textual register (myth thus seems to have lost ground in ceremonies to the detriment of iconic elements). Second, I have shown how altars are not fixed structures, but highly dynamic compositions. Altars are thus in continuous movement. The images of the altars are permanently moved, modified, or resignified. New representations appear while old images are rejected or even destroyed. This constant movement of images in altars has an undeniably aesthetic, political, and religious nature. It is an aesthetic movement because it responds to a very clear and explicit desire among believers to create beautiful altars that are pleasing from a multi-sensorial point of view. This explains why they make such an effort to decorate them and look after them. Often the construction of the altar is much longer and more costly (in personal and economic terms) than the ritual itself—in fact, what ends up happening is that the creation of the altar is in itself a ritual. Indeed, the beauty of the altars is not a disinterested beauty (Morgan 1998); it does not have a merely contemplative purpose, but rather, it appears as a necessary condition for the altar to function in religious terms, that is to say, for it to act as a medium between the believers and the divinities. It is during this moment of contact, when believers interact, through images, with the spirits of black slaves, defeated Indians, former presidents of the country, or mythical characters such as María Lionza, that the political dimension of the cult becomes apparent. So then, what does it mean to state that the beauty of altars enables images “to act as a medium between the believers and the divinities”? As I have revealed throughout this chapter, religious images are characterized by having a double regime, that is to say, by maintaining a paradoxical connection with their referent based on a relation of identification and differentiation, identity and difference. This is what Didi-Huberman describes as the immediate and complex value of images. Thus, religious images are not the gods that they represent; they can only act as religious images—in other words, they can only perform their function of mediation—if they identify, at least occasionally, with their referent.7 What we see is that in the cult of María Lionza, visual creativity precisely reinforces the immediacy of the images. It is as if altars, to function, had to be permanently activated, not through the simple application of set and pre-established ritual patterns, but through 94

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FIGURE 3.3 • Oráculo. 2016. Photo: Darwin Vasquez.

creative, unique, and unrepeatable acts, invested with spontaneity, ingenuity, and aesthetic imagination. Drawings made on the ground in front of altars, known as oráculos are a good example of these types of acts, which are increasing in the cult. Something similar occurs with the role of vision during the rituals. All the ritual norms referring to the act of seeing and being seen point to the performative—in other words, creative—dimension of visual contact. Thus, when the medium looks directly at the eyes of the statues the spirit enters his body, in the same way that when the gazes of the medium and the believers cross there is a risk that the spirit, feeling “attacked,” will decide to suddenly leave. Craftspeople make the material images of María Lionza according to the mental images that they have seen in dreams or apparitions, and it is through an act of visual intuition that a believer facing an unseen image of María Lionza can determine if it is a true image of the divinity or not—in other words, if it is an image invested with indexical value. Therefore, in the cult of María Lionza, the gaze, like religious images, has a generative dimension, in the sense that it creates or establishes the initial contact between humans and spirits through which the ritual, as a collective ceremony aimed at achieving specific purposes, can take place. 95

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Notes 1. Another important type of religious image is the holy card (estampas). These small, square images in two dimensions contain the image of a god or a saint on one side and, on the other, a prayer to the figure represented, which believers are invited to repeat out loud or to themselves. The use of holy cards in this cult is widespread and is one of the most striking examples of the influence of Spanish Catholicism. The cards are sometimes, although rarely, placed on altars or visibly in the house. They are primarily intended to be carried in a pocket or wallet, hidden under a cushion or kept in a little box. The use of the card, an intimate image, is fundamentally private. In this sense, cards differ markedly from the statuettes used during the rituals. Placed on the altars, in view of all the participants in the ceremony, these statuettes, conversely, have a primarily public function. 2. Alecia Ramírez mentions that “Elisio Jiménez S. habla del culto que su padre rendía a María Lionza, representada por una estatuilla de madera que le había regalado un arriero de Paraguaná, y cuyo origen se ubica en el siglo pasado” (Elisio Jiménez S. speaks of his father worshipping María Lionza, represented by a wooden statue that a mule driver from Paraguaná had given to him, and which dates back to the last century) (1990: 101). 3. In his study on religious images, David Morgan (1998) states that images convey messages and provoke social practices, which have no equivalent in discourse and textual language. 4. I would like to thank César David Escalona, PhD candidate at the UCV of Caracas, for the information he gave me about the statues of María Lionza as a mannequin. 5. Alejandro Colina was born on 8 February 1901 in Caracas. In 1914 he began to study art at the Caracas Academy of Fine Arts. In 1918 he was arrested by the Political Police of General Juan Vicente Gómez, the president of Venezuela. A short time later, he became involved in the navy as a nautical engineer and went on several voyages. His first sculptures were exhibited in 1920. From that point forth, he became interested in ethnology and decided to go and live with the Indian communities of the Guajira ethnicity. He stayed there for eight years. Upon his return to Caracas, he worked as a sculptor. In 1933, after having created his first large sculpture called Conjunto Escultórico Plaza Tacarigua, he was sent to prison by General Vicente Gómez for opposing the dictatorial regime. Severely psychologically affected by his imprisonment, he was admitted to a psychiatric hospital upon his release from prison, and stayed there for one year. The sculptor’s most remarkable era was from 1938 onwards. He created several works, such as the Cacique Guacamaya (1942), the Busto de la Negra Matea (1951), and his most renowned sculpture, María Lionza (1951). He continued to work until his death in 1976. 6. The responses provided by the followers to this question are multiple and, as often occurs in the cult, rather inconsistent. First, a young man, a follower of the cult, told me once on the mountain of Sorte that monkeys and other animals, all good friends of María Lionza, took the offerings and brought them directly to the gods who then ate them. Then, in an urban setting where the explanation using animals could evidently not work, a follower assured me that the gods took nourishment from the offerings, but in a “spiritual” manner, that is to say, by assimilating the force. Lastly, other followers told me that the gods simply “looked” at the offerings made with satisfaction and recognition. 7. As Birgit Meyer stated, “media tend to disappear when they are accepted as devices that, naturally as it were, vanish into the substance that they mediate” (Meyer 2011: 32).

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Chapter 4 BETWEEN ART AND RELIGION



This chapter is dedicated to the image of María Lionza in the artistic sphere. Since the number of artistic pieces inspired by this divinity is vast, I shall only discuss a small selection of works that seem particularly suited to giving an account of the complexity of the figure of María Lionza. In the following pages, I shall analyze paintings, sculptures, collages, photographs, comic strips, and videos, with a view to answering the following questions: How is María Lionza represented by ancient and contemporary artists? What are the ontological characteristics of the artistic image of the goddess? And lastly, how do the artistic representations of the deity differ from the images used in the context of rituals? The inclusion of a chapter on art in a book dedicated to the cult of María Lionza can be justified on the basis of two reasons. First, since the beginning of the twentieth century, the religious and artistic spheres associated with María Lionza have been closely interlinked. Thus, artists have taken inspiration from the cult for their creations while believers have reproduced and brought new meanings to art works for ritual purposes. But the relation between both domains has been (and continues to be) much more profound and fundamental. In fact, the relationship that has existed between art and religion has been one of consubstantiality, and not one of simple mutual influence. Thus, the majority of artists interested in María Lionza have defined their creative practice in religious terms—that is to say, as an activity that enables them to be in contact with the divinity, render homage to her, or ask her for favors. The artistic ritual has thus historically been put on the same level as religious rituals—affording the art work characteristics of the religious image. Such is the case, that many artists state that their creations based on María Lionza were made under the direct influence of the goddess, the spirit of whom would have guided them—whether in the form of revelations, dreams, or episodes of spiritual possession—in their creative undertaking. Inversely, believers of María Lionza have always highlighted 97

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the importance of aesthetic sensitivity to succeed at the ritual practice. For example, as I explained in the previous chapter, to construct the altars (a key element in the performance of ceremonies), believers state that one must have a certain “art,” understood as a certain ability to create beautiful objects using a specific technique.1 In this way, the religious ritual takes some of the characteristics of the artistic creation, consequently assimilating the religious image into the work of art. Thus, if we pay heed to specific social practices performed by artists and believers, and strive to think about them beyond predetermined conceptual molds, we must accept that, in the case of the cult of María Lionza, the distinction between “art” and “religion” is often deceptive. In fact, in the cult of María Lionza there has never been a “religious” domain opposed to an “artistic” domain, but rather one single “social sphere” in which devotion has frequently been expressed in creative terms and creation as a devotional practice. The second reason to include this chapter is the vast heterogeneity of representations of María Lionza circulating in the artistic sphere—understood here as a specific domain made up of “professionals of art,” such as artists, students of fine art, museum organizers, and curators. Indeed, it is in the world of art that we encounter some of the most innovative and original depictions of the goddess. The analysis of some of these artistic pieces of the goddess enables us to comprehend the changing and polyhedric nature of this figure, as well as her ability to be reinvented time and time again through the most diverse aesthetic canons.

Pedro Centeno Vallenilla and the Discourse of Mestizaje Pictorial works make up the largest group of representations of María Lionza in art. Although my interest lies in discussing current and mainly relatively unknown artists, I cannot start a study on the paintings of María Lionza without referring to the most popular and renowned painter of the deity: Pedro Centeno Vallenilla2 (1904–88). Pedro Centeno Vallenilla’s work defined the current vision of María Lionza profoundly, to such an extent that it is considered by the majority of the population to be the “official” painting of the divinity. The influence of this author on the imaginary realm surrounding María Lionza is enormous and it is not restricted to the domain of art, but also involves the literary tradition and the practice of the cult. Vallenilla was the first artist to work with the figure of María Lionza, who he discovered through the publication of the myth of Gilberto Antolínez (D. Barreto 1998: 181). Vallenilla’s first painting of María Lionza dates back to 1925. This canvas, called María Lionza, is the image of a naked woman,

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seen from the back, beside a waterfall3 (D. Barreto 1998: 182). After this first work, Vallenilla immediately began to paint María Lionza from the front by making her character the main theme of several of his canvases. On these, the artist painted María Lionza as a mestiza and exuberant woman, accompanied by men who represented the different ethnic groups of Venezuela: black, white, Indian, and mestizos. If Vallenilla depicted María Lionza as a mestiza woman, it is because he saw in her a symbol of the fusion of the nation’s races and cultures. Consequently, Vallenilla’s work has a strong political component. On his canvases he recreates the official ideology of the mestizaje of Venezuela from the 1950s promulgated by the dictator Marcos Pérez Jiménez, and in parallel emphasizes the ethnic stereotypes of the different human groups making up the country. Like Pérez Jiménez himself, Vallenilla was a loyal follower of María Lionza. In fact, in his works, he revealed the influence the Queen supposedly had on him during his creative activity.4 María Lionza guarda la entrada de la mina (María Lionza guards the entrance to the mine) is one of the most representative works of this artist (see chapter 7). María Lionza appears in the center of the image, completely naked, her long black hair braided in a long plait that falls down her chest. Her dark-skinned body, a sign of her mixed-race roots, adopts a very sensual position. She is standing in front of the entrance to a cave, on an enormous yellow serpent that is wound around her body and whose head she is holding in her left hand, close to her face. To the right and left of the entrance to the mine numerous treasures are gathered as offerings. Two tall statues, reminiscent of pre-Hispanic native art, are sculpted in bas-relief into the rock. At the deity’s feet, with their faces to the ground, lie seven naked men: three white men, three Indians and one black man, in a position of apparent devotion or even submission. The idea of mestizaje is evoked by the color of María Lionza’s skin and by the different ethnic origins of her slaves. The presence of these seven slaves can be interpreted as an allegory of the Venezuelan people, paying their respects to María Lionza, the Queen of Venezuela.

María Lionza in Contemporary Paintings Numerous painters have recreated the figure of María Lionza after Centeno Vallenilla. A particularly interesting work on account of its violent and dramatic nature is that of Máximo Alberto Orozco Alverado,5 a Venezuelan painter living in the town of San Felipe I met in 2005. In 2006, he painted a canvas inspired by María Lionza called La virgen de los alambres 6 (the virgin of the barbed wire).

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FIGURE 4.1 • La Virgen de los Alambres. 2006. Artist: Máximo Orozco.

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This canvas brings together many elements from the tradition of María Lionza while at the same time providing a very novel depiction of the deity. She appears at the center of the image, naked, with fair skin and long black hair, reminiscent of Indian representations of the figure. Nevertheless, María Lionza dons a gold crown that reveals the influence in this painting of the model of this divinity as the Queen. In addition, the use of the term “virgin” in the title points to an association between María Lionza and the Virgin Mary. Her closed eyes and the peaceful expression on her face confer on her a serene and calm beatitude. In Orozco’s canvas, the goddess has her arms raised like in Colina’s statue, but instead of holding aloft a pelvis, she has a white dove between her hands, a symbol of peace. The figure of the dove contrasts with the gigantic and monstrous eagle hanging over the deity that, according Orozco, symbolizes the power of North America. Beneath this eagle, horror and devastation reign: on the right, infernal flames rise up, burning the dove’s wings; on the left, a ghostly face appears with a horrible hand dripping blood. At the bottom, there are faces consumed by pain and suffering. They represent the world and the vast number of humans who are subjected to the pain inflicted by the eagle and its successors. María Lionza appears like Christ amid the terror to save humanity in Orozco’s interpretation. The fact that María Lionza and the world in general are encircled by barbed wire reveals a very pessimistic vision. Brutally secluded, having become slaves to a power that looms over them, María Lionza and humanity in general do not seem capable of escaping the hellish flames. This painting joins the anti-United States discourse that Hugo Chávez spread during his years in government. The US empire is represented as the Evil that devastates Humanity and María Lionza as the hope of the traditionally oppressed people. Consequently, Orozco’s work is a very personal and politically oriented reinterpretation of the myth and image of María Lionza. Nevertheless, it would be an error to consider this painting as a distortion, deviation, or illicit manipulation of the “authentic” myth of María Lionza. As we mentioned in the first chapter, there is not one myth of María Lionza, but countless variants, partially interlinked, and equally legitimate. The power of the myth and the image of María Lionza lie precisely in their ability to be reinterpreted and realized by different social actors in order to respond to changing political and social contexts. Indeed, the political component of Orozco’s work is not found in all the paintings of the deity. The work by Felipe Guevara, Sin título 7 (untitled), is a fine example of a piece which the author seeks to liberate from any historical contextualization by combining motifs habitually associated with different versions of the figure of María Lionza.

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FIGURE 4.2 • Sin título. 2002. Artist: Felipe Guevara.

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The deity appears in the center of the image, naked, and donning a crown. She has a statuesque and slender body with proportions considered to be perfect, transmitting the flawlessness of the divinity herself. She is in a forest setting, which alludes to María Lionza’s link with virgin and wild nature. As in other paintings, the divinity has her arms raised and, between her hands, she is not holding aloft a pelvis, but a red serpent. María Lionza, painted as a white woman, maintains a close link with this animal. Wrapped around her arms, the serpent’s head is just in front of the deity’s mouth. The position of the serpent confers eroticism to the scene, reinforced by the position of María Lionza’s body, with her head hanging back and her eyes closed, as if in weakness or ecstasy. Furthermore, the red serpent contrasts with the large green serpent on which the divinity is walking. This opposition between the two serpents is very original and can be interpreted as a symbol of the deity belonging to both the divine world and the world of humankind: the green snake, big and heavy, would be identified with the ground and matter while the other, which is not in contact with the earth, would symbolize the spiritual domain. Moreover, as an artistic resource, it emphasizes the deity’s face which, completely white, shines with its own light in the middle of the darkness, thereby revealing her spiritual and celestial force. Lastly, María Lionza, donning a crown, has a pelvis behind her, an element taken from the sculpture by Colina, which symbolizes birth and fertility. These authors are united by the relationship they have with María Lionza. Both state that María Lionza intervenes in their creations, guiding them and bringing them artistic inspiration. Both reveal that, before painting the goddess, they need “to see her.” This vision does not take the form of an exnihilian imagination, but rather, a recognition. María Lionza appears, she allows herself to be seen, thereby becoming the model of her own representation. The work therefore appears as a contrast to this initial gift. The artistic works are thus conceived as tributes, offerings or rewards made to the divinity. This helps us to understand why, when Máximo Orozco gave me a present of the picture La Virgen de los Alambres in 2010, he asked me to hang it in a special place in my house, to clean it regularly, to look after it and, from time to time, to give it some offerings. This set of ritual instructions denotes a conception of the picture as a religious image, and not a “disenchanted” art work.

The Forms of Mestizaje Numerous art works evoke, from different angles, the idea of the mestizaje of the Venezuelan population and, more particularly, that of María Lionza as a synthesis of this diversity. This theme, also present on altars of the cult, can 103

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be observed in the canvas Diosa selvática 8 (Forest goddess) by Rafael Ramón González. Positioned at the center of the picture, María Lionza appears completely naked here and she is accompanied by a tapir, a serpent, and a jaguar, an animal that is also part of the mythical universe linked to this divinity. Her legs are crossed, a detail that seems insignificant but that is very orig-

FIGURE 4.3 • Diosa Selvática. 1960. Artist: Rafael Ramón González.

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inal and even surprising, if we consider that one of the most widespread rules in the cult is the prohibition of performing this gesture during rituals devoted to this divinity. María Lionza has her left hand on the tapir’s head and her right hand on her own crown. She is holding a red fruit, probably an apple. From this interpretation, it would appear that in this picture the artist seeks to identify María Lionza with Eve, the first woman in the Bible, which would once again highlight the influence of Christianity in the artistic representations of the deity. On María Lionza’s left there are three characters representing the African world: a musician who plays a drum, another who plays the maracas and, lastly, a man with a basket on his head. On the divinity’s right, there are five characters, three in the foreground and two further back, evoking the Indian world. As indicated in the title, the scene is a wild forest setting comprising trees, flowers, rivers, and lakes. Certainly, one of the most remarkable and unique aspects of this painting is that it is impossible to determine the ethnic origin of María Lionza. Her skin and hair are green with red and ochre tones, matching the dominant tones in the canvas and underlining the essential link uniting the divinity with nature in general. This work demonstrates how art took the liberty to leave aside a fundamental aspect of the imagination surrounding María Lionza and that, in oral or visual forms, is rarely omitted in the practice of the cult, namely, her ethnic characterization. Indeed, we can state that María Lionza represents mestizaje here, since she is accompanied by Indian and black people, and she is holding a red apple, a symbol of the Christian tradition. However, it is evident that, compared to other works discussed, the figure herself lacks racial specification here. During my stay in San Felipe, I contacted Ramón, who at the time was a restorer in the Carmelo Fernández Museum, where this painting was exhibited. Ramón is a follower of the cult of María Lionza. He often smokes cigarettes before the altar in his house and goes to the mountain of Sorte to perform rituals, in which he assumes the role of banco. During one of my visits to the museum, Ramón told me that for several days he had been working on the restoration of a painting of María Lionza. I immediately wondered what kind of relation a restorer who believes in María Lionza could have with a painting representing the divinity. Several days later, I visited Ramón’s workshop with my camera. When I arrived, he was carefully and painstakingly restoring the painting Diosa selvática. As he continued to work, Ramón told me that restoring images of María Lionza was, for him, a means of paying homage to the divinity and of demonstrating his devotion, respect, and gratitude. In fact, by devoting his time to restoring paintings, Ramón sought to show the deity his love for her and his loyalty. Furthermore, embellishing the representations of the goddess enabled him to show her to the world “as she deserves to be shown,” that is, in all her beauty. Lastly, he stated 105

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that working on a canvas of María Lionza enabled him to become closer to her, to be in contact with her. Ramón behaved toward this painting the way one behaves toward altar images and his words revealed that, for him, the restoration of the paintings of María Lionza had strong similarities with the religious ritual. This episode shows how an artistic image of María Lionza can become, in a context as unrelated to the ritual as a restoration workshop, a religious image, that is, an image that is not just a representation of the deity, but in which she is simply present.

The Diffuse Image Up to this point, the problem of the representation of María Lionza’s body has proved to be crucial to understand the social, political, religious, ethnic, and feminine discourses surrounding this deity. The subject of the corporal characteristics of María Lionza, which can be observed in the literary and artistic field, is very significant in the practice of the cult, since the entire mechanism of worshipping the divinity through image is based on the idea that only a faithful representation of her body can act as a mediator between this world and the hereafter. Therefore, in the practice of the cult, representing María Lionza also entails recreating her body. This is not the case in the realm of art. In fact, artists have taken the liberty of taking a step that would have no sense in the practice of the cult: creating an image of the divinity in which her body and her face have disappeared. Having said this, what does it mean to represent María Lionza without showing her body or her face? How can we know it is indeed María Lionza? What are the implications of this act from an ethnic and religious standpoint? One of the personalities who made the biggest impression on me during my stay in Venezuela is surely Hugo Álvarez. Unique and radical, an avid reader of Gilberto Antolínez and a strong believer in María Lionza, Álvarez is a passionate and compulsive painter, capable of creating tens of drawings in a single day, and ceaselessly experimenting with new forms and novel techniques. He devotes the majority of his time to the subject of María Lionza. Of the hundreds of works inspired by this divinity that he has created during his career, I would like to mention one produced in 2014, called Las Tres Potencias. The painting presents three standing characters corresponding to María Lionza, El Negro Felipe, and El Indio Guacaipuro. María Lionza is at the center of these three figures. Naked, she dons a crown of leaves and is holding an object in her hand, probably a piece of fruit. El Negro Felipe and El Indio Guacaipuro appear as mere silhouettes, without any defining features. Using thick and animated tracing, a midway point between the sketch and the finished piece, Álvarez’s work has been created with a deliberately 106

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FIGURE 4.4 • Las Tres Potencias. 2005. Artist: Hugo Álvarez.

anti-naturalist style. Here, María Lionza has been stripped of her face and of any elements that point to her divine origin. Nevertheless, her silhouette is well-defined. In Milagro Lugo’s painting Sin título9 (Untitled), however, the deity’s body is completely erased. On a dark brown background, we observe a gold 107

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crown with seven points inlaid with seven precious stones—it is important to remember that the number seven is traditionally associated with the figure of María Lionza. A series of gold dots descend from the crown, like splinters of gold, creating out an outline corresponding to that of the deity’s bust, which is mainly used in rituals and in which the divinity is represented as a white or mestiza woman. Under these gold dots, there is a large bowl that appears to be an evocation of the pelvis, and therefore, a reference to Colina’s statue. In this painting, María Lionza has completely lost her physicality. The representation of the goddess has become more abstract, more ephemeral, and more immaterial. The pictorial recreation of María Lionza has therefore lost her representative component. In the paintings devoted to the deity, it is no longer necessary to draw a portrait of her. It is sufficient to evoke her presence and her power using shapes and colors. Is this also the case for sculptures?

Sculptures of María Lionza The most renowned sculpture representing María Lionza is certainly that of Alejandro Colina that depicts the deity as an Indian astride a tapir and holding a pelvis aloft. This sculpture has been remodeled and reinterpreted by numerous artists. The work by Mireya Camacho, Velación el la montaña10 (Velación—spiritual purification—in the mountain), which shows a scene of devotion to María Lionza, is a good example of this. On rocky ground, we see seven believers leaving offerings at the feet of the deity, who is naked and astride a tapir. Nevertheless, the artist seeks to show us that the believers are not paying homage to the statue, but to María Lionza herself. The deity is not grey, like the pedestal on which she rests at the entrance to Caracas. On the contrary, her body, flesh-colored, seems to indicate that she is indeed a living being, a person. The use of Colina’s sculpture as a representative model of María Lionza reveals the ambiguity of the relation between image and divinity that exists in the cult and in art. The sculpture of María Lionza is identified with the divinity herself; the deity becomes confused with her own image. The relations maintained with the images of gods are complex and, at times, misleading: what at first may appear to be an iconoclastic act may in the end prove to be an expression of respect, or even devotion toward the divinities. The case of the sculptures of Victoria Proaño is a perfect example of the ambivalence of this behavior towards the images. The creation process of these sculptures is as follows. First, the artist goes to the Santa Bárbara (San Felipe) religious statue factory that I mentioned in the previous chapter. There, she buys unpainted plaster busts of María Lionza as a queen. Then, 108

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FIGURE 4.5 • Transmutación de la imagen. 2006. Artist: Victoria Proaño.

in her workshop, she completely modifies and changes the sculpture, which undergoes a radical transformation. Painted with different colors and decorated with materials and hanging objects, after having passed through the artist’s hands María Lionza’s bust is barely recognizable. In parallel to certain paintings mentioned above, in Victoria Proaño’s creations, María Lionza’s face is erased, or more accurately, hidden. At first, and before meeting the artist, I interpreted Victoria Proaño’s work as an act of iconoclasm, or violence on the image. Taking the religious image of María Lionza to repaint it and mask it seemed to me to be an explicit act of protest and provocation that I interpreted as a sign of opposition to the cult and, more specifically, to the deification and devotion dynamics of the representations of the goddess. The aim of Victoria Proaño’s work therefore appeared to me to be to secularize the religious image of the deity. Through these modifications, I thought that the artist wanted to transmit the idea that the image of the deity was only an image, only a disenchanted object that, therefore, could be freely altered according to one’s desires. My interpretation was not very different from that of some believers who, seeing the sculptures in an exhibition, considered that making the image of María Lionza most associated with the cult unrecognizable was almost blasphe109

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mous. The violence inflicted on the image was interpreted as an attack on the deity herself. Nevertheless, speaking to Victoria Proaño directly, I realized that the meaning that she attributed to her work was quite different. First of all, Victoria Proaño proved to be a fervent believer in María Lionza. She explained to me that, since she was a small child, she had felt a particular draw toward and interest in this divinity. One day, as a teenager, she had a vision of María Lionza who since then has regularly appeared to her in her dreams. According to the artist, this divinity, of remarkable strength and beauty, has always been close to her and helped her in difficult moments. Therefore, the creation of her sculptures has a dual goal. On the one hand, Proaño wants to thank María Lionza for the help and support she has afforded her, with the work on her image being a way of paying her homage, of demonstrating her consideration for her; in short, it is a type of offering. On the other hand, through these sculptures, Victoria Proaño seeks to become closer to María Lionza and to come into contact with her. This becoming closer to the divinity includes reinventing her image or, more precisely, personalizing it. In fact, Victoria Proaño’s work is very unique because it is not the figure of María Lionza that serves as an inspiration, but rather her image. It also reveals a close link between artistic creation and religious devotion. The transformation of the religious image using artistic procedures linked to the artist’s imagination does not give rise to a “purely artistic” image but to an artistic and religious image or to an image that is religious because it is the result of a creative process—in other words, that is artistic because it is the result of a religious experience.

Collage, Video, and Photography In the artistic sphere, María Lionza is reinvented on all kinds of supports. One of the most original is that of photomontages. Let us take the example of Juan José Olavarría. This Venezuelan artist, also linked to the cult of María Lionza, is the author of a series of works on the theme of the image of María Lionza in which we see the statue of Alejandro Colina placed in renowned locations, such as the Place du Commerce in Lisbon, Red Square in Moscow, and the Eiffel Tower in Paris, among others. One of his works shows the statue of María Lionza on a pedestal in the center of Barcelona, in the same spot where the well-known statue of Columbus is located. Olavarría’s false photo creates a strong effect of objectivity. By seeing her, we could think that it is real—that is to say that it is a faithful reproduction of a monument existing in the external world. Moreover, the choice of black and white reproduces the texture of old photos, affording the photomontage the appearance of a historical document (Burke 2001). 110

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FIGURE 4.6 • Todo Barcelona. 2016. Artist: Juan José Olavarría.

Juan José Olavarría’s work is a magnificent ironic exercise involving three different domains: the statue of María Lionza, the places where she is located, and the photographic image itself. First, it is important to remember that Alejandro Colina’s statue is closely linked to the urban landscape of Caracas where it has become an icon. Its location on the eastern motorway, one of the most important access routes into the Venezuelan capital has, for believers, a strong symbolic component. In the middle of the motorway, María Lionza “looks at” who is entering the city. We could say that in some way she is monitoring the entrance to Caracas. In addition to this protective role, the image of María Lionza at the entrance to Caracas serves to remind people arriving there of the country’s Indian roots. The other example that exists of Colina’s statue can be found, as mentioned in chapter 2, in Chivacoa, near the mountain of Sorte, that is, in a place closely linked to the cult of María Lionza. In both cases, Colina’s sculpture is consubstantially linked to its entourage, to such an extent that the relation between image and context is perceived in terms of necessity. Olavarría’s work plays precisely on the break in this relation between image and context, that is, on the denaturalization of the image because it is located in a place that is alien to it and where it apparently no longer makes any sense. Next, the ironic nature of Olavarría’s work also targets the places where the image of the statue of María Lionza is located. These places have a feature in common: they are emblematic locations of the European historic heritage of universally renowned towns. Furthermore, all of these places and historical monuments that the artist uses are surrounded by a sort of sacredness, 111

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an aura that transforms them into quasi-religious locations. In this regard, Olavarría’s photomontages are doubly iconoclastic: first, they imply a violence perpetrated on the image of María Lionza, for the “natural place” of this representation is Venezuela and more specifically the Mountain of Sorte. Second, Olavarría’s works convey a violence exercised on the European sites where the image of the goddess is placed. Indeed, within the context of contemporary industry of tourism and of reification of historical and cultural heritage, these locations have acquired a sort of “secular sacredness.” Therefore, placing the statue of a naked Indian woman astride a tapir and holding aloft a pelvis in the middle of the court of Versailles or of Red Square in Moscow takes on the sense of a sacrilege, of irreverence, in short, of profanation of a place of worship. Lastly, Olavarría’s photomontages concern the topic of the truthfulness of photography. As we observed in the third chapter, the history of photography has been defined by the belief in its referential value. The photographic image is a trace of reality that forces the spectator to believe in the external existence of the photographed object. If something appears in the photograph, it is because it exists outside of it. Photography, in fact, only captures that which has a material and objective existence, or, in other words, that which is. However, the referent of Olavarría’s montages, presented in the form of photographs, does not exist. María Lionza cannot be found in the Buda Castle or beside the Eiffel Tower. These compositions are, therefore, impossible and false photographs. And nevertheless, at a first glance, we are tempted to confer a value of reality to these images. The only view of the photographic texture triggers us to attribute a referential component to the montages. It is only afterward that we realize that it is a game. Olavarría shows us that the authority that we attribute to photography is essentially based on aesthetic criteria concerning the formal characteristics of the image more than its content. Another original artistic proposal is that of the Venezuelan artist Gala Garrido. Garrido photographs herself dressed up as María Lionza. To do so, she incorporates some of the divinity’s emblematic elements such as the gold crown, the blue dress and, in particular, the huge serpent wrapped around her neck. The wooden necklace that she wears is a clear reference to the indigenous world. In her work, Garrido takes inspiration from holy cards, exaggerating their kitsch element to an extreme. This can be seen in the brash and aggressive colors that the artist uses, as well as the background color of the image, a childish sky blue. By revealing her right breast (with a piercing), the artist plays with the sexual nature that María Lionza’s image has always had and that in recent years has become evident in the holy cards in which the goddess is represented as a queen. In addition, with this detail, Garrido

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FIGURE 4.7 • María de la Onza. 2010. Artist: Gala Garrido Lozada (Galagalo).

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seeks to establish a link between María Lionza and the renowned Amazonian warriors. According to the artist, both figures symbolize the power of women over men. In short, Garrido’s work is clearly transgressive, corrosive, and irreverent. The artist uses the aesthetics of the cards to highlight that which has always characterized the image and cult of María Lionza: the indestructible link between art and religion, between sacredness and sexuality, between seriousness and irony.11

The Museum as a Cult Space On 3 June 2006, the Carmelo Fernández Museum of San Felipe organized a private viewing of the exhibition María Lionza, religiosidad mágica de Venezuela (María Lionza, magical religiosity of Venezuela), which brought together a great number of art pieces inspired by the goddess. That day, while I walked around the exhibition rooms, I noticed a woman who was looking at a painting of María Lionza with great attention. Taking advantage of a moment in which the room was almost empty, visibly tense and nervous, the woman closed her eyes, lowered her head, and whispered a prayer. Upon finishing her prayer, she solemnly touched the forehead of the figure of María Lionza in the painting. Lastly, she blessed herself before quickly leaving, as if she was afraid she might be seen. Some hours later, I had the opportunity to speak to this believer. I admitted that I had seen her praying before the painting and, after excusing myself for having unwittingly witnessed such an intimate moment, I asked her why she had behaved in this manner. She replied to me that, by looking at that image, she had “felt” the presence of La Reina. It is through this intuition, “loaded with emotion” she said, that it took on the value of a religious image. It may seem astonishing that this believer could feel a religious intuition of this type in such a seemingly non-religious place as a museum, where the expected behavior of the spectator is—in theory—that of contemplation and judgment of the art work and not that of prayer or devotion. Nevertheless, and although this may seem contradictory, the exhibition context may have contributed to the deification of the work. As many authors have indicated, museums have a close analogy with sanctuaries and places of worship (Clair 2007). The clean, white walls afford the museum rooms a look of pure, immaculate space that symbolically oppose the impure and corrupted atmosphere of the exterior world. In museums, we find art works, unique— and therefore extraordinary—objects that have a very particular aura.12 This is why we cannot touch them or go too close to them. We could think that the “sacred” atmosphere of museums may have contributed to the fact

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that this believer assumed a position of respect or even admiration to the painting, which would have facilitated the attribution of religious value to this. Whatever the case, this ethnographic experience demonstrates that in the cult of María Lionza both religious images and art works may have, from the perspective of the believer-spectator, a transcendent dimension. Nevertheless, they do differ on one point: the moment of attribution of this religiosity. In the case of the statuettes used in the cult, the religious value attributed to the images precedes the relation that we establish with them; while in the case of the artistic images this value is a consequence of the relation with the image. For example, when a believer buys a statue of María Lionza in an esoteric shop, they know in advance that this image is connected to the divinity through a link of resemblance—or at least assumes that the divinity approves of this representation as an honest and realistic image of herself through which she accepts to make herself present to her followers. Before purchasing it, the believer already knows the religious potential of the image. As regards the artistic image, the opposite occurs: when the spectator-believer is, for example, in front of a painting of María Lionza that they have never seen before—like in the ethnographic experience explained above—they know that they are standing before a unique work, not initially conceived for religious purposes, and the result of the imagination of an artist. This work does not a priori have a link with the hereafter. It is only after observing the painting, and as a result of the impression that this has made on the spectator, that the religious value is attributed. Here, as Claude LéviStrauss would say, “it is aesthetic emotion provoked by a successful spectacle [in other words by a representation of the goddess deemed to be sincere] which retrospectively validates the belief in its supernatural origin” (1993: 172). The “enthusiasm” felt before the artistic work of María Lionza would be a sign of its “immediate” value, of its link with the divinity, and therefore of its power of presentation.

Conclusions I started this chapter about the artistic representations of María Lionza by posing two essential questions to which I would now like to respond. The first concerns the way in which María Lionza is represented in the artistic sphere, while the second refers to the characteristics of the artistic image of the divinity and to its possible differences compared to the religious image. As regards the first question, this brief collection of art works affirms that there is a vast and varied number of works inspired by María Lionza,

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created on all kinds of supports (painting, sculpture, collage, drawing, photography, audio-visual) belonging to very disparate styles and artistic trends. All of the ambivalences inherent in the figure of the goddess—whether ethnic, moral or related to femininity—are entirely present in the world of art. Art has often pushed the contradictions inherent in the character to the limit. Moreover, while in the domain of the cult, the models of María Lionza have few variations, however, in the artistic domain the appearance of new representations—or the reinterpretation of old representations—is continuous. The artists representing María Lionza, especially the more contemporary ones, share the idea that to create means creating “something new,” that is, going against the established representative forms. This negative aspect, which is one of the characteristics of modern art, has given rise to unclassifiable, irreverent, and provocative representations of María Lionza, which we see in photography, cinema, and comic strips. It is interesting to note that this creative activity is not performed per se—that is to say, with strictly aesthetic aims—but that it becomes a privileged strategy to establish contact with the divinity herself. Once again, visual creativity reveals itself to be an essential relational act, helping to establish links with supernatural beings and consequently intervene in the social world through their mediation. This leads us to the subject of the comparison between the religious image and the artistic image. First, it is important to note that almost all the artists I interviewed during my fieldwork described the act of artistic creation in similar terms to the religious experience. According to them, the “decision” (which in fact is not one) to paint or to sculpt María Lionza is not strictly free and individual but it stems from a sort of appeal from the goddess herself. As regards the production process of the art work, it is often described as a type of spiritual possession, as a state of near-ecstasy, the artistic ritual thereby taking on the logic of a religious ritual. This description of the artistic creation process in terms of divine inspiration is strongly reminiscent of the belief in the origin of the religious images (Belting 1994). In the field of painting, but also in that of sculpture, we observe a process of erasing the goddess’s body which has become more blurry, vague, and imprecise. This loss of sharpness of María Lionza’s face and silhouette has important consequences, of which the most significant is the impossibility of attributing a precise ethnic identity to the divinity. If artists have decided to erase María Lionza’s body and to represent her in an unspecified way, it is due to a will to remove all the marks that link her to materiality, to take away her corporal component in order to make her visible in a nonhuman, purely divine form. In other words, this process of abstracting the figure of María Lionza in art is aimed at representing the divinity by highlighting her spir-

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itual power and her universal nature. Numerous artists working on María Lionza appear to have reached the conclusion that universality can only be represented through the dissolution of form. As an artist-believer told me in San Felipe: “If María Lionza is painted as an Indian, this means that she is not white, black, or mestiza. If she is painted as kind, this implies that she is not malevolent; and if she is depicted as a virgin, this means that she is not a woman with an erotic or sensual nature. Nevertheless, she is all of these at once.” The abstract representation of divinities bears however, a kind of contradiction in terms. It expresses the impossibility of representing divine beings, but, at the same time, it refuses to assume all the total consequences of this impossibility—which would lead to iconoclasm—and evokes, despite everything, their existence through forms and colors. It is a representation that expresses the impossibility of representing, but it is a representation all the same. Here we are tackling a primary problem in the anthropology of images that goes beyond the specific case of the cult of María Lionza: representation of the gods. Representing the gods entails a paradox. Their universal essence and unlimited power can only be represented using complete forms. By representing them, that is to say, by giving them a specific face and body, we manage to reveal what they are, but at the cost of implying everything they are not. It is for this reason, from the believer’s standpoint, that gods can never be reduced to their representation. Present in images, they always remain on a level of transcendence. The last topic that has appeared throughout this chapter is that of iconoclasm, that is, violence inflicted on images (Boldrick and Clay 2007). The statues by Victoria Proaño, the collages by Juan José Olavarría, and even the photographs by Gala Garrido appear to be, at first, assaults on the images of María Lionza and, consequently, on the goddess herself. Nevertheless, we have seen, from the artists’ perspective, all of the alterations made to the images—as mocking as they may seem—have a meaning of recognition and even approach María Lionza. Therefore, it is a creative destruction that deconstructs and upturns the religious image, not to destroy it, but to continue it in another form.13 If, in the domain of art, legitimate or socially tolerated iconoclasm can be performed, it is because the artist is not deemed to be a believer, nor the art work deemed to be a religious image. The principles on which the two activities are hinged are apparently different. However, I have shown how this clear distinction between art and religion only operates on a discursive and institutional level. Indeed, when we observe what people do, we must come to terms with the fact that numerous artists attribute a religious meaning to their creative processes while believers often conceive religious rituals as an art practice.

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Notes 1. The ability to make beautiful altars is often defined by believers in terms of a gift, a concept historically used to refer to the innate creative qualities of the artist-genius (Price 1989). 2. Pedro Centeno Vallenilla was born in Barcelona (Venezuela) on 13 June 1904. Aged eleven, he entered the Caracas School of Fine Arts. Following this, he studied abroad in New York, Paris, and Rome, where he discovered the works of Michelangelo who greatly influenced his style. After obtaining a diploma in law from the University of Caracas, he had a diplomatic role as a representative of Venezuela in the three foreign cities where he studied. In 1947, he founded a free art school in Caracas, which became a meeting place for many Venezuelan intellectuals. During the 1950s, his creative boom period, he was associated with the government of the dictator Marcos Pérez Jiménez. He died in 1988 in Caracas. The work of Centeno Vallenilla has a singular place in Venezuelan painting. It is removed from the three dominant trends of the beginning of the twentieth century: landscapes, naturalism, and social realism. The subjects of his compositions, often very allegorical, are American mestizaje and in particular the figures of the caciques, whom he interprets as historical symbols of South America. 3. It is significant that the first time Vallenilla represented the deity he showed, precisely, her back; in other words, her face was hidden. This decision leads to several interpretations: we can presume that the author was unsure about the ethnic identity he should give the deity and, in the face of doubt, he preferred to show her back. We could also think that Vallenilla chose to hide the face of the figure to allude to her distance, her mystery, and her inaccessibility to humankind. 4. Antonieta Álvarez, personal communication. 5. In the case of artists, I will not use pseudonyms, but their real names. This decision was made in agreement with the artists themselves. 6. La Virgen de los alambres. Oil on canvas. 65 x 44 cm. 2006. Roger Canals’ collection. 7. Sin título. Mixed technique on canvas. 200 x 100 cm. 2002. Author’s collection. 8. Diosa selvática. Oil on canvas. 107 x 82 cm. 1960. Collection from the Carmelo Fernández Museum (San Felipe). 9. Sin título. Diverse materials on canvas. 120 x 100 cm. Collection from the Aroa Arts and Sciences Association. 10. Velación en la montaña. Painted clay. 14 x 18 x 20 cm. Garibaldi Bolignini collection. 11. The figure of María Lionza has been used by cartoonists. The collection Comics mitos urbanos for example, dedicated the entirety of its third edition, published in 2010, to works inspired by the goddess. The volume brings together works by different artists, mainly Venezuelan—although artists from Mexico, Bolivia, and Colombia also participate—who recreate the figure of María Lionza and her symbolic universe in different ways. The majority of works use the myth of Antolínez as a reference. María Lionza appears in these cases as an Indian woman of outstanding beauty and sensuality, associated with water, the tapir, and nature. However, other stories emphasize Colina’s statue and depict María Lionza as an urban deity who, amid cars and skyscrapers, protects her believers from delinquency and other dangers of the large city. Lastly, other stories take the practice of the cult and, more specifically, the possession rituals, as a main theme.

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12. I am referring to a classical idea of art work. Since the avant-garde movement, many art movements (the Situationist International movement, outsider art, and relational art) have sought to question the supposed sacred value of art work. 13. This is an instance of what Bruno Latour and Peter Weibel call “iconoclash.” According to them, “Iconoclasm is when we know what is happening in the act of breaking and what the motivations for what appears as a clear project of destruction are; iconoclash, on the other hand, is when one does not know, one hesitates, one is troubled by an action for which there is no way to know, without further inquiry, whether it is destructive or constructive” (2002: 14).

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Chapter 5 BODIES, DREAMS, AND APPARITIONS



The two previous chapters were devoted to the material image of María Lionza, that is, to the representations of the goddess on a physical support. This chapter, however, is dedicated to the corporeal images and mental images of the divinity. The former concern representations through the human body, and the latter refer to apparitions, visions, and dreams. The reason to place these three types of images in a single chapter is my desire to tackle a main idea of this work that I shall develop in the seventh chapter: there is a close and dynamic relation between the different images of María Lionza regardless of their supports, which makes it impossible to fully comprehend one type of image without interpreting them in light of the others. That a statue, collage, or painting is an image appears obvious. However, in what sense can we say that the human body, dreams, visions, and apparitions are also images?

The Corporeal Image María Lionza becomes a corporeal image when she is represented or physically embodied either by mediums during possession rituals or by female dancers and theater and film actresses in the context of a spectacle. Undoubtedly, the relation between the medium and the spirit in a possession ritual and that between the actor and the character play on different levels. First, the spirit of María Lionza, to whom we attribute an independent existence, is deemed to temporarily replace that of the medium, while in dance, theater, or cinema, the actress is deemed to consciously and voluntarily play a role that she has previously rehearsed (V. Turner 1982). In short, possession is based on the idea of the presentation of the spirit—hence why it concerns a religious image—while theater and dance are based on representation. The meaning attributed to each of these corporeal images varies, both for the

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person through whom María Lionza becomes visible and for the public that is observing. Nevertheless, the principle is essentially the same: during possession or theatrical representation, the body of the medium or the actor is only deemed to be the matter, base, or support through which the figure (or the role) of María Lionza is expressed. Despite their differences, what we observe during a possession ritual or a theater play is very similar: a body that no longer reflects its ordinary identity but represents another being, whether a fictional character, as occurs in theater, or a spirit considered to be real, as occurs in possession. In short, a body that has become an image. From the point of view of the support, the main characteristic of the corporeal images is that the referent—that is, the spirit of María Lionza (possession) or the character of the divinity (theater, dance)—appears not as an object like material images, but as a subject. Certainly, religious images (and often artistic images too) are frequently treated by believers as if they were subjects—these are, as we have seen, images that possess what I call a “double regime.” This does not prevent paintings, statues, or drawings from being— at least, in theory—objects with an external link to the divinity based on the idea of representation and resemblance and not on that of presentation. On the contrary, when María Lionza appears or is interpreted through a living body she as perceived as a subject, that is, as an independent being, capable of acting and making decisions by herself. Another difference between the corporeal image and the material image is that the body—and particularly the face—of the possessed medium or the actor are not deemed to be a portrait of the goddess. The physical characteristics of the medium or the actor do not condition the type of spirit that they can embody or the character that they can play. The link that the corporeal image has with its referent is not one of physical resemblance. Disguise and make-up are two strategies used in corporeal images to make the body and face of the referent visible in the support that represents them. These two strategies are nevertheless very limited and only have an evocative function, which cannot distract from the fact that the body that we see in possession and in the spectacles is not that of the divinity herself, but another body. Therefore, in the corporeal image, as spectators, we have the experience of perceiving the behavior of the divinity; however, her appearance remains unknown. The case of material images would be the contrary: we only have access to the appearance of the character—and still, in many cases (like in the example that I have given of the professor Lino Valles) this resemblance is limited to being a verisimilitude. The “behavior” of material images is only visible during miracles, when images are fully identified with their referent, which has momentarily become a subject. Corporeal images are, therefore, as limited and partial as material images, but in a different way.

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Possession by María Lionza Today One of the greatest disappointments I had during my first field study in 2005 occurred when I started to conduct research into possession by María Lionza. The first believers and mediums with whom I spoke told me that nowadays the spirit of this divinity descended into mediums very rarely, if at all. This reduction or even disappearance of possession by María Lionza contrasts, according to older believers whom I interviewed, with the reality of the past, when the spirit of the divinity “almost always” descended. This is an argument that we also find in the work of other researchers who have studied the cult (Díaz 1987). The question posed regarding this situation was: why would María Lionza have stopped descending into mediums? Followers gave me three responses to this question. First, some stated that María Lionza was a spirit of such high light that no human was capable of hosting her in their body. Then, there are believers who maintain that María Lionza hardly ever descended because she was disappointed by the current practice of the cult and, particularly, by the performance of certain possession rituals with self-mutilation and animal sacrifices—that is to say, by the rapprochement of the cult to other religious practices such as Santería and Palo. Lastly, certain young mediums told me that the possession of María Lionza was a very ancient, outdated practice, belonging to their grandparents’ era. When I asked one of them about the origin of this disappearance, he told me that she “had withdrawn” from rituals to allow room for “more current” spirits, such as the Vikings or the malandros. It seems obvious that María Lionza descends much less than she did, for example, during the first third of the twentieth century. Nevertheless, she does continue to descend, although in very exceptional situations and always in private ceremonies. Unlike the majority of spirits, María Lionza tends to descend only into the bodies of young girls, particularly virgins, and elderly people, especially women. This can be explained in part by the fact that they are feminine bodies, like the goddess, and because the young girls and elderly women would represent the two stages of life in which the body is at its most pure, that is, when there is less carnal desire and cult of the body. This detail on the purity of the body is revealing, since it shows the introduction, in relation to the possession of María Lionza, of a discourse of the devaluation of corporeal passions and sexual relations that we have already seen in chapter 3. This discourse, probably influenced by Catholicism, clashes with the entire mythological tradition concerning María Lionza in which she is depicted as a beautiful and seductive woman who charms men and with the explicitly sexual nature of numerous rituals. From a more general standpoint, a permanent tension regarding the role and the moral status of sexuality can 122

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be observed in the cult. For example, the majority of believers state that mediums should not have any sexual relations for at least seven days before a possession ritual. According to them, the body can only welcome the spirit if it is pure, clean, and virgin-like. Moreover, during rituals, references to sexuality—not in terms of censure but as a pleasurable and socially positive activity—are constant. During trances, many spirits (especially those belonging to the Black Court) make jokes of a sexual nature, which are often very excessive and sometimes obscene. As regards the believers, sexuality is one of the privileged topics of conversation during ceremonies, and numerous rituals are devoted to improving one’s sex life. Thus, nowadays María Lionza prefers to descend into the bodies of young girls or elderly women. But, how does this possession take place? What behavior does María Lionza display when she enters the body of mediums? Historical data (D. Barreto 1998; Manara 1995; Pollak-Eltz [1972] 2004), reports from believers, and my own field observations are unanimous on this point: María Lionza descends calmly and serenely, in a saint-like fashion, and always appears as a benevolent divinity. The moral ambiguity and the sexual component that are attributed to her in numerous mythical versions or artistic creations are absent in possession. During the past ten years, I have attended several rituals in which the spirit of María Lionza has descended.1 Of these I would like to mention three. The first of these rituals took place in Quivayo, at the foot of the mountain of Sorte, on 20 November 2005, María Lionza’s birthday. I went to the mountain of Sorte in the hope of witnessing a ritual in which the spirit of María Lionza would intervene. The start of my research had been disappointing: All of the mediums told me that they could not contain the spirit of the Queen because it was much too powerful for them. Nevertheless, as I passed by an altar, I saw that a woman was smoking a cigar and seeking permission from the gods to be possessed. I asked a follower with which spirit she wanted to work and he told me that it would be that of María Lionza. I then asked the banco for permission to enter their cult space. The chief medium, a woman of approximately 40 years of age called Blanca, continued to smoke tobacco before the altar, her eyes fixed on a statuette of María Lionza as a naked Indian woman astride a tapir. When she saw me, she beckoned me to come closer. I stood next to her and explained the reason for my visit. Blanca accepted my presence and allowed me to film the ritual. But her permission was not sufficient; I also needed permission from María Lionza. She smoked another cigar and threw the butt on the ground three times. She then came toward me, nodded her head, and began to tell me, as if training me before the ceremony, her version of the myth of María Lionza, which was practically identical to that of Homero Salazar described in chapter 1 (revealing once again the historical relation that has existed between the literary 123

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sphere and the popular practice of the cult). Blanca insisted on the fact that it was still possible today to make pacts with the goddess. A rich family from Chivacoa had done so by asking for riches from María Lionza in exchange for gratitude and devotion. After having obtained a considerable fortune, the members of the family did not however maintain their promises of adoration to the goddess. For this reason, she immediately took all of their money and all of their belongings, thereby subjecting them to extreme poverty. After giving her account of the myth of María Lionza to me, Blanca told me that it was time to start the ceremony in honor of the divinity. Blanca’s ritual commenced in a rather unusual manner. While Blanca was still seated before the altar smoking a cigar, a man approached her and held out his left hand, while holding a straw hat with his right. The man then closed his eyes and, after several minutes, began to tremble and murmur. In the meantime, two bancos, positioned behind Blanca and the other medium, recited prayers dedicated to María Lionza with the repetitive presence of the phrase Santa María Madre de Dios (Holy Mary mother of God). The man had been possessed, probably by a chamarrero (traditional healer); he then blessed Blanca, and warmly embraced her. He put his hand on her forehead and she began to tremble until she was possessed by the spirit of María Lionza. At first, the possessed woman, standing up, showed an expression of surprise and even stupefaction. She walked around with her eyes wide open (demonstrating the importance of the eyes to show the presence of a spirit of great light in the medium’s body), her arms held back, and an expression of astonishment on her face. According to a believer who was observing the ceremony, the behavior of La Reina was due to the fact that she was surprised to find herself among so many people. “She rarely descends,” he told me, “and she is not used to this.” Her arms open, she looked to the right and left without uttering a word. She introduced herself as the goddess of the mountain and greeted the people present. Just then, a group of musicians had started to play songs in honor of María Lionza, to which she danced, cigarette in hand, at first alone, and then with the men, often looking at them seductively. Following this dance, some attendees gave the goddess a bouquet of roses and a bottle of champagne, some of which she poured over her head, and then over the heads of some children. She served herself some champagne in a flute, drank some but passed it around to the attendees, and told them to drink some too. At a particular moment, María Lionza said “those of you who trade raise your hand.” She had some coins brought to her on a tray and then gave them to them, wishing them prosperity in their commercial projects. After this, she talked to those believers who had romantic problems and gave them advice on how to be more successful with women. All of these events were accompanied by songs in which María Lionza was essentially qualified as a monarca (monarch) and in which the term Ave María often 124

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appeared. Finally, the believers gave her a cake, which she tasted. Then she left, thanking the attendees for their presence. This ritual is extremely rich and original. First, it is important to highlight that María Lionza descends in the presence of another possessed person who requests her presence. This is a sign of the power of the goddess. She does not only appear to humans but also to other spirits. Furthermore, this ceremony includes numerous references to Catholicism, such as the lyrics of the songs and the gesture of passing the flute of champagne around among the attendees, as if it were the red wine symbolizing the blood of Christ. María Lionza is evoked here as a divinity of love and fortune. We can thus see how this ritual incorporates different characterizations of the character that we find in the literature, mythology, and art. The second ritual of possession by the spirit of María Lionza took place in May 2006 in the house of Carla, a medium I had met on the mountain of Sorte.2 Carla and her family live in three or four small, attached brick houses, which they built themselves in Baruta, in the outskirts of Caracas. Two places are devoted to the rituals: one of the small houses, which contains a large number of images of gods, in front of which Carla performs divination and purification rituals; and another place before a magnificent stone and cement altar. This small yet very solid temple protects the images from the rain and from the occasional falling of earth and stones from the mountain. Carla has a teenage daughter, Barbara, who is also a medium. According to her mother, since her early childhood, Barbara had the ability to be possessed by María Lionza. She was called Barbara in honor of Saint Barbara, a very appreciated and respected divinity among this group, somewhat identified with María Lionza. On 23 April 2006, many people went to Carla’s house, each of them bearing presents and offerings. Before the beginning of the rituals, all the attendees—myself included—had to be spiritually cleansed in order to not send bad energies to the mediums during the possession. This purification was performed using a bath with flowers and alcohol, particularly rum. Then, Carla asked the spirits for permission to perform the rituals and for me to be present during the ceremony. The responses were positive, and, from that moment forth, several healing, initiation, and divination rituals took place, accompanied by possessions. Holding my camera, I waited for María Lionza to descend into Barbara’s body. Suddenly, an elderly woman from Barbara’s family stood before the altar and was possessed. From the very start, her trance seemed strange to me. She appeared to be crying and spoke in a very shrill voice, as if she were a little girl. One of the attendees placed a red flower behind her ear and then they all sang songs in honor of María Lionza. When I heard the name of the goddess I asked Carla if it was she who had descended into the body of the elderly lady, and she responded affirmatively, specifying that María Lionza 125

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had descended “as a small Indian girl.” I asked Carla for permission to film the scene, but she would not allow me to, because María Lionza “had descended in a fragile form” and if I turned on my camera, I could injure the spirit and the medium. The possession of this elderly lady did not last long. Afterward, the old lady told me that for a long time the Queen had descended into her as a little girl, but that soon I would have the opportunity to see her in another way, alluding to the ritual of Barbara, who was getting ready. Barbara was smoking cigars and observing the shape of the ash in order to see if she had the divine authorization to perform the ritual. When I saw that Barbara was going toward the altar to trigger the trance, I set up my camera, but Carla reminded me immediately that I was forbidden from filming during the moment of the crisis, since we would have to “ask the Queen directly.” Everybody remained silent. Barbara stood before the altar, and in particular before a statue of María Lionza in which she was represented as a queen. Carla, in this case the banco of her daughter, stood behind Barbara while Barbara’s sister, another banco, stood to her right. The two bancos lit cigars while Carla poured a drink over Barbara’s head. After several seconds, Barbara went into a trance. All the attendees appeared to be content and calm. The banco placed a flower behind Barbara’s ear. With her eyes still closed, Barbara began to move her body, imitating the movements of a snake, a recurring element in the mythical and artistic versions of the origin of María Lionza. With her mouth, she repeated the “s” sound, like a whistle, unmistakably evoking the serpent. During the ceremony, Carla explained to me that the spirit that had just descended was María Lionza as an Indian, and that I was not allowed to film it since it was a sensitive spirit, and was not used to technology. Barbara held her arms back and leaned her bust slightly forward, moving her head from left to right facing the congregation. After several minutes, Barbara, still possessed, stood before the altar again and, almost without any crisis, she was possessed again, but on this occasion, by María Lionza as a queen. When she was possessed by this new version of María Lionza, the bancos put a headband around Barbara’s head and a blue cloak on her shoulders. Then they gave her some champagne to drink. Barbara’s eyes were closed and she stood very erect. She barely spoke. The majority of the messages from the Queen were given in the form of signs. Carla asked her if I could film, and she accepted, specifying that I could not film her eyes or position myself directly in front of her (Canals 2011). Everybody sang songs in honor of María Lionza repeating the invocation Ave María. Then, the bancos gave her a red rose and she lowered her head in appreciation for the present. Before leaving, María Lionza asked the children to come forward. She blessed them by reaching out her hand and by having the smallest ones pass behind her neck. Then, the possessed 126

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woman approached the altar, stood before the statue of María Lionza and expelled her spirit. To begin with, this ritual demonstrates that the plurality of representations of María Lionza existing in the domain of the material image is also present in that of the corporeal image. Moreover, just as two statuettes representing María Lionza in different ways can coexist on the same altar, or two versions of the myth of María Lionza can be told as if they were part of the same account, several trances in which the goddess descends in different manners can occur during a single ritual session. In addition, this episode in Carla’s house shows that the external ethnic aspect of the medium does not condition the type of spirit that can descend. Barbara has very dark brown skin and long black hair. Her physical appearance matches that of María Lionza as a young Indian very well; whereas it does not match that in which she resembles the Virgin Mary. However, no one was astonished that Barbara incorporated María Lionza in this form. Lastly, this ritual only reaffirms the idea that María Lionza is one and many at the same time and that her different representations do not exclude each other but complete each other, making up a polyhedric unit. In short, this ritual is a good example of the mestizo nature of this figure. The third ceremony that I would like to discuss occurred on 20 July 2014 in Guama, a small town in the region of Yaracuy. The session took place in the meeting place of the Los Tres Compadres group. With the help of the artist Dixon Calvetti (chapter 4), some days beforehand I had managed to contact the main medium of this cult group, who invited me to attend and film one of their spiritual sessions. I arrived at the group’s meeting place at approximately midday. It was a two-storey house, large but modest, behind which there was a large patio to which other residences also had access. What most surprised me when I went into the patio was the large number of children and adolescents playing there. There were at least fifteen, aged between five and seventeen years old. They were wearing shorts and the official t-shirt of the group (a white t-shirt with the logo of the group printed on the back). The medium explained to me that all of these children were “developing spiritually” (desarrollándose espiritualmente), that is to say, that they regularly attended ceremonies and were acquiring the knowledge necessary to host spiritual beings in their body. Lastly, she told me, with a certain degree of pride, that she was the universal materia (in other words, she could embody all the spirits of the pantheon) and that her group had more than a hundred members, who, in the majority of cases, were related through filiation, marriage, or adoption. According to her, it was a “social” group (grupo social), focused on children and youths, whose aim was to welcome those children and adolescents who did not belong to any cult group or who had an unstructured family context. 127

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While the medium, situated in front of the altar, used tobacco to seek spiritual permission to initiate the ceremony, I struck up conversation with a group of three girls aged sixteen or seventeen years old. They explained to me that each member of the group was specialized in a spirit. One of them, for example, channeled La India Rosa, while the other channeled the spirit of La Negra Francisca. Smiling discreetly and somewhat embarrassed, the third told me that she used to channel the spirit of María Lionza, but now she could not. When I asked her why, the three of them burst out laughing. I understood that the reason was that she had lost her virginity: “Ahora la baja mi hermana pequeña” (now my little sister brings her down), she finished. The medium informed us that María Lionza had given permission to begin the spiritual session. We entered the house. Before a large congregation, the medium faced the altar and a few seconds later entered a trance. She had been possessed by the spirit of Faustino Parra, a renowned bandit from the region of Yaracuy to whom homage is regularly paid and who is part of the Corte Chamarrera. With a bottle of rum in her hand and smoking continuously, she greeted all the attendees and asked me who I was and what I was doing there. She took advantage of each phrase that I uttered to make ironic comments and publically mock me: jokes about my accent, about my appearance, and about the way I behaved. The children found it very entertaining. This behavior contrasted with the extremely respectful and formal attitude that the medium had shown towards me prior to the ritual. After some time, the medium, still possessed, told her godchildren (ahijados)— that is, her spiritual children—that they could begin to “work.” Following this, one by one, all the members of the group went toward the altar and entered a trance. Vikings, Indians, black slaves, crooks, soldiers and more among a vast range of spirits were alternating before my eyes and my camera. After some time, a girl aged approximately eleven years old approached. She stood before the altar, closed her eyes, and began to tremble. After several seconds, she let out a cry. Immediately afterward, she opened her legs and raised her arms, as if reproducing the sculpture of Alejandro Colina with her body: she was Queen María Lionza. The girl’s eyes were closed and her head was raised. She did not move from her position in front of the altar. She remained still, like a statue, or, more accurately, like Colina’s statue. Some minutes later she let out another cry. The banco went to her immediately and asked for her name, which she repeated three times. To finish, she jumped three times, uttering the words Jesús, María, Purísima. This episode of fieldwork reveals how corporeal images are connected to material images. The possession of this young medium appears like the transposition to a corporeal support of the sculpture by Colina, which is located at the entrance to Caracas. In this regard, it can be considered like the image of an image. Moreover, it is also important to highlight the youthfulness of 128

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FIGURE 5.1• Images of a ritual in honour to María Lionza and her spirits. Bottom right: Young medium possessed by María Lionza as Indian. 2014. Photo: Roger Canals.

the members of this group, which indicates the validity and vitality of the cult. However, it is important to specify that the majority of these boys and girls kept their membership in the group a secret. They themselves confessed to me that they prefer not to mention it at school, nor to many of their friends, and in some cases, not even to their families. This reinforces an idea put forward in chapter 2, namely, that the cult is not disappearing, but rather it is undergoing an increasing process of invisibilization due, to a large extent, to a relatively new attitude of shame among the believers themselves.

Truth and Lies of Spirit Possession Over the past years, I have been asked many times if I think that the possession rituals are real, that is, if I accept that there is, during certain religious ceremonies, a dynamic of spiritual replacement between the soul of the medium and that of a deceased person or a god. I have always skirted around the question by saying that as an anthropologist, I do not seek to judge if the possession is true or false, but to determine the role of these rituals and 129

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the social dynamics that they establish. The question of truth is nevertheless present in the cult of María Lionza and it can be taken as a subject of study for the anthropologist. In fact, followers accuse each other of feigning possessions, and, inversely, boast that they belong to groups in which the medium performs true possessions. So, what is a true possession from the perspective of the believers? It would be a possession in which the soul of the medium is entirely expelled and replaced by a divine spirit. A false possession would be that in which the medium remains aware during the trance and pretends to have a foreign spirit in their body. This false possession, which in the cult is known as plataneo,3 is often defined as puro teatro (acting). Consequently, according to the discourse of the believers, possession and theater oppose each other like truth and lies or, on the medium level, like spiritual replacement and loss of awareness of the self or voluntary interpretation and maintenance of awareness of the self during the possession. Nevertheless, is this separation between possession and theater as clear when we observe ritual and theatrical practices? Numerous comments and behaviors pointing to the active role of the medium during the trance lead to this being questioned. In fact, a successful possession is also considered by believers to be a good performance by the medium. For example, it is common to hear that a certain medium “baja muy bien el espíritu del Negro Felipe” (brings down the spirit of El Negro Felipe very well). This does not only mean that he can embody this spirit in his physical self, but rather, that he knows how to do something so that the spirit presents itself and offers the best of itself. It is as if the medium suited that spirit particularly well with a certain affinity between them. This affinity can be worked upon and improved. For example, numerous mediums state that one must have read books on the history of the cult in order to be able to embody the spirits. In other words, one must know the spirits— know what they like and what they do not like—to determine how to make them descend. Conversely, very young mediums have told me that because older mediums are not in fashion, they are incapable of hosting the spirits of malandros and young people. The active role of the corporeal support during the possession explains how one spirit descends in different ways according to the medium hosting it. The importance of the medium during possession rituals indicates that the religious corporeal image (that is, possession) is characterized, like the material image, by a double regime. In fact, this image has an immediate aspect that refers to the presence of the divinity in the body of the possessed person. Nevertheless, it also has a complex or constructed aspect, related to the medium’s techniques and knowledge. This is because the corporeal image is based on the idea of the double regime that, unlike what many believers state, there is continuity between the medium and the spirits they host. This 130

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affinity can become more accentuated over time, which is not always an advantage. Thus, Francisco Ferrándiz (2004) reports the fear of many young mediums to host female spirits, since they believe that the repeated presence of these spirits in their body may result in their behavior becoming more feminine in their ordinary life. Alternatively, this affinity may be positive: a young medium who was not doing well in school told me that he had managed to pass all his subjects due to the fact that he had continuously hosted the spirit of Lino Valles, a venerated Venezuelan teacher.

Theater, Dance, and Cinema María Lionza has been widely represented in theater, dance, and cinema. With regard to theater, the most notable is the play María Lionza by Ida Gramcko, written in 1956. It is a renowned play in Venezuela, considered to be a major work in the history of Venezuelan theater (Chocón 1976: 8). María Lionza’s torment is the main theme of the text. María Lionza appears in it as a benevolent goddess who feels both love and overpowering sexual desire for a man. She finds herself divided between this carnal desire and her duty as a goddess. After lengthy hesitations, she decides to control her passion and to assume her religious duty, transforming her desire for physical and personal love into a universal and selfless love. Among the numerous dance and theater spectacles dedicated to María Lionza I attended, two are particularly rich from an ethnographic standpoint. The first is the spectacle María Lionza, mitos y leyendas (María Lionza, myths and legends) by the FARDEM company in Chivacoa. It is a dance spectacle in which María Lionza appears as a beautiful Indian woman who seeks to ease the tensions between several groups of Indians. When her father, Yaracuy, is killed, she decides to lock herself into the mountain of Sorte and become a goddess. The piece ends with a renowned song by Rubén Blades4 and María Lionza walking on-stage astride a tapir, with her arms raised. The main role of this piece was played by Karen, a young girl born in Chivacoa. One day, I asked her what it meant to her to represent this character. At first she replied that it was a great honor and a professional challenge. Then, after a brief silence, she admitted to me that it actually meant more than that. “This role is for me a way of paying homage to María Lionza.” Karen told me that she felt a great difference in her body when she played the role of María Lionza. This feeling was unique; she did not experience it in other roles, and it involved a certain loss of awareness as well as a momentary transformation of her body that enabled her to perform dance movements that usually she would not be able to do. She told me: “It is as if everything changes, as if I am no longer myself. A sense of peace sweeps over me.” 131

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Karen’s comments are similar to those uttered to me in 2014 by Elsi Loyo, an actress from San Felipe. Since 2002, she has performed in the spectacle Emaru, which is about María Lionza. Like Karen, Elsi Loyo perceives the theatrical experience as a religious ritual. Before beginning a representation, for example, the actress seeks spiritual permission from the deity. Furthermore, the actress maintains that, during the representation, she feels as if she is in a dream, as if part of herself leaves her. She openly told me that she felt that in every representation María Lionza appeared through her body and used it to communicate directly with the audience. Elsi Loyo confessed to me that this autonomy of María Lionza—that is, the use the deity makes of the theatrical show—had begun to cause problems. In her interventions, María Lionza did not respect the original script; she improvised, and sometimes said conflictive things that the audience then attributed to the actress. To avoid conflicts with the audience she decided to make a “pact” (pacto) with the deity: the actress would increase the offerings to the Queen on the condition that the latter would limit her improvisations and follow the script. The comments of these two actresses reveal that in the domain of the cult of María Lionza the line between theater and possession is blurred. There is theater in possession and possession in theater. In fact, both describe the representation of María Lionza as a means of becoming closer to the goddess, as a religious experience that makes them go beyond themselves to obtain a state of transcendence parallel to that of the medium during the trance. As occurs with material images, the artistic and religious images become confused.

The Mental Image Let us now discuss the mental image, that is, dreams, visions, and apparitions of María Lionza. Dreams are images perceived by the subject during their sleep. Furthermore, the cult differentiates between apparitions (apariciones) and visions (visiones). In apparitions, María Lionza presents herself to give a specific message, while when a believer claims to have seen a vision of the deity, they mean that she appeared momentarily but without the intention of relating with the spectator. In what sense can dreams, visions, and apparitions be considered images? We could think that what we see during an experience of this kind is the divinity herself and not an image of her. This seems consistent with the term “apparition,” which alludes to the idea of a direct, unmediated presence of the divinity. Since it would entail a direct presentation of the divinity, the term “image,” linked to the notion of representation, would not appear to be very suitable to refer to these phenomena. But the comments and accounts 132

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of believers help to highlight this idea. When followers say, for example, that María Lionza appeared to them in their dreams, they do not mean that their soul travelled to the world of gods—as is the case in shamanism—or that María Lionza, as a spirit, entered their body while they slept—like some kind of involuntary possession. Rather, what their words imply is that the divinity allowed herself to be seen, she made herself visible, in other words, she projected herself, like a film is projected onto a screen. The same applies for visions and apparitions. This explains how María Lionza can appear in several places at the same time. When believers relate this type of experience, they imply that what they saw was not María Lionza herself but an image of the deity, or a sort of double of the deity. Nevertheless, this double would contain a high level of the presence of the divinity; it would almost be the divinity herself. The mental image, therefore, is the most complete and true image that we can have of the divinity; this is why it has the role of verifying, or even instigating material and corporeal images (Belting 1994). From the point of view of supports, mental images are immaterial and incorporeal.5 Their support is indefinable (what is the substance of dreams?). Lacking a specific support, mental images have, however, the value of presence and resemblance, which differentiates them, on the one hand, from material images, and, on the other, from corporeal images. Mental images are the main channel María Lionza and other spirits from her pantheon use to communicate with believers. Of all the messages that she can send, the two most usual ones concern initiation in the cult and the prevention of imminent misfortune. In this way, numerous believers state that they became mediums of the cult because they had had dreams in which the goddess invited them, in a more or less explicit manner, to devote themselves to the spiritual profession. Moreover, María Lionza often uses mental images to warn about certain dangers linked to disease, crime, or car accidents. Nevertheless, the functions of dreams, visions, and apparitions are not exactly identical. These differences can be explained by the characteristics of each of these mental images. For example, while a dream about María Lionza is an experience that anyone can have, a vision is, generally, reserved for a small number of people. A person who can see spirits is, usually, someone with a special gift (don), an exceptional ability, a supervision. For this reason, visions also have a very important role in the discovery of spiritual capacity. Unlike visions, special abilities are not needed in order to witness an apparition of María Lionza. This is due to the fact that the primordial function of apparition is conversion. In fact, María Lionza becomes directly visible and communicates her message to convince those who do not believe in her. The fact that the majority of people who have witnessed apparitions are nonbelievers who did not have any exceptional faculties, reinforces, according to believers, the credibility of the existence of María Lionza. 133

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The majority of mental images of the divinity are of a positive nature: María Lionza appears to give advice, to warn, or to reveal an important message. Nevertheless, María Lionza can also appear in the form of a nightmare or as a horrifying vision. A believer who I had met on the mountain of Sorte in 2014 described an evil vision associated with María Lionza. His wife was suffering from a serious disease and he was at the bottom of her bed when María Lionza appeared to him with a conceited and frightening appearance, “as if she wanted to show me that everything that was happening to me was a punishment.” The couple had committed some negative acts that this believer did not want to explain to me. Lastly, an important difference with regard to mental images compared to material and corporeal images is that they only exist in the conscience of the subject who perceives them. When a believer states that María Lionza appeared in their dream, this means that this image of the divinity only existed for him. It is, in this way, a personal or private image. The case of visions and apparitions is more complex, since apparently these images are situated on a level of exteriority, which should make them visible to any potential spectator. A follower told me, for example, that one day, as he walked in the mountain of Sorte, María Lionza appeared before his eyes and that he saw her “like I can see you” (similar to a type of hologram). According to this believer, the image of the goddess was outside his conscience and she was an independent and autonomous reality. “She was simply there.” Nevertheless, this testimony is misleading, because the fact that a divinity appears to a person does not mean that during this apparition it is visible to everybody as is the case with a material image and corporeal image. I have heard witnesses state, in fact, that in the middle of a group of pilgrims, one of them had seen an apparition that was not perceived by the others. Apparitions, therefore, are always intentional: they take place for someone and for specific purposes. They are therefore characterized by a “selective visibility.”

Visions of María Lionza The first character to mention when we speak of visions of María Lionza is that of the professor Lino Valles.6 In fact, the vast majority of believers agree on the idea that he was the first person to see María Lionza directly. She appeared to him and ordered him to spread the cult and to keep it away from other religious practices that could corrupt it. Today, Lino Valles is worshipped as the protector of students, who pray to him and make offerings of notebooks and books to his images as a sign of respect and thanks. On the altars, his statue occupies a very high position, close to that of María Lionza and the Catholic icons. Lino Valles is buried in Chivacoa, near the mountain 134

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of Sorte, where there is a large pantheon dedicated to the professor, filled with statuettes, plaques of gratitude, candles, and offerings. In 2007, I met a follower of the cult of María Lionza there who was cleaning the chapel. He told me that he had been looking after the pantheon for several weeks and that by doing so he was performing a mission of thanks to Lino Valles for all the help he had afforded him. He also explained that the spirit of the professor regularly appeared to him to give him advice and to encourage him in challenging moments. This believer told me that he had also seen María Lionza in an apparition. She appeared as a white woman, calm and elegant, accompanied by seven Indians. A particularly astonishing vision of María Lionza is one seen by Assen Trayanoff, a Bulgarian explorer who settled in Caracas in 1924, where he lived for several years. Thirty years later, Iván Drenikoff-Andhi, a researcher whose version of the myth of María Lionza was the basis of the children’s story discussed in the first chapter, found the travel journal of the Bulgarian explorer and published the passage in which the latter described his vision of the deity (D. Barreto 1998: 74–75). Below is the most significant extract: Valle de la Pascua, 3 October 1933. … On the banks of the stream (the Caroní river), a bit far from us, we saw a young naked woman with a slender body of heavenly proportions and copper colored skin; she was dancing with her tribe under the first rays of sunlight, making attractive and feminine movements with her body. Everyone was naked like her. Women and men were dancing to sad music. After a few moments, the dancer, with her troop, disappeared, and left us as if we were awaking from a dream. One of the guides told us that it was the renowned María Lionza, the patron saint of the Indians of Venezuela and people from the tribe of the Amerindians.7

This vision made such an impact on Trayanoff that, upon returning to his native country, he decided to paint a picture of la patrona de los indios de Venezuela, vestida con un traje típico búlgaro6 (the patron saint of the Indians of Venezuela, dressed in a typical Bulgarian outfit) (D. Barreto 1998: 74–75). This witness shows that already, in the 1930s, María Lionza was part of the Venezuelan imagination and that she was conceived as a beautiful Indian woman. In addition, we can deduce that, in that era, visions already occupied a fundamental place in the belief associated with the deity. The fact that Trayanoff painted María Lionza in a Bulgarian costume and that he put her on the same footing as a mythical character from Europe, indicates that María Lionza has for a long time been a plural and dynamic figure who changes roles and acquires novel meanings. Over the years, I have collected myriad accounts, both direct and indirect, of dreams, visions, and apparitions of María Lionza. One believer from Valencia, for example, told me in 2007 that he had seen María Lionza as a 135

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white woman donning a blue cloak and a crown and accompanied by El Indio Guacaipuro and El Negro Felipe. In this last version, it is unambiguously the model of the Three Powers as it appears in the statuettes of the cult that is evoked. Another believer told me that she had dreamed about María Lionza with the face of Ruddy Rodríguez, the famous former Miss World who had played the role of the divinity in a TV movie on RCTV, which has since closed down.8 Carmina, a believer living at the foot of the mountain of Sorte, maintains that María Lionza appeared to the dictator Marcos Pérez Jiménez during the 1950s as an Indian woman astride a tapir (the idea that María Lionza has appeared to the former Venezuelan presidents is widespread). Amazed by this figure, he immediately ordered that a sculpture of his vision be created. In Maracaibo, a medium explained to me that a long time ago María Lionza astride a tapir appeared to an archaeologist on an expedition to Yaracuy. He drew his vision and, later, the sculptor Alejandro Colina used the drawing as a basis for his famous sculpture. All of these testimonies are revealing since they indicate that the mental image of the divinity was prior to the material image and, more specifically, that it was the source, thereby giving the status of true image (Belting 2007) to the statuettes of the cult.

The Dream and the Account of the Dream The main problem I was confronted with when I decided to include research about dreams, visions, and apparitions in my ethnography is that I could not have a direct experience of all of these mental images. In fact, from the point of view of the experience of the image, I was situated on the same level as the believers with the material and corporeal image. From outside the cult I saw the same things they did from inside, apart from exceptional movements attributed to religious statues that certain followers claim to have seen. With regard to the mental image I heard descriptions of an image that I could not witness and, as a result, could not film or photograph. An ethnography of dreams, visions, and apparitions is, above all, an ethnography of the account of the mental image. However, I decided to make the most of the possibilities of possession to obtain the account of he who is considered, by numerous believers, to be the first man to have experienced an apparition of María Lionza: the professor Lino Valles.9 Through this experience, I also sought to connect, in the same ritual, the corporeal image and the mental image. I told a medium that I would like the spirit of Lino Valles to descend in order to ask him some questions. He told me that the spirit would only descend if he wanted to, but that I could light two white candles in front of his statue and make requests for 136

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an entire week asking him to be embodied in the medium’s body. I spent all that time lighting candles and smoking cigars for hours before the statuette of Lino Valles, asking him to descend during the ceremony that we were going to hold the following Saturday and to allow me, in addition, to film his arrival. On the day of the ritual I waited, camera in hand, for the spirit to arrive. The ceremony started at eleven o’clock that night and at four o’clock in the morning the spirit of Lino Valles had still not arrived. However, numerous other divinities had descended into the medium’s body, some of whom had said phrases such as: “I know that you want to speak to the professor, but you will have to wait a while” or “don’t worry, the professor will be here soon.” Finally, when I was feeling exhausted from the lack of sleep and the heat, Lino Valles arrived. After being introduced to him, I sought his permission to film the ceremony. He granted me permission on the condition that I did not use the flash and did not place the camera before his eyes. During our conversation, the spirit confirmed that he had experienced an apparition of María Lionza when he was alive. She appeared to him to introduce him to the cult and to give him the task of spreading it throughout the country. Then, I asked Lino Valles to describe his apparition to me, but before doing so, he wanted to ask me some questions. In particular, he asked me what had driven me to conduct this study about María Lionza. In my response I made reference to the cultural interest of the topic and the personal learning that this research entailed. Moreover, he asked me if I had been warmly welcomed into the family with whom I was staying and if I had a good opinion of the medium, John, who I described as a very honest and generous person. Following this, the spirit of Lino Valles spoke to me about María Lionza. He described her as a woman of heavenly beauty, with long black hair and Spanish features although she was the daughter of Indians. In addition, he said she was very wise with a cultivated mind, and that she spoke with a very soft voice. According to him, her only desire was peace for humanity, irrespective of race or religion. She appeared to him wearing a long cloak and accompanied by three butterflies: one on her chest, another on her head, and the third on her hand. She personally showed him the mountain of Sorte, explaining to him that that space was her home. Extremely pure, and rosescented, her presence can be felt like a soft breeze on the skin. According to the spirit of Lino Valles, María Lionza is not the divinity of love, but that of the harvests, prosperity, stability, happiness, and sadness, since she is always present when we lose someone we love. She was enchanted by the mountain of Sorte and said “I need an Indian on my right and an African on my left!” Thus, El Indio Guacaipuro and El Negro Felipe joined her, giving rise to Las Tres Potencias. In this description, María Lionza is evoked as the divinity of peace and happiness. In addition, although she is Indian, her skin was “very fair and 137

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white, almost transparent.” She objected to violent practices in the cult and professed universal peace. All of these moral and physiognomic elements reveal that María Lionza here is conceived under a model that is very close to the Virgin Mary, reinforcing the idea of a predominant position of the Catholic version of the character in the cult. Moreover, what I find fascinating about this episode is that the description obtained of María Lionza through the mouth of the medium is doubly mediated. In fact, the spirit becomes an image (corporeal) to describe an image (mental) that it saw as a living person. This double mediation enables the cult to update and socialize purely personal ancient experiences. Through possession by spirits of the deceased, the past becomes the present in the two meanings of the word “present”: in the effective sense, existing and real (like when we say that a student is present in class) and present in the sense of contemporary or current, since possession enables the dead to act in reality, that is, to have an active role in it. Moreover, through possession, ancient individual experiences—such as the apparition of María Lionza to Lino Valles—can be told and shared and thereby acquire a collective value. This episode, which brings together the themes of the corporeal and mental image, demonstrates that in the cult of María Lionza there is absolute continuity and a constant dialogue between life and death, past and present, person and community.

Conclusions This chapter shows that the plurality of visions of the figure of María Lionza that we have found in relation to the material image is present, although in a smaller number, in the domains of the corporeal image and the mental image. The visual creativity that we have seen in the case of the material image can also be observed in the corporeal image. This visual creativity is especially pronounced in the case of spirits of low light (malandros, Vikings, souls of the deceased) and in the spirits of the Black Court and the Indian Court. Thus, the spirits belonging to these can descend in different ways according to each medium and each ritual situation. The possession of María Lionza, conversely, seems to be governed by much more fixed behavior patterns, which essentially translate into two possession models: that of the Queen (white or mestiza) woman and that of the young Indian woman. The intrinsic plurality of María Lionza that we have highlighted in relation to the material image and the mythical versions of the origin of the character (Table 1.1, in chapter 1) becomes very obvious, once again, in the case of the mental image. This chapter also indicates that there is a sort of nomadism of images in the cult. Colina’s image, for example, is reproduced not only in the world 138

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of art (chapter 4) but also in bodies and dreams. Therefore, it is a material image that becomes a corporeal or even mental image, although the majority of believers maintain that it is the mental image of María Lionza as an Indian woman astride a tapir that is at the origin of Colina’s material image. In chapter 7, I shall analyze this nomadism of images in the cult in greater detail. Following this, what are the differences between the material, corporeal, and mental images of María Lionza? Table 5.2 shows the differences between presence and resemblance in the three types of images, differentiating between the corporeal image in possession (where, in theory, there is no resemblance but a presence of the divinity) and the corporeal image in theater or dance (where, in theory, there is no resemblance or presence of the divinity). Mental images have a faculty of presence and resemblance. This distinguishes them from material images in the religious context, which may have a faculty of resemblance but do not have a faculty of presentation, except in unusual cases in which, as the result of a miracle, the images become autonomous subjects, fully identified with their referent (chapter 3). Corporeal images in the context of possession have a faculty of presentation but they do not have a faculty of resemblance. The body that we see during the trance is not that of the divinity, but that of the medium, although believers state that during the trance the medium’s body cannot be linked to them because their soul is elsewhere. In fact, for believers, the body that we see during the possession does not belong to anyone. Theatrical representations do not have a faculty of presentation or of resemblance. Nevertheless, we have seen actresses and dancers describing the interpretative experience of María Lionza in terms that are similar to those of possession. This reveals that in the domain of the cult of María Lionza—and probably in Afro-American religions in general—there is theater in possession and possession in theater. TABLE 5.2 • Resemblance and Presence in the Images of María Lionza Types of images

Resemblance

Presence

Mental image

Yes

Yes

Material image

Yes

No

Corporeal image (possession)

No

Yes

Corporeal image (theatre and dance)

No

No

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These three types of images also differ in terms of agency or the intentionality of their genesis. In the case of the mental image, the agency is fully on the side of the goddess. In other words, we do not decide to see María Lionza directly as we decide to paint a picture or to interpret a character: here it is she who decides to become directly visible to the eyes of someone. In this regard, the mental image differs from the religious corporeal image (possession) and from the religious material image (statuettes, holy cards), where the agency of the image is shared between the spirits and the believers. In possession, for example, it is always the medium who calls the spirit—apart from cases of wild or uncontrolled possession (Bastide [1960] 1978). The fact that the medium “calls” the spirit does not ensure that it will descend, but makes this possibility more likely. Of course, the spirit must accept this invitation. Whatever the case, both participate in the genesis of the corporeal image. The same applies to the sculptures used in the rituals. Although a person’s hand is needed to make them, the gods must intervene in the creation of these—at least in the creation of the original prototype—either by providing a model for them in the dreams or visions of artists or craftspeople or by directly possessing them and creating their own image “themselves.” Thus, there is an inverse relation between the power of the image in terms of presentation and the degree of human intentionality attributed to its creation. In other words, the greater the immediacy of the image, the less humankind intervenes in its creation; and inversely, the more complex the image, the more responsible humans are for its existence.

Notes 1. The study of possession rituals is one of the traditional subjects of anthropology. It would be impossible to create a list of all the works dedicated to this subject, from the classic authors such as Mircea Eliade (1951), Erika Bourgignon (1973), Vincent Crapanzano and V. Garrison (1977), I.M. Lewis (1989), Michel Leiris (1980) up to recent works by authors such as Jim Wafer (1991), Paul Stoller (1995), Ruy Blanes and Diana Espíritu Santo (2013), and Paul Christopher Johnson (2014). 2. This ritual is one of the sequences of my film The Many Faces of a Venezuelan Goddess, CNRS-Images (2007). 3. I agree with Johnson on the fact that the accusation of faking a possession has historically been a structural element in possession rituals themselves. As the author points out, the problem lies in the fact that “authentic possession, after all, can only be determined by reading the surfaces of bodies and ciphers of what dwells within” (2014: 10). This is why, “alongside spirit possession, fakery registered and helped to inaugurate a concern with transparency, the continuous, knowable identity of the persons” (2014: 10). What is revealed here once again is the intrinsic relation between representation and doubt, that is to say, the idea that all representation (including possession) needs contrastable validation

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4.

5.

6.

7.

8. 9.

criteria (for an in-depth discussion about the relation between representation and doubt, see Jack Goody 1997). In 1978, Rubén Blades and Billie Colon released the record Siembra (Fania Records) which contains the song María Lionza. This song was soon very popular among followers of the cult. Nevertheless, according to believers, in certain exceptional cases apparitions can acquire certain corporeality. When I was in the mountain of Sorte, I was often told that if during the night I heard the cracking of branches or heavy and quick footsteps, it might have been María Lionza appearing momentarily, astride her tapir. Lino Valles is a historic figure. He was born in Chivacoa in 1905 and died in the mid-twentieth century. According to believers, he was a very humble man, illiterate but extremely wise, who travelled throughout the country performing good deeds and spreading the cult of María Lionza. Valle de la Pascua, 3 de octubre de 1933. … En la orilla del arroyo (del río Caroní) un poco lejos de nosotros vimos a una mujer desnuda joven y esbelta, de proporciones celestes, de color de cobre, que bailaba con su tribu bajo los primeros rayos del Sol, con unos movimientos femeninos de los más atractivos. Todos estaban desnudos como ella. Mujeres y hombres bailaban con una música triste. Al cabo de unos momentos la bailarina, con su tropa, desapareció, y nos dejó como despertándonos de un sueño. Uno de los guías nos dijo que era la famosa María Lionza, patrona de los indios de Venezuela y gente de la tribu de los amerindios. María Lionza, Radio Caracas Televisión, 2006. This ritual is one of the sequences of my film The Many Faces of a Venezuelan Goddess, CNRS-Images (2007).

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Chapter 6 A GLOBALIZED GODDESS



The cult of María Lionza, traditionally practiced exclusively within Venezuela, has reached a transnational dimension in the last decade. The globalization of the cult has occurred for various reasons, three of which I would like to highlight. The first are migratory processes. Venezuelan followers of the cult of María Lionza who left their country to live abroad took their religious practices and beliefs with them, leading to the appearance of places of worship in their new countries of residence. Of particular importance was the immigration to other countries in South America and the Caribbean (Colombia, Panama, and Puerto Rico), as well as the United States and Europe, especially Spain. Another factor that must be taken into account when analyzing the growing expansion of the cult of María Lionza is its presence on the Internet and especially on social networks such as Facebook. Moreover, the Internet is a surprisingly productive field as far as the reinvention of the images of María Lionza is concerned. Finally, the role played by the esoteric industry in the internationalization and transformation of the cult of María Lionza and of Afro-American cults in general must also be highlighted. It is a complex and modern industry that, through the Internet and transnational networks of material production and distribution, is reaching a global scale. The goal of this chapter is to discuss the three factors that make María Lionza a global goddess, who reaches beyond the limits of the Venezuelan border. The first part focuses on the cult of María Lionza on the Internet. The second focuses on a specific ethnographic case: the practices of the cult of María Lionza in Barcelona (Spain), my home city. I will use this example to approach the subject of the internationalization of the esoteric industry.

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Religion and New Media In contrast to that which some social scientists predicted at the beginning of the 1980s, when the process of westernization and technification of the world seemed to be pushing toward an unstoppable process of secularization and cultural homogenization, commitment to religious communities, both in economically-leading countries and in less industrialized ones, never waned. Religion still occupies a notable place in the contemporary world, even in the public sphere (Meyer and Moors 2006; Pine and de Pina-Cabral 2008; B. Turner 2011). New technologies have played a decisive role in this. The majority of religious movements managed to appropriate technological progress related to image (video and digital photography) and information (Internet, mobile telephones), and use them to their benefit to spread their message and continually update it, thereby establishing new communities of believers. Furthermore, as some authors have suggested (Hadden and Cowan 2000), there are several “structural analogies” between the supernatural sphere and online reality. For instance, both the Internet and the world of the gods or of the dead become a double of the real world, which continuously interacts with it, reflecting and affecting it at the same time. Moreover, like the supernatural realm—inhabited by spirits, ancestors, and souls—cyberspace could be defined as a universal space, both visible and invisible, transcendent and immanent. This double of the real world is also characterized by a unique temporality. The time “there” does not pass at the same rhythm as in everyday life. There is no day and night online, and the past blurs into the present and the future. Therefore, some authors have indicated that the figure of the user also has some similarities with that of believers during the religious ritual. As Turner points out (1969), during the ritual process there is a temporary suspension of hegemonic social codes and roles, as well as habitual modes of perception, fostering processes of social interaction. Thus, rituals would jeopardize an “anti-structure,” that is, a sort of social disorder in which hierarchies are momentarily suspended in favor of a sort of homogenization between the members of a certain society—what the author calls a feeling of communitas. In cyberspace, there is an analogous standardization. Gender, race, age and social status lose importance—although not completely—as the conditioning agents of online interaction. Moreover, like rituals, the Internet opens the door to the momentary transmutation of personal identity. As such, in cyberspace, everyone can take on the role of someone they are not and say things that they would never dare to say in the context of the physical world. Following this analogy, the “personal profile” can be interpreted as the double of the person, a sort of “Other me” who

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roams about a parallel world and with whom one maintains a relationship of both identity and Otherness. In short, the characteristics of the Internet as a social medium and experience help to gain a better understanding of the ease with which religious movements have adapted to the Internet, and optimized its use. The Internet has taken on a new meaning as an active agent in the religious experience, enabling believers to expand their relational scope in a global setting, fostering the circulation of messages and images, and encouraging the creation of new religious communities. Before moving on to the analysis of the presence of the cult of María Lionza on the Internet, I would like to contribute some reflections on the nature of the digital image. It is a relevant matter since, as I have previously indicated, the Internet has become the privileged sphere for the dissemination and transformation of representations of María Lionza. The digital image appears as a material image sui generis. Unlike statues, holy cards, or paintings, digital images do not have an autonomous material existence, that is, they always depend on a technological device (computer, mobile, tablet) to become visible. This means that they lack the sensorial qualities that objects boast—digital images are not tangible and do not smell of anything, in the way that pictures or sculptures do. Unlike traditional material images, the technological support means digital images can be copied and multiplied with great ease. Indeed there is nothing simpler on the Internet than copying an image and pasting it somewhere else. This copy of the digital image has the particularity of having the same nature as the “original”: more than a copy, it is a double, an identical replica, a perfect cloning. In fact, digital photography dilutes the distinction between original and copy. This leads to images of María Lionza on the Internet acquiring a most unexpected social life. The same representation can be found on pages of very different natures. The plasticity of the digital image—that is, its ability to be copied, edited, and take on new meanings—has meant that on the Internet there is an abundance of collages and visual montages about the goddess, what I call “digital altars.” However, the dependence of the technological device means that these images are always in an unattainable “hereafter”: the digital image is always behind the screen and in this way, it is a distant image. This does not prevent, in the context of the cult of María Lionza, digital images from acting, in some cases, as religious images, that is, with a value of immediacy—in other words, they possess, once again, a double regime. For example, numerous images on Facebook or on web pages are conceived as offerings or gifts offered to the goddess. The believers upload pictures of the goddess on the Internet with the same attitude that they have when they place a statue on a traditional altar. Furthermore, several believers told me that it is forbidden to delete photographs of religious altars in which rituals such as the lecturas 144

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de tabaco (tobacco readings) are shown. Removing these images is seen as an offence against the divinities. Lastly, in both Venezuela and Barcelona I have seen believers treating images of María Lionza that they had on their laptop computers as if they were holy cards, or personal amulets. They chose this goddess as a desktop image: this enables them to see La Reina frequently and to always bear her in mind. Having this image reassures them against life’s dangers. For these believers, it is a way of being protected by María Lionza, of remaining in contact with her all the time. The digital image on the laptop acts in terms of presence of the deity. It should therefore be considered a religious image. Having said this, let us look in greater detail at how María Lionza is represented on the Internet and the role played by social networks in the spread and transformation of the cult.

Web Pages about the Cult / Web Pages of the Cult The presence of the cult on the Internet is huge and is growing incessantly. The nature of the web pages dedicated to María Lionza is very diverse. The first distinction that can be made is between the pages about the cult and the pages of the cult. The former refer to those pages that describe or interpret the cult from an external perspective. There we find, for example, pages of academics, researchers, or artists that revolve around the myths and rituals about the goddess. We must also include in this section tourism web pages that use the figure of María Lionza for advertising purposes, as well as institutional pages—such as that of the Yaracuy region—which refer to the goddess as a characteristic element of the local folklore. This section also includes digital encyclopedias (such as Wikipedia), the numerous references to the cult in newspapers and photographic reports carried out by international agencies such as National Geographic and Magnum. Lastly, among the pages about the cult are servers such as YouTube and Vimeo, where a large number of videos about the goddess can be found: documentaries, fiction films, and reports and visual works created by artists. Unlike the pages about the cult, the pages of the cult are those websites directly managed by believers, priests, and other people closely linked to this religion, such as people selling esoteric material. Obviously, the pages of the cult are at the same time about the cult, in the sense that their main topic is María Lionza and her religious universe. However, the specificity of these websites is that they are not only designed as a platform for discussion about the cult, but rather, as a space for the spread of its ritual practice. They are, therefore, an extension of the cult and not only an explanation of it. Among the pages of the cult we find numerous blogs and web pages devoted to the 145

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goddess. In these, believers express their devotion, contribute their versions of the myth of María Lionza and, often, provide instructions to correctly perform the ritual ceremonies. Some of these blogs belong to groups. In these, the communities of followers announce their trips and put up photos of their ritual sessions. Furthermore, many of these pages contain unseen representations of María Lionza, which can only be found in cyberspace, created by artist-believers who use digital platforms to spread their work. Indeed, the Internet has become the most powerful sphere in which the image of María Lionza is reinvented. Online we find both traditional representations of the goddess and more extravagant, irreverent, and provocative interpretations, often designed by anonymous users. On the Internet I have found images of María Lionza drawn in manga, portrayed as a faithful wife sitting alongside Simón Bolívar, or associated with Hindu divinities such as Kali. These blogs also act as news channels about political and social news related to the cult. Thus, for example, in June 2015 there was great tension surrounding the threat to close the mountain of Sorte by the local authorities for supposed safety reasons. The believers revolted, arguing that safety was only an excuse to attack and control their ritual practice. It is almost impossible to find information about this controversy on official channels. On these blogs, however, the progress of the controversy could be followed day by day. The blogs of the cult act as a channel of counter-information, a space of political affiliation and resistance. María Lionza is also very present on more general religious and esoteric blogs. For example, on the Internet we can find numerous blogs dedicated exclusively to spells or charms for love. There we see very varied prayers and rituals, in honor of figures such as the Virgin of Guadalupe, San Sebastian, The Three Kings, Ochún, and the Queen María Lionza. We also find the goddess on web pages dedicated to other Afro-American religions such as Santería, Palo Mayombe, and Dominican spiritism. Lastly, there are references to María Lionza on countless pages about occultism, esoterism, and spiritism. All of these web pages place the cult of María Lionza in a wider religious system. Thus, the cult loses its autonomy, being reduced to the category of the local expression of a universal mysticism into which almost everything fits: from the Maya religion to ancient Egypt; from the Old Testament to Siberian shamanism. Furthermore, there are several more or less public discussion forums about the cult of María Lionza on the Internet, some of which bring together up to 5,000 users. To participate in these, the person has to request entry and be accepted by the group administrator.1 These forums can be used to express doubts about the cult or to share information and experiences. Many believers use these forums to find spiritual remedies to resolve love, health, or money problems. It is also interesting to observe how in these forums many 146

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of the traditional discussions about magic take place, such as the difference between black magic and white magic. For example, some users qualify the cult as witchery, provoking an avalanche of irate responses from believers who seek to defend the legitimacy of the cult as a spiritual practice dedicated to good. Such an accusation always raises the suspicion of the person being an evangelical infiltrator. It is also common to find messages in which the authenticity of certain elements of the cult is questioned. For example, is it reasonable to mix Santería and María Lionza? How can one detect whether a medium is faking a possession? One user stated that they had heard voices and had premonitory dreams and asked (without revealing their identity) if said symptoms could be interpreted as signs from the goddess. At times, the anonymity of the users facilitates the exchange of points of view. As such, for example, one user stated: “I think my neighbor is performing witchery on me; how can I find out?” When another user asked in which part of Venezuela they lived, the person who had asked the question refused to tell them out of fear of potential reprisals. “If I could say my name and where I live, I would already have gone directly to a witch and I would not be here in front of a computer.” This phrase reveals that online forums include a set of discourses and expressions that would be unlikely to appear beyond the Internet. Therefore, these forums do not replace face-to-face meetings; rather, they complement them. Moreover, many believers who participate in these forums do not live in Venezuela. This explains that a high number of the questions posed have the migratory experience as a main theme. Thus, a user living in Canada asked if anyone knew where he could find suitable tobacco to perform spiritual reading. Another user, travelling outside Venezuela, sought spiritual advice through the forum because he did not know anyone in the country where he was located with knowledge of this kind. He wanted to know if the following day would be a suitable date to take the car. Therefore, these discussion spaces encourage the creation of a transnational community2 of believers. Many of the cult pages are dedicated to the spiritual business. Thus, for example, there are increasingly more websites offering online tobacco reading or card reading. The user simply has to provide some personal information and a credit card number. Furthermore, there are a large number of online esoteric shops selling all types of material for rituals (pictures, candles, tobacco, herbs and more). These portals sell products related to very different religions. From religions linked to the Afro-American world (Santería,3 Regla de Ifá, Palo Mayombe, Umbanda, Candomblé,4 the cult of María Lionza), to orientalism (Buddhism or Hinduism) and Catholicism, among many more—for example, there is an abundance of objects referring to ancient Egypt, to the Celtic culture, and to Kardecist spiritism. In comparing these religions, the esoteric industry is encouraging believers-consumers 147

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to perceive these different belief systems as belonging to one whole, to a sort of universal religion that would include all of the others. Thus, the esoteric industry does not only internationalize Afro-American cults, but it transforms them, especially as far as their mutual relations are concerned. Obviously, this amalgamation of heterogeneous elements that the esoteric industry performs is not new. Afro-American religions—as well as the cult of María Lionza—have always presented a surprising ability to incorporate foreign influences and to create links with other religions, leading them to being qualified as “syncretic religions.” Today this process is being intensified by the logic and interests of capital. It is the esoteric industry, eager to provide “new” and “unseen products,” that is pushing toward a convergence of religions and belief systems. Finally, it is important to highlight the presence of videos and clips of María Lionza on portals such as YouTube and Vimeo. There we can find all kinds of documentaries, television clips, and visual montages—from amateur productions to works created by professional artists and filmmakers. Among these types of videos, there are many ritual scenes filmed by the believers themselves. This is a growing phenomenon. On an increasingly frequent basis, followers of the cult record their own rituals and share them online. This process contrasts with the invisibilization process of the cult that I discussed in the second chapter. The cult becomes invisible in the public space and reappears in the virtual arena. Indeed, many rituals also have a pro-filmic nature. They are performed to be filmed and shared.5 On sites such as YouTube, users tend to leave comments about their reactions to the videos. These forums are a kind of hotchpotch of criticism, praise, suggestions, and insults. The majority of these comments refer to the validity of the possession and the interpretation of the messages expressed by the medium during the trance. Thus, through the Internet the rituals’ audience is multiplied. The recording of a ritual that might have gathered fifteen people together can be watched by more than 2,000. Therefore, the online video platforms help to spread the cult while also modifying its internal logic. In this regard, the widespread use of cameras in rituals is likely to end up modifying the ritual rules referring to the use of visual devices during the ceremonies explained in chapter 3. Lastly, on YouTube and Vimeo there are numerous small fictional films for teaching purposes that believers create about the myth of María Lionza and the history of the cult. These films, which can also be purchased in the perfumerías or shops at the base of the mountain of Sorte, play an important role in the level of transmission of the cult. The majority of believers attribute great authority to these visual productions, yet they do not know their origin or their degree of scientific rigor. These productions show that the channels of transmission of the cult of María Lionza are undergoing changes. Researchers on Afro-American cults have always maintained that 148

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these are primarily transmitted through the spoken word. This may have been true several decades ago, but it is no longer the case. The Internet and visual culture are pushing to the fore. Believers are increasingly developing rituals, not on the basis of what has been explained to them or of what they have seen with their own eyes, but on the basis of images that they have seen and of what they have read online and in books. Thus, as I will develop in chapter 7, the mediums’ bodies during the ritual can be interpreted as the transposition, in terms of corporeal image, of the material images that the believers have previously seen.

María Lionza on Facebook Among the pages of the cult, the social network Facebook deserves a separate section. It contains endless pages dedicated to the goddess and her rituals. But besides its reach, what is significant about Facebook is its relational nature. This social network is about making “friends”—unlike blogs and even forums, which are generally quite closed—that is, about establishing links with other individuals or communities. Many Facebook pages dedicated to the cult bear the name of María Lionza or that of other divinities from her pantheon (El Negro Felipe, La India Tibisay, La Negra Francisca). In some cases they belong to one believer; in others, they are administrated by a group. On these pages, believers or groups of believers exchange opinions, prayers, photos, and videos, and they echo current political and social events relating them to the cult and everything surrounding it. Thus, for example, the death of Hugo Chávez caused a great stir on Facebook. Many believers, supporters of the comandante, uploaded photos of the president, transcribed prayers, and even posted photographic collages in which he appeared with Simón Bolívar and María Lionza. Moreover, on Facebook it is common to see unpublished images of the goddess that would be impossible to find on another site. This is a process that appears to be in fashion. An increasing number of cult followers create what I would call “digital altars” in which they illustrate, with strictly visual media, their way of understanding the cult. Image 6.1, for example, shows a montage in which the believer has represented his own view of the pantheon of divinities. María Lionza and Las Tres Potencias are at the top, surrounding the portrait of the believer. The corte India (Indian court) is placed beneath him. To the left of Las Tres Potencias are the Don Juanes, the Vikings, El Santo Niño de Atocha, and a representation of historical characters such as Simón Bolívar or José Gregorio Hernández.To the right there is a large presence of malandros as well as the president Juan Vicente Gómez and a group of Madamas (ancient slave woman of African origins). This type of digital 149

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FIGURE 6.1 • Digital Altar of Fuente de Luz. 2016.

montage should be seriously considered by anthropologists and social scientists in general, since they are part of the new language of the cult and they have an important role in its transmission and reinvention. This instance of visual creativity can be interpreted as a kind of digital altar, to which reverences and prayers can be said—revealing that the digital image, as we pointed out at the start, may also act like a religious image. Many believers use Facebook to share photos of their rituals. It is particularly common to use this social network to publish the results of tobacco readings. This type of image shows the “open” (that is, partially consumed) tobacco and invites users to interpret the message of the ash. These photos lead to lively debates. In some cases believers even ask mediums who have Facebook pages to perform a distant tobacco reading and to post photos of the result. We can see how in these cases a wide and complex chain of mediations between the believer and the goddess is brought to bear. The tobacco reading involves a double mediation that is represented by the tobacco, on the one hand, and by the medium, on the other. The Queen speaks through the ash while the medium interprets the ash to transmit the message to the believer. In the case of Facebook, a third mediation is added here: digital mediation. Through this chain of mediations we witness a connection process not only between spirits and men (tobacco, medium), but also between the 150

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local sphere and the global sphere (Internet). Thus, for many believers, using Facebook, or checking it to see the rituals of others, is beginning to be part of the ritual itself. It is not that rituals are on Facebook, but rather, that the use of Facebook is becoming a ritual practice. As we have pointed out, the main importance of Facebook does not only lie in the fact that photos and comments can be posted, but that these can be shared. The different believers in the cult with accounts on this social network interact by mutually accepting each other as friends, thereby creating extensive systems of social relations. In the networks of friends of the cult of María Lionza there are not only believers and followers of this religion, but also of many others. There are abundant links of friendship between believers of the cult of María Lionza and followers of other Afro-American cults, especially of Santería, Umbanda, and Palo. Therefore, we are witnessing a parallel process to that described in relation to blogs and the esoteric industry, which consists of a strengthening of the links between the different Afro-American cults as a result of the digital device. This encourages mutual influences between the cults and leads to the rise of a sort of brotherhood consciousness among believers. Lastly, another relevant element in the study of the impact of new technologies on the cult of María Lionza, which can be observed in Facebook conversations or by speaking directly to believers, is the incorporation of vocabulary from the technological world and the digital setting into the religious language. For example, when asked about the relationship between believers and spirits, a young follower of the cult told me that these were “flat-rate gods,” that is, gods that were always available and whose adoration did not incur “any cost.” In an interview that I conducted on Facebook, a believer in the cult affirmed that the pantheon of gods was constantly “being updated,” providing “new versions continuously.” These examples are more than an anecdote. They reveal how the media act as a symbolic model to think and explain the religious experience. In short, we can observe how the cult has managed to adapt to the Internet, creating specifically digital practices and discourses (online rituals, digital identities, the creation of transnational communities, and so forth). Following the terminology proposed by Helland (Hadden and Cowan 2000: 207), we could say that the cult of María Lionza is not only a “religion online,” but that it has become an “online religion.”6

The Cult of María Lionza in Barcelona Allow me to begin this section with an anecdote. It was November 2008. Just a few months earlier I had defended my thesis on María Lionza at the 151

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Ecole des Hautes Etudes en Sciences Sociales de Paris. I was in Barcelona, my home city, and one evening, I decided to take a walk through the streets of the Raval district, in the heart of the Catalan capital. At that time I found myself at a professional impasse, and I was seriously considering the possibility of discontinuing my research into the cult of María Lionza and of devoting myself to studying other subjects. Suddenly, I noticed an “esoteric art” shop. Filled with curiosity, I decided to go in. To my great surprise, on the shelves of the shop, I saw a statue of María Lionza and other objects used in the rituals devoted to her. I must admit that at the time my feelings alternated between enthusiasm and frustration. Indeed, seeing the image of this goddess, who had become so familiar to me, aroused a certain emotion in me as well as admiration for the ability of this religion to cross borders and become established in new contexts. At the same time, seeing this statue in the city where I was born and grew up made it clear to me that my area of study, which initially had seemed to me to be so strange and exotic, was already part of what I considered “my world.” I was no longer analyzing a radical and distant Otherness, but a belief that was gradually becoming integrated into the European religious fabric. That same evening, I phoned a friend in Caracas who is a believer in the cult of María Lionza. I explained to him that I had seen La Reina in Barcelona. He interpreted this fact as a sign from the goddess: “She is following you; she doesn’t want you to stop studying her and raising awareness about her; she is trying to tell you that you cannot let her go.” Some months later, I started research on the cult of María Lionza in Catalonia. Since that initial encounter with the image of María Lionza in the streets of the Raval district in Barcelona, I have contacted several believers in the cult of María Lionza, who reside in Barcelona and the surrounding area. In many cases they are Venezuelans, although there are also Dominicans, Cubans, and Catalans. Nevertheless, I have not found a well-established and permanent cult group in Catalonia—that which in Venezuela is called a caravana. In Catalonia, the cult is practiced individually, in a private, almost underground manner, in people’s apartments and with the fewest elements possible. We are therefore witnessing an individualization process of the cult. This individualization7 also affects the ritual practice: believers, in Catalonia tend to worship only three or four divinities from the wide pantheon of the cult, and establish a particularly close relationship with these. It is important to bear in mind that many of these believers are in Catalonia, uprooted from their family group and from the circle of friends that they had in their home country. This leads us to consider a possible correspondence between a process of social atomization and a process of spiritual atomization. Furthermore, data obtained during fieldwork in Barcelona reveals a tendency for believers in the cult of María Lionza to give prominence to 152

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some elective relations vis-à-vis the divinities—believers choose the spirits they wish to worship, unlike the relationships that believers maintain with spirits in their countries of origin. There, believers often “work” with the most family-rooted spirits. The choice of spirits, especially in rural areas, is given mainly by family tradition. Outside their country, they commonly choose the divinity that best suits them to confront the new context in which they find themselves. Believers in the cult of María Lionza residing in Catalonia prefer not to reveal their religious practice. The reason for this is simple and is also related to them being immigrants: they fear that their belonging to a cult could jeopardize the integration process in the society where they live. They are all aware that in the eyes of the local population this cult may appear to be witchery and superstition. They believe that making their religion public will not help them to become recognized as full-fledged citizens. Strangely, they also prefer their belief to go unnoticed by other members of the “Venezuelan community”8 in Catalonia. This is due to a double fear. On the one hand, they think that their belonging to the cult could be frowned upon by some Venezuelans, and in particular by those with important jobs (civil servants in the embassy, business people) who represent a high social class, traditionally against the cult. On the other hand, believers in the cult of María Lionza prefer to hide their beliefs out of fear that another person practicing AfroAmerican cults—especially the santeros—could send them a trabajo malo, or, in other words, a curse. These believers argue that if a witch working with black magic discovered that they were performing rituals, they could decide, with the aim of having the monopoly of the spiritual domain in Barcelona, to remove their power by inflicting negative energy upon them. In any case, the fears about making their belonging to the cult of María Lionza public are an expression of the situation of legal, political and social vulnerability in which these believers find themselves during the migration experience. I would like to now focus on analyzing the cases of different people practicing the cult of María Lionza in Barcelona. The first case is that of Miguel, a believer and follower of the cult of María Lionza who has been living in Barcelona for ten years. Born in Palmarito, a city on the edge of Maracaibo Lake in Venezuela, Miguel married a Guinean woman in Spain. They have a son who speaks Fon, Spanish, and Catalan. Miguel works as a musician although as a result of the economic recession he is often unemployed. He has built an altar to María Lionza in his apartment with several images that he brought with him from Venezuela. Particularly notable is the holy card (estampa) that shows María Lionza with El Negro Felipe and Guacaipuro, symbolic representatives of the nation’s African and indigenous past, respectively. The card is mounted on a wooden board behind a glass of wine. At this altar, Miguel pays tribute to María Lionza and asks her for help over153

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coming his difficulties, which mainly have to do with adapting to Spanish society and finding a job. The altar also links Miguel to his homeland and the family and friends he left behind. In addition to figures from Catholicism and Cuban Santería, we can observe a new element on this altar, the result of the migratory process in which Miguel finds himself. A holy card of La Moreneta, the patron saint of Catalonia. This divinity has been historically associated with the Catalan national identity, just as María Lionza has been a symbol of the Venezuelan nation. Miguel decided to add La Moreneta to his altar in order to create a connection with his new country of residence. In his own words, Miguel decided to add the Catalan patron saint so that the altar would act in his new setting. As such, we can see that the function of what I would call a cross-cultural altar is two-fold: on the one hand, it helps maintain symbolic and effective ties with the country of origin (Venezuela); on the other hand, and beyond its sentimental function, its main purpose is to intervene and change reality. It is for this reason that Miguel has added an element that anchors it to the Catalan context. It would be a mistake to think that by incorporating La Moreneta Miguel is perverting or contaminating the proper practice of the cult of María Lionza. On the contrary, I would say that Miguel’s decision is completely coherent with the visual creativity that defines this religious practice, which is always open to integrating new elements and is apt to change in response to the demands of the specific moment. In short, this altar demonstrates the performative character that religion may assume in diaspora. religion is practiced, not only to evoke the country of origin, but also—and mainly—to intervene in reality and subvert it, creating new relationships or giving new meaning to the existing ones, and this subversion refers mainly to immigrants’ acquisition of political rights and social recognition. A very different case is that of Luisa, a Venezuelan follower of the cult of María Lionza who runs a bar in Barcelona. The bar, located in the Gothic quarter, is called Las cuevas del Sorte, in reference to the sacred mountain where homage is paid to the goddess. The inside of the bar is decorated like a tropical jungle, with imitations of trees, waterfalls, animals, and background jungle noises. The lower floor is designed to look like the inside of a cave. The oval ceiling is covered with stones and there are small waterfalls in the corners. In addition to the lavish decoration, Luisa decided to make two images of María Lionza, which she had brought herself from Venezuela, very visible. On the first floor there is a statue of María Lionza as an Indian astride a tapir, while on the ground floor there is a picture of María Lionza as a queen. According to Luisa, the reason for which these images were placed in the bar is twofold. First, there is a commercial reason. The images of the Yaracuyan goddess, exotic and striking for the local public, afford the bar a strong personality and unique charm. It is a marketing lure and resource 154

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that contributes decisively to promoting the business. Second, there is a religious reason. The images are there to promote the bar’s success. As the owner states: “I placed the Queen there so that everything would go well.” Therefore, in addition to their decorative and commercial function, these images have an evidently performative role. Luisa’s phrase denotes the partial identification established between the image and the divinity. Without being fully identified with her representations, the queen is in them, and that is why she can act in the bar. As religious images, Luisa is very careful to bring offerings and always keep the images clean. She performs both tasks when the bar is closed, far from her customers’ eyes. The cases of Miguel and Luisa are two good examples of the creative nature of religion in diasporic processes, that is, the capacity of religious phenomena to adapt themselves to the demands of the new place of residence, modifying their practices and redefining their objectives. As a result, the process of establishing a foreign religious practice in a new context—such as in the case of the cult of María Lionza in Barcelona—should not be thought of in terms of transposition but rather in terms of resignification. This idea has not always been predominant in academia. Oftentimes, cultural practice in the diaspora has been interpreted simply as an example of cultural resistance, as a strategy for maintaining symbolic and sentimental ties with the country of origin. But this is only partially true. As I have shown here, religion in the diaspora can assume a much more decisive role: political action, a strategy for achieving social recognition, and improved political and economic status in a foreign context. Another revealing example is that of Marco. A professional musician, Marco has lived in Mataró, a small coastal city some 40 km from Barcelona, for eight years. In Venezuela, he already practiced the cult of María Lionza, but he did it, according to what he says, in a very “traditional” way, that is, he did not mix the cult of María Lionza with other religions. However, upon arriving in Catalonia, and for professional reasons, he began to relate with Cuban, Dominican, Senegalese, and Cameroonian musicians and artists, many of whom practiced African and Afro-American religions. These contacts made him change his opinion of the cult. As he himself states, through these friendships he became aware of the numerous links the cult of María Lionza has with other belief systems such as Santería, Palo, Voodoo, and the Regla de Ífa. As a result, he decided to change his way of practicing the cult. Now, Marco has a magnificent altar in his house, which contains elements from all the above-mentioned religions. Before this altar, he performs his purification, healing, and divination rituals, often in the company of friends or family. Marco states that in Venezuela he was used to “being transported” himself; in other words, that he was frequently possessed by spirits of the cult during ceremonies. He recognizes that in Catalonia it is harder for him to 155

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carry out this practice. As he states, “Here, the brothers find it harder to descend.” Having said this, Marco regularly holds rituals in which trance episodes are not uncommon. Marco’s discourse about the cult has also changed. Whereas just some years ago he defended the specificity and singularity of this religious practice, highlighting its difference from other cults and belief systems, now he affirms that he feels more identified with the idea of a “religious cosmopolitanism” according to which all religious would be equivalent and would be related in one way or another. The case of Marco is a paradigmatic example of what might be called diasporic encounters ( Johnson 2012: 97). By this, I refer to the fact that individuals in the diaspora build unprecedented social relationships that significantly reconfigure their perception of the world and of themselves, as well as their political agenda. During my fieldwork in Barcelona I have observed how many Venezuelan followers of Afro-American religions like Marco came into contact with immigrants from the west coast of Africa (Senegal, Ghana, or Cameroon, among others), especially in the context of artistic projects, mainly musical. In their conversations, both the Africans and Venezuelans frequently referred to the fact that despite their cultural differences they both belong to the large Afro-American family and that, as such, they are, to a certain degree, “brothers” (hermanos). It is through this type of encounter that a certain Afro-American community is created in the diaspora. The existence of this new community can have an effect on religious practices. As such, it is increasingly common in Barcelona, and probably in other places, for Afro-Americans to incorporate elements of African religions into their rituals and vice versa. Until recent decades, the idea of an African and Afro-American cultural family was mostly a theory set forth by researchers and cultural activists to describe and promote the historical ties and cultural affinities between these two continents, but it did not make reference to specific communities. In contrast, now we address the establishment of a true community between Africans and Afro-Americans. What is particularly interesting is that in many cases—such as that which I have addressed here—this community is not formed in Africa or South America, but rather on a third continent (Europe), a continent in which both groups (Africans and Afro-Americans) are in a position of Otherness or alienness (Bosniak 2006). It is also worth mentioning that an increasing number of Catalans feel drawn toward these religions and some have begun to express interest in AfroAmerican cults, combining or connecting these with their own referents. Such is the case of Carles. For six years, Carles has been in a relationship with a Venezuelan girl. Through her, he came into contact with the cult of María Lionza. What is most interesting of all is that, since they have both

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been definitively settled in Barcelona, she has gradually stopped practicing the cult, while he has gradually increased. Carles has a magnificent altar that combines elements from the cult of María Lionza and Santería and that has multiple references to Catalan history and culture, such as images of la Moreneta, Sant Jordi (patron saint of Catalonia), and national flags—Carles is a fervent defender of Catalonia’s independence. He states that his altar is for personal use, and that he has shown it to very few people (I photographed it but I was not allowed to publish the photos). He uses it to purify himself, to make requests, and to communicate with the spirits. This case shows how in analyzing transnational processes we should not only look at immigrants, but also at the reinvention, in transnational terms, of the cultural practices of the members of the adopting country.

The Globalization of the Esoteric Industry As I mentioned in relation to the Internet, in the diasporic processes of Afro-American cults and the cult of María Lionza in particular, the esoteric industry plays an essential role. In Spain, for example, there are hundreds of shops where statues of gods, herbs for ceremonies, and all types of products required to perform rituals can be purchased. In some cases, the production and distribution of these products has reached a global dimension. For example, many of these images are made in China from where they are exported to South America and Europe, especially Spain. In addition to this globalized production, in recent years in Catalonia religious images have been produced on a very local scale. Thus, Catalan workshops specialized in the sculpture of Catholic saints have been forced to diversify their production, and have begun to produce images of divinities from the Latin American religious universe and the Afro-American religious universe. This series of global and local processes of producing and distributing religious material is reflected in the example of Ferran. A former Catalan driving school owner, Ferran, around 50 years of age, became initiated in Cuban Santería some years ago. Through his frequent trips to Latin America, the Caribbean, and Africa, he came into contact with other African and Afro-American religions. It was at this time that Ferran decided to change his life. He closed the driving school and opened an esoteric shop in the center of Barcelona. The shop has been very successful and is frequented by believers of very disparate nationalities and religions. The shop is called Museu de les religions Sant Jordi (the Sant Jordi museum of religions). The reference to the Catalan culture reveals his desire to open the shop not only to citizens from South America and Africa, but also to the “local” population. The use

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of the term “museum” is also revealing. The shop is not only designed to be a bazaar but also a study center. Ferran affirms that what he is creating is a kind of parallel university, and he puts great effort into reading and learning in order to then in turn be able to teach his disciples. He regularly organizes seminars about religious topics. In parallel to the sale of religious material and the courses and conferences, Ferran also performs rituals in the back room. There he has a huge room full of images, among which the goddess María Lionza can be found. Many people, especially Catalans, go to him to obtain remedies for personal or professional problems. The statues of María Lionza that Ferran has in his shop have been imported from Venezuela with other religious material. Ferran admits that when he first received an image of the goddess he did not know much about her history and cult. Nor could he seek advice, because at the time (in 2009) he did not know anyone who was involved in the cult. He had to learn the myth and cult of María Lionza by himself, seeking information in books and on the Internet. Based on these sources, Ferran created his version of María Lionza according to which the goddess would be a particular example of a universal feminine archetype on which other divinities such as La Moreneta or the goddess Isis would be based. This is the version of María Lionza that he has been telling visitors to his shop in recent years. Here we can observe a key process in relation to the reinvention of the meaning of the goddess: when the image María Lionza “migrates” to a country where a consolidated practice of the cult does not exist and where the goddess is not a public and widely known figure, it suffers from a kind of lack of meaning. Ferran says it very explicitly: he had a very beautiful and suggestive image of her, but he did not know her story at all. Thus, he had to create the story about the goddess on the basis of her image. The image, in this case, preceded the myth and the cult. Moreover, this ethnographic example reveals how this lack of meaning that the image of María Lionza underwent in exile fostered the reinvention of the divinity and its adaptation in its new adopted context. In more general terms, the case of Ferran reveals the crucial role played by the material culture in what is known as the nomadism of beliefs. At times, it is thought that in processes of religious transnationalization, the material culture becomes established once the belief and ritual practice has taken root in the new context, in other words, when an established group of believers considers the need to import objects to perform rituals. However, often the contrary occurs. First the objects arrive—religious images, books, films—and subsequently the ritual practice is developed based on these. The material culture, and images in particular, therefore play an active and primordial role in the globalization of beliefs. Objects are not subordinate to the “religious practice” but they are what makes this practice possible.

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Conclusions How can we explain the overwhelming ability of the cult of María Lionza to incorporate technological mediation and to strategically use the Internet to reinvent and resignify its religious practices and to make itself known beyond Venezuela’s borders? From my point of view, the agglutinative, dynamic, and relational nature that this cult has always had, as well as its historical relationship with images and visual elements has greatly facilitated this adaptation to technological media and cyberspace. In Afro-American cults—and in the cult of María Lionza in particular—images have always had a relational role, helping to weave social links between people, and between people and gods. Furthermore, the spirits of the cult have always tended to be represented, subverted, reinvented, and resignified. Thus, throughout history, entities of the cult have demonstrated a surprising flexibility and adaptability to new contexts. It is also important to note that the lack of a religious institution controlling the practice of the cult and the messages that are spread about it has unquestionably facilitated its expansion and transmission, while at the same time leaving room for the reinvention of the image of the goddess and the adaptation of the ritual practices to the demands of each moment. In short, it is on account of this kind of affinity between the cult of María Lionza and digital technologies that the presence of this cult on the Internet is so strong and that the adaptation of this religious practice to a changing, diverse, and globalized society, in which imaging technology plays a dominant role, has been so natural. It is precisely in situations of change, of mestizaje, and of the acceleration of technological advances that these cults were born, and it is in this type of context that they find their ideal space, their field of action and, in short, their raison d’être. As regards the practice of the cult in Barcelona, it is important to highlight three aspects. First, the individualization of the ritual, which not only leads to the believers performing the rituals on their own, but also causes believers to tend to relate with a smaller number of divinities with whom they establish a very close relationship. Second, the cases of Miguel and Luisa, explained above, show that ritual objects such as images assume a double function in the diaspora: on the one hand, these objects are used to establish a permanent link between believers and their country of origin and, on the other hand, serve as a strategy to integrate the believers in the new society where they have taken up residence. Lastly, the case of Ferran shows how religious images can take on new meanings according to local criteria. In short, the cult of María Lionza has become a global cult. This is demonstrated by its presence on the Internet, the existence of an esoteric industry on a global scale, and the practice of the cult beyond Venezuelan borders.

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However, there are more examples of this globalization process of the cult. One of these is the fact that a group of believers living in Venezuela want to begin the proceedings to have the cult declared an Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity by UNESCO (chapter 2). These followers of the cult have understood perfectly that their religion, precisely on account of it being a local and unique belief, can arouse great international interest, and that this can afford them benefits from a political and economic perspective. The framework of reference of the driving force of this initiative is no longer that of Venezuelan national institutions (these are seen more as an obstacle), but that of large international organizations. The cult is no longer conceived as a local practice, but as a global one, and it is now competing in the demanding and exclusive battle for patrimonial recognition.

Notes 1. See http://www.espiritismovenezuela.com/. Retrieved on 3 October 2016. 2. The concept of “community” should not be interpreted here as a fixed and stable social group, but rather as a fragile and dynamic set of relationships that are used to face concrete day-to-day problems. 3. For Santería practiced outside Cuba, see Stefania Capone, ed., Religions Transnationales des suds (Louvain-la-Neuve: Academia-L’Harmattan, 2012). 4. For the transnational dimension of Candomblé, see J. Lorand Matory, Black Atlantic Religion: Tradition, Transnationalism and Matriarchy in the Afro-Brazilian Candomblé (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2005). 5. This is not new. In 2004, Francisco Ferrándiz already stated that many followers, the majority of whom were young, were entirely aware of the fact that when spectators watched programs about the cult, they wanted to see agressive and spectacular possessions, with abundant crying and self-harm. They also knew that television is characterized by its accelerated narrative rhythm. Therefore, as soon as they saw that a television team was recording them, they shortened the entry into trance before the camera, and reinforced the violence of the possession. 6. According to this author, “religions online” are religions that use the Internet only to advertise and spread their message. The Internet, in this case, would only be a means through which they become known, like the radio or the television in the past. The term “online religion,” in contrast, defines those religions that, like the cult of María Lionza, have been able to reinvent themselves in digital terms, that is, they have created a language, aesthetics, and practices especially designed for the Internet. 7. I use the term “individualization” in the sense used by Ulrich Beck and Elisabeth Beck-Gernesheim (2002), that is, as a process by which, it is the individual—and not the group—that becomes the principal social structure, that is, the primordial agent of social reproduction. 8. The concept of “community” is often used to refer to groups of immigrants with the same nationality. This use of the term “community” is, however, risky, and may lead people to

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think that these “groups” constitute a type of homogeneous and close entity, that is, that all of the individuals are, in broad terms, physically, culturally, and politically the same. Thus we run the risk of re-essentializing groups of immigrants, falling into the trap of old culturalist theories. The case of the Venezuelans in Barcelona is, in this sense, paradigmatic of the lack of units within these “diasporic communities.” Despite the fact that we are talking about a rather small population, there are several internal and opposing divisions and positions that make it impossible to define the group of Venezuelan citizens living in Barcelona as a single community. These divisions are rooted in several causes, the most significant of which is the strong social polarization of Venezuela due to its political situation.

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Chapter 7 A NETWORK OF IMAGES



What is the logic linking this set of myths, rituals, and images of María Lionza that I have discussed throughout the six preceding chapters? How do they influence one another? And, as far as images are concerned: how are material images linked to corporeal and mental images of the divinity? These are some of the questions that I will endeavor to answer in this last chapter, through the use of some specific examples. To do this, I propose interpreting the set of myths, rituals, and images of the divinity as forming a sort of complex and changing network in which each element is linked to the others and acquires its meaning through these relations. In line with that put forward by authors such as Bruno Latour (2005), I suggest understanding this network not as a closed and static system making up a homogeneous unit—that is, one composed of elements of the same nature—but rather as a complex, open, and dynamic whole, which is always in progress. Indeed, it is a complex network because it incorporates agents of different natures: images (material, corporeal, and mental), mythical versions of María Lionza, and different attitudes and behaviors vis-à-vis the goddess and her images. It is therefore a network made up of objects, practices, and words, involving both human and non-human agents. Furthermore, if I say that it is a dynamic network it is because it constantly incorporates new representations while getting rid of others. The images of which it is composed are constantly in movement in Venezuelan society and elsewhere: the images posted on public transport are in permanent circulation, the works of artists travel from one gallery to another, the esoteric industry distributes religious statuettes to all the perfumerías in the country and even abroad. However, this network is dynamic in a deeper sense: the images are continuously combined, fusing with each other, introducing new elements, and giving rise to unseen representations. In this sense, the images of María Lionza—like all images—are nomadic images.

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One of the elements that adds complexity to this system of images is the fact that María Lionza is identified to a greater or lesser extent with other female figures such as Santa Barbara, the Virgen of Coromoto, or Ochun—one of the divinities from the Yoruba pantheon, associated, like María Lionza, with river water and fertility. I will tackle the analyses of these identifications before describing the relationships between material, corporeal, and mental images of María Lionza.

María Lionza and Her Doubles The different images that I have shown thus far reveal the plural identity of María Lionza, her polyhedral nature, or, in short, that which I suggest calling her intrinsic multiplicity. However, to these, other divinities can be added that are more or less associated with María Lionza, such as La India Mara, Santa Barbara, Ochun, or La Virgen de Coromoto, and that I shall henceforth call the goddess’s doubles. These doubles—which may appear as material, corporeal, and mental images—are independent divinities with their own myths and representations and can be worshipped without any reference to María Lionza. For this reason, I shall call this set of doubles of the goddess the “extrinsic plurality” of the divinity. This extrinsic plurality concerns Indian, white, and black figures. It is important to specify that the identification of other figures with María Lionza does not create unanimity among believers. In fact, many of them ignore and even openly reject these associations. Nevertheless, the identification of María Lionza with other divinities is a very generalized phenomenon that generates debates as animated and passionate as those concerning the intrinsic plurality of the goddess among believers. This extrinsic plurality can be observed in the work of intellectual artists such as Gilberto Antolínez, who identifies María Lionza with La dama del peine (the woman of the comb)—a Basque divinity—or Homero Salazar, who compares the goddess to the Indian Yara (see chapter 1). In the spoken word, these identifications can be observed in the discourses and explanations of the believers. Several of these state, for example, that María Lionza es (is) La India Rosa (Rosa the Indian), that Santa Barbara representa (represents) María Lionza in the Catholic form, or that Ochun es María Lionza en version negra (Ochun is the black version of María Lionza). The identification of María Lionza with other divinities also occurs in the realm of religious images. The altars provide proof of this. On the mountain of Sorte, for example, I met a believer who considered that María Lionza “was” La India Rosa, and who consequently placed the statue of this Indian

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on the highest position on the altar, usually reserved for María Lionza. Furthermore, another believer from Guanare deemed that María Lionza “was” the Virgin of Coromoto and he placed the statue of the latter between the statues of Indian and African gods, reproducing the structure of Las Tres Potencias. These two examples reveal a similarity between the discourses about the goddess’s doubles and the link to images—in other words, in both, there is a similarity between that which is said and that which is done. However, this correspondence is not usual. On the contrary, it is rather an exception. In fact, numerous followers affirm that they do not believe in this type of identification but, afterward, outside the context of a formal interview, they make comments or maintain relations with the images of certain divinities that show that these associations between María Lionza and other female figures have a place in their religious world. These identifications operate more as a practice than as a self-conscious discourse. For example, on many occasions I have seen believers attribute the name María Lionza to the representation of Santa Barbara and uphold the same relation with her statue that they usually have with the statue of La Reina. Nevertheless, when I asked them openly if they thought that María Lionza “was” Santa Barbara, I received a categorical “no” in response. So, what is the meaning of these identifications? What roles do they play in the cult? And why is there such a gap between the spoken word and the link to the images? Before answering these questions, the characteristics of the divinities with which María Lionza is usually identified must be specified and their representations compared with those of the goddess. Let us first discuss the numerous female Indian divinities identified with María Lionza and, in particular, Yara and Mara who are the most frequent identifications. The religious statuette representing the goddess Yara depicts her as an Indian woman, naked from the waist up and wearing only a loincloth, her arms aloft and caressing her long black hair. The case of the relation between María Lionza and the Indian Yara is unique since the identification of one with the other is much stronger than with other doubles. This identification has two different meanings, which can be applied in all the examples of “extrinsic plurality” of María Lionza. On the one hand, many believers and artists maintain that “Yara” is María Lionza’s Indian name. In other words, that María Lionza and Yara are simply the same figure; one figure that can nevertheless appear in disparate forms. On the other hand, some believe that María Lionza and Yara are two different entities, although closely linked. In this regard, the idea that Yara is María Lionza’s mother is widespread. According to this version, the image of the naked Indian woman astride a tapir would correspond to Yara, while that of the white or mestiza queen would refer to María Lionza.

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Apart from the Indian divinities, the other large group of female figures with which María Lionza is identified are those that stem from Catholicism. In this group, most notable are the identifications with the Virgin of Coromoto and Santa Barbara. The Patron Saint of Venezuela since 1951, the Virgin of Coromoto is considered to be the Venezuelan version of the Virgin Mary. Her identification with María Lionza implies, indirectly, the identification of María Lionza with the Virgin Mary herself. In this regard, many Catholics openly object to this identification, regarding it as an insult to the mother of Christ. The Virgin of Coromoto is also called “mother” or “queen” by many believers. Furthermore, the iconography of this Virgin is vast. She is always portrayed as seated, donning a gold crown, cradling her son on her lap who in turn is holding the globe in his left hand. Her statue, adopting a Baroque hyperrealism style, can be found in many Catholic churches. The same type of statue can also be found on many altars of the cult of María Lionza, beside those of Indian and black gods. This figure introduces a detail that is completely absent from representations of María Lionza, namely, maternity. Indeed, although María Lionza is described as the goddess of love and fertility, there are no representations of her with a child. Moreover, the identification of María Lionza with Santa Barbara is extremely widespread in the cult and is one of the clearest examples of the influence of Cuban Santería. Santa Barbara is represented as a white-skinned woman wearing a crown, holding a sword in her left hand, and a glass of wine in her right. Her image often includes a tower, alluding to the place where, according to the legend, she was locked away before being beheaded by her own father for having converted to Christianity. Unlike the identifications with the Virgin of Coromoto or with the three Indian divinities discussed above, the identification of María Lionza with Santa Barbara is much less present in the followers’ discourse. This identification can be especially observed through their behavior toward images and, in particular, through the designations they give to them, for example, numerous followers apply the title of Queen or Mother to the images of the two divinities. However, as one follower said: “De madre y de reina sólo puede haber una” (there can only be one queen and one mother). Moreover, on multiple occasions I have witnessed followers of the cult pray to María Lionza before statues of Santa Barbara—the opposite, however, does not occur. In addition, Santa Barbara is identified with the Changó, a black divinity from Cuban Santería who nevertheless has a very established and ancient place in the structure of the cult of María Lionza.1 The fact that Santa Barbara is identified with Changó nevertheless has an effect on the cult, in particular the introduction of the statue of this black divinity to the altars of the cult as well as the important presence of possession rituals during which the spirit of Changó descends.

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The identification of María Lionza with black divinities essentially occurs through the figure of Ochun (and at times Yemayá), a goddess belonging to the Yoruba pantheon of Cuban Santería. Also identified with the Virgen de la Caridad del Cobre, Ochun is part of the Siete Potencias Africanas (Seven African Powers) of the cult of María Lionza along with Yemayá (it is thought that she was Ochun’s mother), Obatalá, Elegguá, Oyá, Changó, and Oggun. Goddess of the waters and of fertility, she is depicted with a mirror, a recurring element in many myths about María Lionza—let us recall that in the version by Antolínez, for example, María Lionza falls into the lake when she sees her own face reflected in the water. Ochun is associated with the color yellow, also associated with María Lionza. All of these characteristics, and especially the relation with freshwater and fertility, are the strong points shared by María Lionza and Ochun that facilitate their association. The general analysis of the identifications discussed thus far shows that María Lionza is especially associated either with divinities of a highly erotic nature (Yara and Mara), or Catholic figures (the Virgin of Coromoto and the Virgin Mary) or black divinities (Ochun, Yemayá). This is not by chance. In fact, I think that the role of this extrinsic plurality is to enable followers, artists, and writers to attribute, in a more or less conscious manner, characters and identities to María Lionza that would not be accepted if they were directly assigned to this divinity. In other words, these identifications with other divinities help to define what María Lionza is without openly stating it. They also help to create indirect links between the cult of María Lionza and other religions (notably Catholicism and Cuban Santería). The extrinsic plurality is somehow an indirect and implicit language. But, why should this allusive language be used? The response to this question can be found in the notable presence of Catholicism within the cult. Even among believers, Catholicism is the religion that enjoys the most prestige. All the followers of María Lionza with whom I spoke declared that they were both believers in María Lionza and Catholic. The influence and authority of Catholic iconography in the cult is undoubtedly one of the fundamental reasons for which the most present image of María Lionza on the altars is that of her as a queen, in which she is represented as white-skinned or mixed-race, and in which her female attributes are almost nonexistent. The nudity and sensuality of the representations of María Lionza as a beautiful Indian are often concealed by believers. What has happened to the eroticism of the figure of María Lionza in the cult? Has it disappeared? Rather, I think that, among other strategies,2 it has been “shifted” toward other divinities such as the Indian Yara, the Indian Mara, or the Indian Tibisay. However, this identification remains more or less hidden, and it is precisely the ambivalent nature of the identification that represents its strength. Likewise, the link with María Lionza and Catholicism is indirect 166

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in representations: it is delivered through extrinsic plurality. The evident and explicit representation of María Lionza as the Virgin Mary would certainly not be accepted by the authorities, or by many followers. Unable to directly say “María Lionza is the Virgin Mary,” the majority of believers allow this identification to become apparent through extrinsic plurality. In this sense, the association between María Lionza and Santa Barbara is doubly effective, since it helps to introduce into the cult a link with both Catholicism and Cuban Santería, that is, with the African world. In short, the extrinsic plurality helps to implicitly and in an almost covert manner widen the scope of the figure of María Lionza. Thus, it helps to “transfer” attributes usually associated with the goddess (such as the sexual nature of the character) to other divinities. Additionally, the extrinsic plurality enables the interior of the cult to be incorporated into other divinities, and thus, continuity to be established between different belief systems. It is through these continuities, which especially occur through religious images, that the cult succeeds at incorporating difference and integrating Otherness into a coherent and unified, yet dynamic and changing, whole.

The Nomadism of Images The images of María Lionza move incessantly from one support to another while acquiring new meanings and new roles. Through these iconic trajectories, new practices are provoked and novel discourses emerge. For instance, it is usual to see transpositions of the images present on the holy cards of María Lionza to the walls of perfumerías or esoteric art shops. Through this transfer, the image no longer has the characteristics of intimacy and reverence associated with the holy card, and instead acquires those of a public image. On the wall of these shops, the image changes roles: its function is no longer that of an amulet or individual protection, but that of the commercial promotion of a building devoted to religious commerce. Additionally, the images of the holy cards are usually reproduced on the windows of the public buses of Caracas and other cities. According to the drivers and owners of these vehicles, the objective of these images is that the god in the picture would protect the bus. Here, the image of María Lionza maintains its religious functions: Because this image on the bus is the image of a previous religious image, it maintains its functions of protection, its value of presence, its link with the hereafter. The audio-visual piece created by Dixon Calvetti is another particularly original artistic work that demonstrates how the nomadism of images links material images and corporeal images. This video consists of a still frame showing a naked woman using a hair dryer.3 At her feet there are seven naked men who lift and lower their head in a sign of submission. The video 167

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FIGURE 7.1 • Left: María Lionza guarda la entrada de la mina. Around 1950. Artist: Pedro Centeno Vallenilla.

Right: Wadabakoa. 2006. Artist: Dixon Calvetti.

lasts approximately two minutes and is screened on a loop. Calvetti’s work is filled with references to the literary, religious and pictorial tradition associated with María Lionza. The most evident reference is the painting María Lionza guarda la entrada de la mina by Pedro Centeno Vallenilla, of which Calvetti’s video is a very faithful production. However, the artist introduces some highly significant new aspects: first, Calvetti’s video presents a modification with regard to the characterization of María Lionza. In Vallenilla’s painting, the goddess was represented as a mestiza woman, a symbol of the fusion of the three races that were deemed, according to the outlook at the time, to make up the ethnic map of Venezuela. Furthermore, in the original painting, María Lionza was painted a very light and radiant yellow, allowing the spirituality and divine character of this figure, as well as her consubstantial relation with gold, to filter through. Conversely, in Calvetti’s video, María Lionza is embodied by a black woman, which Calvetti uses to highlight the association between María Lionza and the African world. As regards the hair dryer, it is a replacement for the serpent—the cable of the apparatus, wrapped around the young woman’s body, clearly makes reference to the shape of the animal. The fact that she is doing her hair is a reference to the literary versions that identify María Lionza with La Dama del Peine (the woman of the comb), a legend of Basque origin about a beautiful young woman who continuously combed her hair by the waterside. The fact that the film restarts uninterruptedly, that is, that it is screened on a loop, is, according to the artist, a means of visually expressing the cyclical and repetitive nature of the ritual. 168

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What drove Dixon Calvetti to carry out this performance? According to the artist, the aim of creating this video of María Lionza was to show the current development of this character, her ability to adapt to all artistic supports and to uphold the theories of Gilberto Antolínez, of whom he is an avid reader. In order to make the public reflect, he believed that they had to be “amazed” by showing them a version of María Lionza that differs greatly from the traditional and canonical representations of the divinity. On a more religious level, the artist considered this project to be an homage to the deity; an example of affection, esteem, and respect toward her. Dixon Calvetti thus attributed a religious, transcendent meaning to the artistic creation process. Moreover, by recreating a renowned painting through an artistic performance, the art became, according to him, a religious activity. The network of images of María Lionza links the domain of art and the religious domain, as shown in image 7.2. On the left we have a detail from the work of Centeno Vallenilla dedicated to Yara, one of María Lionza’s doubles and considered to be the Indian version of her. The photo on the right was taken at the mountain of Sorte and corresponds to the wall of a very modest hostel providing accommodation for pilgrims. We can see that on this wall followers of the cult reproduced a copy of the painting by the renowned Venezuelan artist. This passage shows the continuity established between more cultivated art and the popular practice of the cult. The followers, by incorporating artistic images into the places of worship, regard the art work as sacred—in other words, they afford the art work a religious dimension. Conversely, we can say that artists, in taking inspiration from the

FIGURE 7.2 • Left: Panel del mural Venezuela-Círculo de las Fuerzas Armadas de Caracas. 1956–1958. Artist: Pedro Centeno Vallenilla.

Right: Montaña de Sorte. 2006. Photo: Roger Canals.

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cult of María Lionza for their creations, are enhancing the artistic and performative dimension of the cult. In fact, what the works of Calvetti, Garrido, and even Olavarría (analyzed in chapter 4)—who exaggerates the aesthetic and theatrical aspect of rituals—show us is not only that there is religion in art, but that there is art in religion. This idea is often explained by the believers themselves. In this regard, a follower of the cult affirmed that to create a good altar “hay que tener arte,” that is, one has to have a certain gift, a certain aesthetic sensitivity. The paths taken by the images are unpredictable. Often little is needed for an image to develop one role or another in a society. Imagine the two paths that the bust of María Lionza as a queen can take when it leaves the factory where it is made. On the one hand, the, let us say, usual path, which would lead the bust to be painted traditionally, in accordance with certain established norms. When it is dyed in this way, the resulting sculpture is seen as a religious image by the believers, capable of being used in rituals on account of its potential link with the divinity. But the image can also end up in the hands of the artist Patricia Proaño (chapter 4), who would repaint it in an original manner. Because of this new appearance, the bust of María Lionza is considered essentially as an artistic image, although the artist, as I showed, attributes a religious meaning of connection with the divinity to her artistic activity. In fact, for her, this bust constitutes a religious image as much as an artistic one. Images of María Lionza take on different itineraries through their different supports. The clearest example is undoubtedly that of the statue of Alejandro Colina. Let us recall that the artist states that he took inspiration from the legends and myths of the region of Yaracuy to create his project. These myths, which he compiled during his time spent with Indians, spoke of a beautiful Indian woman, associated with nature and the serpent, who rode astride a tapir at night. In his workshop, Colina created his sculpture with the assistance of Beatriz Veit-Tané,4 a very popular model and actress in the 1940s who became one of the most important priestesses of the cult. Although she did not really sit astride a tapir during her posing sessions, Beatriz Veit-Tané nevertheless imitated the position for the sculptor and in this way the myths and legends of María Lionza were, to some extent, materialized in a corporeal image before then becoming, at the hands of Colina, a material image. After being located in the middle of the Autopista del Este, and with the support of the government of Pérez Jiménez who wished to make María Lionza a symbol of the nation, the sculpture by Colina took countless paths. At first, it became a material religious image because believers started to perform rituals before this sculpture and because, reproduced on holy cards and in the form of small plaster statues, it began to occupy a place on the altars of private homes. But Colina’s statue also moved toward the bodies of mediums during possession rituals. Indeed, as I explained in chapter 5, 170

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when María Lionza descends, she habitually adopts the same position as that of the famous sculpture: her arms raised, her legs slightly apart, and her knees bent. Traces of Colina’s image can also be seen in the bodies of dancers and actresses. Finally, as regards the mental image, many believers affirm having seen María Lionza as a naked Indian woman astride a tapir. Indeed, numerous believers maintain that dreams or visions are at the origin of this sequence of images. According to them, Colina had a vision of María Lionza as a woman on a tapir. During the vision, the goddess gave him the mission of creating a statue reproducing her appearance. In fact, none of the believers who worship this image think that it is a work stemming from the artist’s imagination, or a type of artistic fiction more or less inspired by myths and legends. This demonstrates that they do not consider it a work of art, but rather a religious image. And, in the sphere of religious images, the mental image always precedes the material image. The influence of Colina’s sculpture extends beyond the sphere of the cult. In the artistic domain, it has been used for countless material creations (sculpture, painting, collage). On the Internet, we can find rather surprising versions. As regards the corporeal image, dancers and actresses have also taken inspiration from this image to represent María Lionza. Their bodies thereby become the corporeal image of a material image. As an example of the nomadism of Colina’s image I would like to show image 7.3. It brings together the sculpture by Alejandro Colina and a tattoo, showing the trans-

FIGURE 7.3 • Left: María Lionza at the entrance of Caracas. Around 1960. Biblioteca Nacional de Venezuela.

Right: Tattoo depicting the image of María Lionza. Artist: Alan Berg.

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fer of an image created on a solid and inert support to the actual skin of a person. This transfer shows one of the ways in which the image of María Lionza becomes widespread and even interiorized by believers. Moreover, the image of the tattoo highlights that the support on which the image of María Lionza can become visible can also be a living support, such as the flesh of a person. However, although this image was produced directly on the skin and therefore on the body, its characteristics are more reminiscent of those of a holy card (material image) than those of possession (corporeal image). In fact, the particular nature of holy cards—those small square pictures with the face of a divinity on one side and a short prayer on the other—is precisely their permanence, their continuous presence alongside the believers who always carries them in their pockets, or in their purse. Conversely, possession is defined by its exceptional nature. Of an inevitably limited duration (only insane people are permanently possessed) it only takes place in the precise context of ritual. Rather than a corporeal image, here we have an image on the body that acts as a sign of a perpetual and definitive attachment to the divinity and even as a strategy to be in contact with her. Often, the moment of transfer of an image from one support to another boasts a special significance. In chapter 4 I pointed out that the majority of artists describe the act of creation as the transfer of a previous mental image to a material support. According to them, this creation is performed in a state of strong inspiration characterized by intense emotion that renders it almost similar to possession. Likewise, believers affirm that there is a moment during possession rituals when it is also possible to see the spirits directly. This occurs notably during the crisis, that is, several instants prior to the medium entering a trance after having expelled the spirit. Just before entering the human body that will act as its receptacle, the god recovers, as an intermediary phase of its adaptation to a foreign body, the appearance of its original body. In other words, before becoming a corporeal image the divinity allows itself to be seen as a mental image. The images contribute to bringing together and giving consistency to several elements surrounding the figure of María Lionza. Let us take the drawing by this seven-year-old child from the San Javier School in San Felipe. The teacher had told him to draw María Lionza. His work incorporates two different elements: the myth of Antolínez and the practice of the cult. The first is evoked by the lake, the serpent and, especially, the presence of a human figure (María Lionza) who appears to have fallen into the water. The second appears on the left side of the drawing. A person lying on the ground, circled by a yellow line, is surrounded by five individuals. At their feet the public are attending a ritual. This drawing clearly refers to the velación rituals, which are very common in the cult and which I have already discussed 172

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FIGURE 7.4 • Top-Right: Healing Ritual. 2006. Photo: Roger Canals

Bottom: Drawing by a student of the School San Javier. 2006. Venezuela.

in chapter 2. The ritual—of purification, initiation, or healing—is being performed on the person on the ground. This mix of elements from the cult and from the myth is all the more surprising because Antolínez was very critical of the practice of the cult and, inversely, many believers of the cult no longer know the myth by the Venezuelan intellectual. This myth has been transmitted orally and, as this picture shows, reconnected with the ritual practice through the practice of believers. 173

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Mixed Images The images of María Lionza fuse together giving rise to new representations. For example, the serpent is habitually associated with the Indian version of María Lionza. This association appears in the myth of Antolínez—the most widespread and important account of the divinity (chapter 1)—and in Colina’s statue. As a symbol of the Indian world, the serpent opposes the representation of María Lionza as a queen who has always been associated with the urban world and the political sphere (which is why she wears a crown; she is represented as a ruler). However, there are myths and images of María Lionza in which she is characterized as a white woman with a serpent around her waist. How should these be interpreted? A possible response would be that this image is proof that in Venezuela the Indian world and the criollo world are increasingly intermingled. It is important to bear in mind that this holy card appeared under the government of Hugo Chávez, the first president to recognize Indians’ rights. Chávez created a social discourse valuing Indian communities, a discourse that was contradictory in some aspects—since it only recognized Indians as bearers of his socialist revolution (Canals 2012)— but which had very visible effects such as article 8 of the new constitution. This image seems to evoke this integration of Indians, who would cease being Other (like Guacaipuro) to become part of the body of the nation. Consequently, the set of images of María Lionza as a queen and of María Lionza as an Indian on a tapir are not separate from each other; rather, they are linked to each other and, in general, to all other representations that make up the network of images of María Lionza. Their connection is particularly visible in certain representations that comprise, so to speak, mixed forms. The meeting of the statuette of María Lionza standing as a queen and that, inspired by Colina’s sculpture, have given rise to statues of María Lionza as a queen, standing, but accompanied by a tapir. Inversely, we can find images of María Lionza on a tapir donning a crown. This combination of elements from different sources is continuous and is one of the reasons new images of María Lionza appear. In these mixed territories, we also find the image of María Lionza as a queen—often associated with the white or mestizo representation of the character—as an Indian or black woman. These types of transfers, mixed territories (Gruzinski 1999), hybrid figures (Burke 2009), or meeting places also concern María Lionza’s doubles. The most evident case is that of María Lionza and Santa Barbara. I have already explained that many believers combine the representations of these two divinities, to the point that they confuse them. This comparison can be observed perfectly in many images in which we see Santa Barbara with a shining crown, a rose, and a butterfly that the figure has attached to her dress. These three elements do not traditionally belong to Santa Barbara, but 174

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to María Lionza. They are even her identifying elements. So, which goddess do we have here? I would say that it is neither one nor the other, and both at the same time. It is one of the most evident links of the meeting between the cult of María Lionza and Santería and, in a more general manner, of the increasingly intense connection between the cult of María Lionza and the large family of Afro-American religions. All of these examples show that there are three ways of reinventing the image of María Lionza. By combining elements belonging to other representations (such as the case of the white queen with a serpent), by introducing new elements (as Patricia Proaño does, by incorporating elements of the commercial culture into the busts of the divinity), and by making María Lionza converge with other divinities (such as the fusion between María Lionza and Santa Barbara). Often these processes of reinvention of the image are not the result of the conscious action of human subjects. Conversely, what these examples reveal is that images possess a certain autonomy, an agency, their own intent; in other words, they act as subjects. The structure created between individuals, practices, discourses, and images (material, corporeal, and mental) cannot therefore be reduced to a simple structure of subjects and objects; instead, it must be understood as a relational fabric in which the category of subject, understood as the ability to intervene in the development of social life, applies to social agents of different natures.

Conclusions In this chapter I have discussed the difference between intrinsic plurality and extrinsic plurality. The former alludes to the various ways in which María Lionza is represented, while the latter refers to the divinities with which María Lionza is identified to a greater or lesser extent. The characteristics of these two pluralities are clearly different. The former shows María Lionza as a multiple character while the latter recalls that several characters are associated with the same divinity. The first type of plurality represents multiplicity in unity: María Lionza, always the same, is recognized as being several; while the second follows the model of unity in multiplicity, several female figures, recognized as different, refer to one unit, to a single character. The extrinsic plurality somehow complements the intrinsic plurality. Indeed, through this game of doubles a set of messages about the divinity that could not be sent otherwise is delivered. The extrinsic plurality of the character thus makes up an allusive language, an implicit strategy that is in the majority of cases not conscious or deliberate, to refer indirectly to María Lionza. Throughout this work, I have differentiated between three types of images of María Lionza: material images, corporeal images, and mental images. The 175

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images of the first group are essentially found in three domains: first, in that of the cult, through statues of gods used during rituals and holy cards (chapter 3); in the domain of art, where paintings, sculptures, collages and videos inspired by this divinity are abundant (chapter 4); and, in that of the public Venezuelan space, frescoes, posters and pictures on public transport would belong to this group (this chapter). In the domain of material images, we also find digital images on the Internet, which are a sui generis case (chapter 6). As regards the corporeal image (chapter 5), this is also present in the domain of the cult through possession, and in the world of art through theater, dance, television, and cinema. Certainly, these divisions are not clear because possession involves investment by the medium and because numerous actresses and dancers describe the experience of representing María Lionza in terms of possession. Lastly, the mental image (chapter 5) encompasses dreams, visions, and apparitions. We find examples of mental images of María Lionza in the domain of the cult (believers), in that of art (artists), and in relation to people not directly linked to either devotion of the goddess or to the creative activity (as is the case of the traveler Assen Trayanoff ). In this chapter, I have endeavored to demonstrate that this set of images of María Lionza can be interpreted as constituting an open, complex, and dynamic network in which the myth and the cult both play a fundamental role. In this network, the different representations of María Lionza are defined in relation to the others and it is through this game of opposites that they acquire full meaning. They all refer to a single object, separated into a multitude of complementary versions. Thus, if the image of María Lionza as a nude mestiza woman with men at her feet is so shocking, it is because it goes against the representations of María Lionza as a white woman donning a crown, somewhat compared to the Virgin Mary. This relation of opposites does not only concern the way in which María Lionza is represented, but also the ways in which we come into contact with her image. As such, what makes the work of Juan José Olavarría so surprising is that it describes an attitude toward the image of the goddess that clashes with—at least apparently—that of believers. This also happens in relation to María Lionza’s doubles. If the identification of María Lionza with Yemayá or Ochun is significant it is because María Lionza is also identified with the Virgin of Coromoto. The case of images in the cult of María Lionza shows us that images should not be analyzed in isolation, but on the basis of the relations they maintain with each other—in other words, what we could call their relational links. As regards historical subjects, the trajectories of images must be studied; that is to say, their continuous movement through different supports and the transformations they undergo during their nomadism. We know that images mean things (Panofsky), that they do things (Gell 1998), and that they even 176

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want things (Mitchell 2004). However, images also experience things, that is, they evolve and change constantly, like any other agent, as a result of the encounters they have during their existence. Thus, through their life journeys, images’ appearances, uses, and meanings are permanently altered. In other words, images are not passive objects with an invariable essence, but subjects that find themselves—from a material, semiotic, and relational point of view—in a state of permanent instability. This is the movement that we must think about and explain from the anthropology of images. In this regard, I would like to conclude this book by expressing a reflection about the role of visibility in the contemporary practice of the cult of María Lionza, and by pointing to some of the challenges and threats that this religious practice faces in the immediate future.

Notes 1. This does not mean that María Lionza is identified with Changó—demonstrating that, as regards the gods of the cult, the transitive law, if A is equal to B and B is equal to C then A is equal to C, does not always apply. 2. In chapter 3 I explained how María Lionza’s nudity when represented as an Indian woman is often hidden, covering the statues of the goddess with clothes. However, this covering of the body has the paradoxical effect of highlighting the erotic dimension of the character even more. 3. This video, produced in April 2006, was presented at the exhibition María Lionza, religiosidad mágica de Venezuela. 4. In the summer of 2014, I had the opportunity to interview Beatriz Veit-Tané. A very elderly woman, she was living in a residence for the elderly in Caracas. She continued to identify with María Lionza and defined the cult as a universal religion of a shamanic nature.

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María Lionza is a goddess in motion. This means that the entire universe surrounding her—the images, myths, and ritual practices—is undergoing continuous transformation. In this book I have endeavored to analyze this movement, while trying to respect its heterogeneous, dynamic, and at times apparently contradictory nature. I have therefore sought to avoid performing a static description of the cult of María Lionza; instead I have highlighted it for its changing and dynamic nature, and endeavored not to reduce this complexity down to abstract and seemingly omni-explanatory general principles. The majority of this book has been dedicated to the analysis of the images of María Lionza. I have approached the study of the images of this divinity from three different perspectives: I have considered the image as a subject of study, as a method of investigation, and as an element making up the anthropological discourse. These three study perspectives correspond to different domains of visual anthropology—to which we can also add the study of the gaze and the fact of seeing and being seen (chapter 3). I have thus attempted, through the analysis of representations of María Lionza, to perform a comprehensive visual anthropology essay, highlighting the continuity between these three study spheres, with the goal of conducting a study about images, through images, and with images (in this regard it is important to remember that this book is part of a larger project about María Lionza that includes ethnographic films and a webpage). The representation of María Lionza has proved to be a very rich and complex topic. To tackle it, I created a theoretical framework based on the notion of a “medium” or “support,” using Belting’s texts as a source of inspiration. I thereby differentiated between three different types of images of the deity: material images, corporeal images, and mental images. These three types of images of María Lionza are closely linked, that is, they pertain to a same logic, a same movement in which the set of myths about the origin of the deity—written or oral—and the practice of the cult devoted to her both play a decisive role. I suggested considering this set of visual representations of María Lionza as a network of images, that is, as a relational whole in which 178

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each term (i.e., each image) is ideally or materially linked to the others. What I sought to emphasize through this concept is that images do not only refer to things or beings (real or imaginary), but also to other images. Thus, thinking about the image on the basis of its relationship with myth and ritual, I have attempted to demonstrate how images are intrinsically linked to certain patterns of discursivity as well as specific social practices. This network of images of María Lionza is characterized by what I have called “visual creativity.” This term fundamentally refers to the production of new representations (material, corporeal and mental), the resignification of pre-existing images and the creation of visual compositions or landscapes associated with the cult—such as altars or oráculos, those drawings in the earth, which define the space where the religious ceremonies will be held (chapter 3). This visual creativity—which becomes apparent both in the artistic sphere, and the cult and the Internet—must be taken into account from an anthropological stance, since it makes up a fundamental element of the cult of María Lionza. Therefore, in the case of the material images (which is what I have mainly analyzed here), if believers go to such lengths to decorate the altars it is not for purely ornamental reasons. Similarly, if artists and craftspeople (many of whom are followers of the cult) constantly generate novel representations of the goddess it is not only as a result of a desire to be “aesthetically original.” On the contrary, visual creativity reveals itself to be one of the privileged ways in which the cult of María Lionza is structured and unfolds. Reinventing the image of the goddess or creating visual compositions using material or digital objects (such as altars) is, for believers, a strategy (and, in some cases, almost a demand) to establish contact with María Lionza and the spirits of her pantheon. Therefore, the notion of “visual creativity” reveals the link that exists within the cult of María Lionza between artistic creation (understood as the production of new images) and divine creation (defined as the set of actions performed by the divinities with a view to intervening in the unfolding of social life). In fact, the new visual representations enable believers to relate with the divinities, while also helping the latter to express themselves and intervene in the life of the believers—whether through the mediation of altars or holy cards (material image), spiritual possession (corporeal image), or dreams and apparitions (mental image). In the cult of María Lionza, visual creativity therefore has an essentially relational objective. Its main purpose is to update the relations between humans and the spirits—and between humans themselves, through the mediation of the spirits. As such, visual creativity—that is to say, the constant exercise of updating the visual mediations between believers and the spirits—is one of the fundamental aspects of the contemporary practice of the cult of María Lionza. However, this process has its history. Indeed, if we look back, we will see 179

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how, from a historical point of view, the cult of María Lionza has always been characterized by this plasticity. Furthermore, beyond some specific ritual expressions very well established (such as the use of herbs in healing rituals or the worshipping of Las Tres Potencias), what has historically given continuity to this religious practice is its ability to incorporate foreign elements and to reinvent itself—and to do so primarily in terms of visual creativity. For example, we know that at the beginning of the twentieth century certain types of spirits descended into the bodies of the mediums; now another type of spirits descends. In the field of art, we observe that the aesthetic patterns used by painters only twenty years ago are not the same as those used today. Likewise, we know that prior to 1960 percussion was rarely a feature in the rituals, something that contrasts greatly with the massive presence of drums in the contemporary ceremonies. Therefore, the specific practices associated with this cult have varied over time. However, what has remained stable in the cult of María Lionza is precisely its ability to innovate and incorporate new elements, in other words, its openness to change. What has conferred a historical continuity to the cult of María Lionza is therefore its discontinuous nature, that is, its state of permanent reinvention. Something parallel occurs at the social practice level of the cult. As I explained in chapter two, the cult of María Lionza is not, and has never been, a unified religious expression. It does not possess a holy book or an ecclesiastical institution that regulates and controls its practice. Thus, the cult formed and continued to develop for decades on the basis of a multitude of religious groups or caravanas, often varying greatly. However, if the cult has managed to remain minimally homogeneous despite living in secrecy and having to face adverse political contexts (such as the dictatorial periods, during which it was persecuted by state forces), it is precisely through this fragmentation and independence between the groups of the cult and not despite it. In fact, the hypothetical establishment of a ritual orthodoxy (not necessarily shared by everyone) and the establishment of a religious authority dedicated to controlling the practice of the cult would inevitably have led to a clash between different religious tendencies and the expulsion of dissident cult groups with the imposed canons. Furthermore, the establishment of a single religious power would have increased the control over the practice of the cult, limiting its creative potential, and, therefore its ability to adapt. What has happened though is the complete opposite: all the efforts made throughout history to regulate and control the cult have failed miserably. The cult has thus developed in a fragmentary and informal manner, detached from state control, hidden in houses and in the mountains, atomized in a multitude of religious groups that cannot be encompassed, both similar and different to each other. The fragmentary and unofficial nature of the cult is what has ensured its survival throughout the years, at the same time that it has facilitated the 180

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creation of a minimum awareness of religious community among the believers (which is nevertheless always fragile and problematic). Thus, believers of the cult state that what unites some with others is, primarily, the belief in María Lionza and her pantheon but, especially, the expression of this belief in different ways. In other words, if believers from the cult of María Lionza belong to the same religious community it is not because they are the same, but precisely because they are different. In short, what has historically facilitated the cohesion of the cult of María Lionza is paradoxically its intrinsic heterogeneity. Likewise, it is the lack of institutional recognition to which the cult of María Lionza has historically been subjected that has enabled it to escape the control of the institutions. The cult of María Lionza has thus, since the outset, experienced a tension between discontinuity and continuity, unity and plurality, identity and difference. This tension is especially clear in the case of the visual representation of the goddess. As I have shown throughout this book, the strength of this image lies in its permanent possibility of figuration. The image of María Lionza, therefore, is less an object than a potentiality. The importance of this image is not what it looks like (or how it has looked) but how it has come to be. Having said this, the comparative analysis of a considerable number of images and myths of María Lionza reveals that she is a multifaceted and changing character, with countless faces. More specifically, this comparative study reveals that María Lionza is a goddess with a triple ambiguity: ethnic ambiguity, moral ambiguity, and ambiguity surrounding her femininity. Once again, we see that what has constructed the identity—and, therefore, unity—of the figure of María Lionza is her intrinsic plurality. To give an account of the plural and composite nature of this figure I have defined María Lionza as a mestizo goddess, with the concept of mestizaje being used here as a “metaphor” (Amselle 2001) referring to the impossibility of determining the pure or authentic representation of the character. White, Indian, black, or mestiza, benevolent or malevolent, mother or mistress, there is no point in wondering which is the true representation of María Lionza since the specificity of this goddess lies precisely in her essentially multifaceted and composite nature, in the fact that she cannot be classified into fixed and absolute categories. This fundamentally plural nature of the character seems even more pronounced if we bear in mind those who I have called María Lionza’s doubles, that is, the set of female divinities with whom she is more or less identified. The aim of these identifications is that they enable, in an indirect and more or less conscious manner, to spread discourses that could not be openly stated. Nevertheless, the notion of “mestizaje” as I have used it in this work does not only refer to the idea of a racial and “cultural hybridity,” it also refers to the idea of movement. Indeed, the image of María Lionza has an essen181

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tially dynamic nature, in two different senses. The material representations of María Lionza—such as the holy cards, statues, and images on the Internet—circulate in Venezuelan society and elsewhere. Through this circulation, these images acquire new meanings and, conversely, they sometimes maintain meanings that have, so to speak, remained in them. The second type of movement of the image of María Lionza does not concern the image as a physical object, but the image as a visible form. Here, I understand the image as that which is given to us through a support. This perspective helps to understand that one image can become visible through different transmission media. For example, the image of María Lionza as a nude woman astride a tapir is visible on the statues (material support), in the bodies of mediums and actresses (corporeal support), and through dreams, visions, and apparitions (mental support). With the help of specific examples, I have shown how the images of the goddess move from one support to another, and in doing so allow a kind of nomadism to transpire. In their journeys, the images of María Lionza undergo aesthetic modifications and change their meaning and roles. The most important consequence of the dynamic nature of the image of María Lionza is that she is continuously being updated and resignified. Likewise, in this book I have sought to highlight the notion of “continuity.” Thus, I have attempted to show the continuities established between the different spheres constituting the belief in María Lionza (myth, ritual, artistic creation, politics); between the different types of images representing the goddess (material, corporeal, and mental images); and, lastly, between the practice of the cult in Venezuela and further afield. For this reason, my reflection has moved between myth and rituals, religion and art, bodies and dreams, digital photography and diasporic altars. I have also highlighted the continuities the cult of María Lionza maintains with other religions or belief systems such as Cuban Santería, Voodoo, Umbanda, Evangelism, and New Age esoterism. All of these religious manifestations are interlinked, forming a unique religious fabric that is experiencing permanent transformation and in which images play a crucial role. The debate surrounding “religious images” has been an important theme in my work. Through the notion of the “double regime” of images, borrowed from Didi-Huberman, I have shown that the statues and holy cards of the goddess have both a direct and indirect relationship with the divinities, and that it is on account of this ambivalence precisely that they can perform this role as mediators between this world and the hereafter. In this game between identification and representation, the notion of “resemblance” proved to play a decisive role, since the religious image of María Lionza or of other spirits of her pantheon cannot function as such if it does not resemble the divinity or if it does not at least provide a faithful portrait of her. Presence and re182

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semblance are, in the cult of María Lionza, closely linked. In addition, I have shown that the notion of “religious image” can also be applied, in certain cases, to artistic works or digital images, due to the fact that, according to the contexts, these images acquire an immediate relationship with the hereafter. It is the precise situation in which the image can be found and, especially, the use we make of it that activates the immediate or complex component of the image. This is why, in the cult of María Lionza, religious spaces or religious images are not discussed as fixed or permanent elements. Rather, religion must be conceived as an event. The notion of “event” transmits this transitory, transient, and especially performative nature of the religious act. The first chapter in this book was dedicated to the myth of María Lionza. Anthropology has always had a literary fascination about religious myths. Consequently, anthropologists have often studied them as decontextualized stories, as traces—oral or written—of ancestral accounts. But we must be careful: myths are historical accounts, that is, they have a political nature. The case of the myth of María Lionza is a good example of this. Although it is originally an indigenous myth, it did not become popular until the 1940s, in the context of the indigenist movements and as part of a national exaltation project led by the dictator Marcos Pérez Jiménez. From that point forth, the myth has been reinvented by believers and artists or political leaders, with different objectives. Nowadays the myth of María Lionza must be interpreted as a myth among myths that often contradict each other and stem from very diverse social sectors. These myths, legends, or historical accounts about the divinity are no longer transmitted orally, but also through written documents and, especially, the Internet. The analysis of the myth of María Lionza has led us to study the cult devoted to her. I have chosen to define the cult as an Afro-Americanized cult—and not an Afro-American cult—to highlight the fact that it is a cult with indigenous origins and considerable contributions from Catholicism, which very slowly, and in an irregular manner according to the region and the historical context, has gradually incorporated elements from black culture. The Afro-Americanization of the cult, today very prominent, began in 1960 as a result of the contact of the cult of María Lionza with Cuban Santería and Umbanda. As far as the contemporary cult is concerned, we see that it is currently at a kind of impasse. In Venezuela it is undergoing a process of increasing invisibilization due to a lack of safety, the economic recession (believers have increasingly fewer resources to organize large pilgrimages in natural areas such as the mountain of Sorte) and, especially, the governmental hostility and the pressure exerted by other thriving religions such as Evangelism. This dynamic of invisibilization is however offset by some political initiatives—such as the petition for the cult to be recognized as an Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity—and by new phenomena 183

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that were nonexistent until very recently, such as the widespread presence of the cult on the Internet. Furthermore, the fieldwork conducted in Barcelona reveals that, in migratory processes, the cult is undergoing a process of individualization, pointing to a situation of social vulnerability. Anthropology is not a predictive science. Nevertheless, I will dare to put forward some trends that may determine the future of the cult of María Lionza in the years to come. Everything seems to indicate that the myth of María Lionza will continue to be spread between believers and artists, within Venezuela and beyond, without however enjoying governmental support like it did in the mid-twentieth century. This could gravely hinder the process to have the cult recognized by UNESCO, a project that appears to currently (2016) be on hold. The images of María Lionza will probably continue to multiply, especially online and in the artistic sphere. As regards the cult, I believe that it will become progressively trapped between a process of spectacularization and a process of marginalization. Indeed, we are currently witnessing a trend in which, for essentially commercial interests, the most extravagant and striking aspects of the cult are being promoted. Television documentaries and the majority of journalistic photography reports are good examples of this. The plan to build an amphitheater on the mountain of Sorte where tourists could watch rituals—the rituals permitted by politicians—in comfort and safety also falls under this trend. In addition to this trend to commercialize a distorted image of the cult, we can observe how the popular practice of the cult—that which takes place in families or through friendships—is becoming increasingly more marginalized. Thus, cult groups are encountering an increasing number of obstacles hindering them from performing their rituals freely in public and natural spaces and from counteracting the negative image of this religion that is being pushed. It would be desirable that, in opposition to these trends, believers in the cult of María Lionza could practice their rituals without fears or threats. It would also be valuable if the vitally important social role that the cult has developed over more than a century be recognized, bringing about the creation of relations of social solidarity and acting as a refuge for individuals in situations of exclusion or marginalization. I hope that this book contributes to changing the current opinion about the cult of María Lionza, in order for this religious practice to acquire the recognition and respect that it deserves. I also want this work to serve as an impetus for academic studies on the cult of María Lionza, something that is still greatly lacking. In this regard, allow me, in conclusion, to suggest three lines of research that I think would be interesting to study in-depth in the coming years. First, it would be important to develop a detailed historical study on the evolution of the cult of María Lionza (something equivalent to what Daisy Barreto has done in relation to the myth). This study would have to consider, for example, the 184

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inheritance of the indigenous and African past in Venezuela, the wave of migration that has taken place over the years and the impact of the different Venezuelan legislative frameworks on the popular practice of the cult. A second objective, linked to the first, would be to analyze in greater depth the past and current links between the cult of María Lionza and some AfroAmerican religions, especially Umbanda, Santería, and Palo Mayombe. This analysis would have to specify when these religious practices entered Venezuela, how they came into contact with the cult of María Lionza and what influence they exercise today. Lastly, another relevant contribution would be to perform an in-depth analysis into how the cult changed under the government of Hugo Chávez (1999–2013) and how it is now facing the challenge of the post-Chavist era. It would also be desirable that Venezuelan and foreign researchers alike take part in the study of this religious practice, since only by joining forces will we be able to gain a better understanding of the cult of María Lionza, the vitality and creativity of which is certain to continue fascinating us.

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Filmography Canals, Roger. 2006. A Glimpse into de Mountain of Sorte. CNRS-Images. ———. 2007. The Many Faces of a Venezuelan Goddess. CNRS-Images, Cellule Audiovisuelle du IIAC. ———. 2008. The Blood and the Hen, 2008. CNRS-Images. ———. 2016. A Goddess in Motion (María Lionza in Barcelona). Wenner-Gren Foundation (New York) & Jordi Orobitg Produccions.

Archival Collections FUNDAFOLK Archive, Caracas, Venezuela

193

INDEX

 NOTE: page references with an f are figures. A Abakuá cult, 12 acting (puro teatro), 130 African Court (Corte Africana), 60 Afro-American cults, 13, 49–51, 183, 185 Afro-American religions, 11, 15 Alonso, María, 36, 37, 40 altars, 55f, 57, 150f, 179; birth an death of, 79–82; construction of (artistic value), 98; oráculos, 95f; statues, 73; Las Tres Potencias, 57, 75; types of, 80 Álvarez, Hugo, 106 Andrews, George Reid, 51 animal sacrifices, 65 Antolínez, Gilberto, 43, 63, 98, 106, 163, 169; myth published by, 29–31 apparitions, 120–41, 171; possession by María Lionza (in the present), 122–29 appearance of statues, 72. See also statues Argentina. See Panama art, 97–119, 169, 179; Centeno Vallenilla, Pedro, 98–99; collages, 110–14; contemporary paintings, 99–103; diffuse images, 106–8; Forest goddess (Diosa selvática), 104, 105; forms of mestizaje, 103–6; María Lionza, 98; María Lionza guarda la entrada de la mina, 99, 100f, 103, 168; Montaña de Sorte, 169f; museums as cult space, 114–15; Panel del mural VenezuelaCírculo de las Fuerzas Armadas de Caracas, 169f; photography, 110–14; sculptures, 108–10; Las Tres Potencias,

57, 75, 75f, 106, 107f; untitled (Sin título), 101, 102f, 103; video, 110–14; the virgin of the barbed wire (La virgen de los alambres), 99Ascencio, Michaelle, 51 Autopista del Este (eastern motorway), 77, 78 Ave María, 124, 126 B Bahian Candomblé, 50, 51 Baile de Candelas (Dance on Embers), 61, 63 bancos (benches), 54 Banks, Marcus, 19 Barcelona, Spain, 142, 145; cult of María Lionza in, 151–57 Barreto, Daisy, 14, 31, 35, 40, 52, 184 Barthes, Roland, 87 Bascom, William, 12 Bazin, André, 87, 91 The beautiful enchanted princess of the Nívars (La hermosa doncella encantada de los Nívar), 29. See also Lionza, María beings (entidades), 55 believers, organization of, 54 Belting, Hans, 7, 91, 178 benches (bancos), 54 Black Court (Corte Negra), 57, 60, 123, 138 black culture, 51 the Black Felipe (El Negro Felipe), 5, 6, 56, 57, 73, 75, 106, 136, 137 the Black Francisca (La Negra Francisca), 81, 128

194

Index

black magic, 147 black woman, María Lionza as a, 36–37 blogs, 146. See also web pages bodies, 120–41; possession by María Lionza (in the present), 122–29 Bolívar, Simón, 14, 16, 68, 81 Bolivarian Constitution, 69 Bolivarian Games, 78 Bolivarian Sports Games (Juegos Deportivos Bolivarianos), 77 Brazil, 12, 53 brothers (hermanos), 55 Brown, David, 12 Buddhism, 147 Bush, George W., 69 C Cacique Atahualpa, 64 Calvetti, Dixon, 127, 167, 169, 170 Camacho, Mireya, 108 Camera Lucida (Barthes), 87 Canada, 147 Canary Islands, 39 candles, 85 Candomblé, 11, 12, 147 Caquetian, 52 Caracas, 84; Autopista del Este (eastern motorway), 77, 78 caravanas (religious groups), 180 Cárdenas, Rodríguez, 32 Caribbean: migration of cult of María Lionza, 142; religions, 11 Carmelo Fernández Museum, 105, 114 Catalan culture, 157 Cathedral of Valence, 30 Catholic Church, 10, 30 Catholicism, 6, 30, 34, 45, 67, 90, 122, 125, 147, 165, 166; Catholic saints as statue models, 76; influence of, 52 Celestial Court (Corte Celestial), 56 Centeno Vallenilla, Pedro, 98–99 Central University of Venezuela, 4 Central University of Venezuela (UCV), 78, 79 ceremonies, 56, 82. See also altars chamarrero (traditional healer), 5, 124 Chávez, Hugo, 10, 67–69, 101, 149, 174, 185

Chavism, 81 Chavismo, 67–69 Chavists, 9 Christianity, 18, 34; influence of (artistically), 105 cinema, 131–32 Clarac de Briceño, Jacqueline, 14, 15, 52 coins, 57 Colina, Alejandro, 18, 108, 111, 128, 136, 139, 170, 171, 174 collages, 110–14 Colleyn, Jean-Paul, 19 Colombia, 31 Columbia, migration of cult of María Lionza, 142 common images, 74–77. See also images contemporary paintings, 99–103 continuity, 181 contracts, 33 Coronil, Fernando, 16 corporeal images, 21–25, 120–21, 162 Correa, Rafael, 64 Corte Africana (African Court), 60 Corte Celestial (Celestial Court), 56 Corte Chammarrera, 128 Corte Gitana (the Gypsy Court), 60 Corte India (Indian Court), 56, 57 Corte Libertadora (Liberating Court), 60 Corte Médica (Medical Court), 60 Corte Negra (Black Court), 57, 60 Corte Vikinga (Viking Court), 60 COYATUR projects, 63 criollos, 51 Cuban Santería, 10, 11, 12, 37, 50, 51, 63–67, 73, 146, 147, 175, 185 cult of María Lionza, 1, 3, 4, 48–71; AfroAmerican cults, 49–51; approach to, 19–21; in Barcelona, Spain, 151–57; Chavismo, 67–69; Cuban Santería, 63–67; divinities, 55; Evangelicalism, 63–67; globalization of, 142–61; images, 21–25 (See also images); indigenism, 63–67; organization of believers, 54; past and present of, 52– 56; prohibitions, 5; rituals, 5, 6; Sorte (mountain), 61–63; spirits, 56–61 curanderos (healers), 78 cyberspace, 143. See also Internet

195

Index

D La dama del peine (the woman of the comb), 163, 168 dance, 120, 131–32 Dance on Embers (Baile de Candelas), 61, 63 dark mulatto, 76 Day of Indigenous Resistance (Día de la Resistencia Indígena), 61 Day of the Race (Día de la Raza), 61 de Aguirre, Lope, 48 de Coraspe, Antolínez, 29 de la Talavera de Nívar, María del Prado, 38 de León, Ponce, 39, 48 delinquents (malandros), 5, 17, 130 de Luz, Fuente, 150f de Montijo, Eugenia María, 59 Deren, Maya, 13 devotion, 124 de Yaguarín, don Juan Carlos, 36 Día de la Raza (Day of the Race), 61 Día de la Resistencia Indígena (Day of Indigenous Resistance), 61 difference, 181 diffuse images, 106–8. See also art digital altar of Fuente de Luz, 150f digital images, 145. See also images diosa (goddess), 3 Diosa de Venezuela, 76f Diosa selvática (Forest goddess), 104, 105 discontinuity, 181 disguise, 121 divination, 52; rituals, 55; statues, 73 (See also statues); tobacco as tool, 48 divinities, 1; cult of María Lionza, 55; female, 49 Dominican spiritism, 146 Dominican Spiritism, 10 Don Juanes, 56 doubles (images of María Lionza), 163–67, 174 drawings, 173f. See also images; as corporeal images, 121; oráculos, 95f dreams, 97, 120–41; accounts of, 136–38; possession by María Lionza (in the present), 122–29 Drenikoff-Andhi, Iván, 135

E eastern motorway (Autopista del Este), 77, 78 Edsel, Carlos, 53 Emaru (spectacle), 132 La enfermedad como lenguaje en Venezuela (1996), 15 entidades (beings), 55 eroticism: sexual symbols, 78; of statues, 77 esoterism, 146; globalization of (cult of María Lionza), 157–58 espiritistas (spiritists), 10 espíritus (spirits), 55 estampas (holy cards), 1, 2f, 6, 58f, 59, 154, 167, 182 Europe, migration of cult of María Lionza, 142 Evangelical believers, 43 Evangelicalism, cult of María Lionza, 63–67 Evangelism, 10 F Facebook, 144. See also new media; globalization of (cult of María Lionza), 149–51 false possessions, 130 female divinities, 49 femme fatale characterization, 45 Fernández Quintana, Anabel, 16 Ferrándiz, Francisco, 17, 131 fertility, 49, 64; symbol of, 32 Figueroa, R. Olivares, 35 films, 19, 20, 24, 148 Fontcuberta, Joan, 88 Forest goddess (Diosa selvática), 104, 105 forms of mestizaje, 103–6 G García Gavidia, Nelly, 15 Garmendia, Hermann, 34, 40 Garrido, Lozada Gala, 112, 113f, 117, 170 Gell, Alfred, 90 globalization of (cult of María Lionza), 142–61; esoterism, 157–58; Facebook, 149–51; religion and new media, 143–45; religions, `146–48; web pages, 145–49

196

Index

goddess (diosa), 3. See Lionza, María; of love, 32; origin of, 28–47 gods, images, 90. See also images golden serpent, 33 Gramcko, Ida, 131 gratitude, 124 Guamonteis de los Llanos, 40 Guevara, Felipe, 101 the Gypsy Court (La Corte Gitana), 60 H Haiti (Vodou), 12 healers (curanderos), 5, 78, 124 healing, 52; rituals, 55 healing ritual, 173f hermanos (brothers), 55 La hermosa doncella encantada de los Nívar (The beautiful enchanted princess of the Nívars), 29. See also Lionza, María Hernández, José Gregorio, 60, 73 Hinduism, 147 holy cards (estampas), 1, 2f, 6, 58f, 59, 154, 167, 182 Holy Mary mother of God (Santa María Madre de Dios), 124 Holy Week, 80 homosexuals, 54 I iconoclasm, 109 identity, 181 idolatry, 90. See also images; statues Ifá, 11 imágenes religiosas (religious images), 72 images, 6, 19, 21–25; as art, 97–119; birth an death of altars, 79–82; classification, 22; common images, 74–77; contradictions of, 89–92; corporeal, 7, 120–21, 162; double regime of, 87–89; doubles, 163–67, 174; Indian woman riding a tapir, 77–79; Lionza, María, 9, 129f, 139; material, 121; mental image of María Lionza, 132–34, 162; mixed, 174–75; networks, 162–77, 179; nomadic, 162; nomadism of, 167–73; photographs, 73–74, 87–89; presence and absence of spirits, 82–87;

the Queen (La Reina), 74–77; religious images (imágenes religiosas), 72; ritual, 72–96; Las Tres Potencias, 57, 75; violence on, 109, 110 Images malgré tout, 87 La India Mara, 163 Indian and black mix, 76 Indian Court (Corte India), 56, 57 the Indian Guacaipuro (El Indio Guacaipuro), 56, 57 Indian Mara, 164 Indian woman, María Lionza as an, 32–34 La India Rosa, 128 La India Rosa (Rosa the Indian), 163 indigenism, 63–67 indigenismo, 13 indigenist movement (movimiento indigenista), 30 indigenous cults, 49 El Indio Guacaipuro, 75, 106, 136, 137. See also Las Tres Potencias El Indio Guacaipuro (the Indian Guacaipuro), 56, 57 individualization, 152 initiation, 52, 173 Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity, 68, 183 Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity (UNESCO), 160 Internet, 25, 179; migration of cult of María Lionza, 142; religion and new media, 143–45; representations on, 144 “It’s All to Do with Words” (2001), 17 J jaguars, 104 Jesucristo, rey de Yaracuy (Jesus Christ, King of Yaracuy), 66 Jesus Christ, 42, 125. See also Catholicism Jesus Christ, King of Yaracuy (Jesucristo, rey de Yaracuy), 66 Jirajara, 52 Jirajara-Nívar Indians, 29 Johnson, Paul Christopher, 74 jokes, 5 Juegos Deportivos Bolivarianos (Bolivarian Sports Games), 77

197

Index

K Kardec, Alan, 53 L Latin American religions, 11 Latour, Bruno, 162 Law of Vagabonds and Criminals (Ley de Vagos y Maleantes), 78 lecturas de tabaco (tobacco readings), 144–45 lesbians, 54 Lévy-Bruhl, Lucian, 24 Ley de Vagos y Maleantes (Law of Vagabonds and Criminals), 78 Liberating Court (Corte Libertadora), 60 El Libertador (the liberator), 39, 68 limit events, 90 Lionza, María, 1, 3. See also cult of María Lionza; as an Indian woman, 32–34; appearances, 5; conclusions, 178–85; contemporary paintings, 99–103; corporeal image, 120–21; cult of (See cult of María Lionza); diffuse images, 106–8; doubles of (images), 163–67, 174; estampas (holy cards), 1, 2f, 6, 58f, 59, 154, 167, 182; femme fatale characterization, 45; forms of mestizaje, 103–6; as a historical and literary character, 37–42; images as art, 97–119; images of, 9, 72–96, 129f, 139; mental image of, 132–34, 139; as a mestiza or black woman, 36–37; myth published by Gilberto Antolínez, 29–31; overview of (who is?), 28–47; possession by (in the present), 122–29; present-day myth of, 42–44; sculptures, 108–10; statutes, 9; triple plurarity of, 44f, 45, 46; visions, 132–34, 134–36; as a white woman, 34–36 literature, 13, 15 love, symbol of, 32 Loyo, Elsi, 132 Lucumí religion. See Cuban Santería Lugo, Milagro, 107 lumps of plaster (trozos de yeso), 84 M Made to be Seen: Perspectives on the History of Visual Anthropology (Banks/Ruby), 19

magic, 147 makeup, 121; on statues, 76 malandros (delinquents), 5, 17, 130 Manara, Bruno, 15, 59 María de la Onza (María of the tapir), 33, 35 María de la Onza, 2010 (photography), 113f María Lionza (painting), 98 María Lionza (play), 131 María Lionza, mitos y leyendas (María Lionza, myths and legends), 131 María Lionza, religiosidad mágica de Venezuela (María Lionza, magical religiosity of Venezuela), 114 María Lionza at the entrance of Caracas, 171f María Lionza guarda la entrada de la mina (María Lionza guards the entrance to the mine), 99 María Lionza guarda la entrada de la mina (Vallenilla), 168, 168f María of the tapir (María de la Onza), 33, 35 Marqués, María, 39 Martín, Gustavo, 35 material images, 21–25, 121 Mauss, Marcel, 24 Medical Court (Corte Médica), 60 mediums, 4, 78, 83, 86; corporeal image (of María Lionza), 120–21; false possessions, 130; possession rituals, 120, 122–29 (See also possession; rituals); sexual relations before possession, 123 mental image of María Lionza, 132–34, 139, 162. See also apparitions; dreams mental images, 21–25 mestizaje, 181; forms of, 103–6 mestizaje, ideology of, 98–99 mestiza (mixed-race) woman, 1, 43, 49, 51, 99, 138; María Lionza as a mestiza or black woman, 36–37 Métraux, Alfred, 13 migration of cult of María Lionza, 142 Miguel, El Negro, 38, 39 Misión Guacaipuro, 64 Mitchell, W.T.J., 24 mixed images, 174–75

198

Index

mixed-race (mestiza) woman, 1 modus vivendi, 67 monarca (monarch), 124 Montaña de María Lionza, 40 Montaña de Sorte, 169f La montaña mágica magazine, 41 Morales, Evo, 64 La Moreneta Miguel, 153, 154 Morgan, David, 24 movimiento indigenista (indigenist movement), 30 Murrell, Nathaniel, 51 Museu de les religions Sant Jordi (the Sant Jordi museum of religions), 157 museums: Carmelo Fernández Museum, 105, 114; as cult space, 114–15 myths, 28, 29, 49; María Lionza as a historical and literary character, 37–42; María Lionza as a mestiza or black woman, 36–37; María Lionza as an Indian woman, 32–34; María Lionza as a white woman, 34–36; objectives of, 28; present-day myth of María Lionza, 42–44; published by Gilberto Antolínez, 29–31; relation to rituals and, 48

Nuevo Ideal Nacional (New National Ideal), 31 O occultism, 146 Ochun, 163, 166. See also Lionza, María Ochún, 37, 146 offerings, 85, 86. See also tobacco; permission from spirits to take photographs, 74 Olavarría, Juan José, 110, 111, 112, 117, 170, 176 omens, 29, 30 only images (sólo imágenes), 84 oráculos, 179. See also altars orientalism, 60, 61 origin of María Lionza, 28–47; myth published by Gilberto Antolínez, 29–31 Orozco Alverado, Máximo Alberto, 99, 100f, 101, 103 Ortiz, Fernando, 12 Otherness, 37, 144, 174

N Narváez Díaz, Yunis, 17 National Day of Venezuela, 81 nature, protector of, 32 La Negra Francisca (the Black Francisca), 81, 128 El Negro Felipe (the Black Felipe), 5, 6, 56, 57, 73, 75, 106, 136, 137. See also Las Tres Potencias networks: doubles (images of María Lionza), 163–67; images, 162–77, 179; mixed images, 174–75; nomadism of images, 167–73 New Age, 63 new media, 143–45. See also Internet New National Ideal (Nuevo Ideal Nacional), 31 nomadic images, 162 nomadism of images, 167–73 non-Chavists, 9 nudity, 78, 166, 171, 171f

P Pachamama, 64 paintings, 169. See art; as corporeal images, 121 Palo Mayombe, 11, 146, 147, 185 Panama, 142 Panel del mural Venezuela-Círculo de las Fuerzas Armadas de Caracas, 169f pantheons, 55, 56 Parra, Faustino, 128 Parra, José, 41 Patron Saint of Venezuela, 165 Peirce, Charles Sanders, 24, 88 Pentecostal church of Caracas, 43 Pentecostalism, 10 Pentecost Evangelism, 66 Pérez Jiménez, Marcos Evangelista, 14, 16, 31, 53, 64, 68, 77, 136, 183 permanent altars, 80 permission: for possessions, 123, 125; from spirits to take photographs, 74; to stay for ceremonies, 82 photographs, 73–74, 87–89 photomontages, 112

199

Index

pilgrimages, 80 plurality, 167 Pollak-Eltz, Angelina, 14, 15, 18, 34, 59 popular medicine, 15 Portella, Jorge Gustavo, 41 portraits, 59 possession: acting (puro teatro), 130; corporeal image (of María Lionza), 120; by María Lionza (in the present), 122–29; rituals, 170; truth and lies of spirit, 129–31; types of bodies descended into, 123 post-photography, 88 prayers, presence at, 56 present-day myth of María Lionza, 42–44 Proaño, Victoria, 108, 109, 110, 117, 175 prohibitions, cult of María Lionza, 5 Protectora de las aguas. Diosa de las cosechas (Protector of Waters. Goddess of Harvests), 1 protector of nature, 32 Protector of Waters. Goddess of Harvests (Protectora de las aguas. Diosa de las cosechas), 1 Puerto Rico, migration of cult of María Lionza, 142 purification, 52, 173 puro teatro (acting), 130 Q the Queen (La Reina), 62, 74–77, 114, 124, 126, 164 R radio, 25 Ramírez, Alecia, 52 Ramón González, Rafael, 104, 105, 106 Razetti, Luis, 60 reading tobacco, 74 rebusque (survival), 17 regimes of visibility, 20 Regla de Ifá, 147 Regla de Ocha, Regla de Ifá. See Cuban Santería La Reina (the Queen), 62, 74–77, 114, 124, 126, 164 religion, 97–119; distinction between art and, 98; and new media, 143–45

Religion and Material Culture (Morgan), 24 religions, 11, 30 religious ceremonies, 48. See also rituals religious groups, 180 religious images, 6 religious images (imágenes religiosas), 72 representations, 59, 178; birth an death of altars, 79–82; Centeno Vallenilla, Pedro, 98–99; cinema, 131–32; common images, 74–77; contradictions of, 89–92; dance, 120, 131–32; double regime of images, 87–89; Indian woman riding a tapir, 77–79; on the Internet, 144; oldest reference of, 73; photographs, 73–74; plurality of, 127; presence and absence of spirits, 82–87; theater, 120, 121, 131–32 representative statues, 72. See also statues revelations, 97 rites of passage, 84 rituals, 49; art (images as), 97–119; cult of María Lionza, 5, 6; development of, 85; divination, 55; healing, 55; images, 72–96; possession, 120, 170 (See also possession); relation to myths and, 48; statues, 80 (See also statues); to take photographs, 73–74 Rodríguez, Ruddy, 136 Rojas, Manuel Felipe, 59 roles, changes of, 182 Rosa the Indian (La India Rosa), 163 Rouch, Jean, 73 Ruby, Jay, 19 S Salazar, Homero, 37, 38, 123 San Sebastian, 146 Santa Barbara, 163, 164, 165 Santa Bárbara factory, 79 Santa María Madre de Dios (Holy Mary mother of God), 124 Santería, 10. See Cuban Santería Santería priest (santero), 65, 66 santero (Santería priest), 65, 66 the Sant Jordi museum of religions (Museu de les religions Sant Jordi), 157 scopic regimes, 20

200

Index

sculptures, 108–10 seduction, 32 self-injury, 17 sexual symbols, 78 Sin título (untitled), 101, 102f, 103, 107 sólo imágenes (only images), 84 Sorte (mountain), 29, 30, 32, 34, 36, 56, 61–63, 68, 112; dressed for decency, 78; images, 75; mental image of María Lionza, 134 South America, 157; migration of cult of María Lionza, 142 Spain, migration of cult of María Lionza, 142 Spanish colonization, 52, 57 spiritism, 146 spiritists (espiritistas), 10 spirits (espíritus), 55; cult of María Lionza, 56–61; dances, 61; of Indians, 18; of María Lionza, 121 (See also Lionza, María); possession, 129–31 (See also possession); presence and absence of, 82–87 spiritual possession, 97 spiritual purification (velación), 48 statues, 9, 72, 73, 154. See also images; birth an death of altars, 79–82; common images, 74–77; contradictions of, 89–92; as corporeal images, 121; double regime of images, 87–89; eroticism of, 77; Indian woman riding a tapir, 77–79; makeup on, 76; manufacturing of, 79; photographs, 73–74; positioning of, 80; presence and absence of spirits, 82–87 survival (rebusque), 17 syncretic societies, 37 T taboos, 90 Talbot, William Henry Fox, 87 tapirs, 33, 34, 49, 104; Indian woman riding, 77–79 tattoos, 171f Taussig, Michael, 8 television, 24, 25. See also films temporary altars, 80 theater, 120, 121, 131–32

The Three Kings, 146 Three Marias, 36 Three Powers, 81, 136 tobacco, 86; as a divination tool, 48; permission from spirits to take photographs, 74; readings (lecturas de tabaco), 144–45 Todo Barcelona, 2016 (photography), 111f tourism, 63, 112 traditional healer (chamarrero), 5, 124 Transmutación de la imagen, 109f transsexuals, 54 Trayanoff, Assen, 135 Los Tres Compadres group, 127 Las Tres Potencias, 57, 75, 75f, 106, 107f, 137, 164, 180 trozos de yeso (lumps of plaster), 84 Tylor, Edward B., 24 U Umbanda, 10, 11, 73, 147, 185 UNESCO, 62, 160, 184 United States, migration of cult of María Lionza, 142 unity, 181 El Universal (newspaper), 29 untitled (Sin título), 101, 102f, 103, 107 V Vallenilla, Pedro Centeno, 168, 169 Valles, Lino, 131, 134, 136, 137, 138 Vargas, José María, 60 Veit-Tané, Beatriz, 54 velación (spiritual purification), 48 Velación el la montaña (Velación—spiritual purification—in the mountain), 108 Venezuela, 1, 30, 31, 35, 43, 145; cultural autonomy of, 50; as home of cult of María Lionza, 142; Patron Saint of, 165; Spanish colonization, 57; Yaracuy region, 52, 53 Venezuelan trinity, 57 Vicente Cuervo, Manuel, 35 video, 110–14 Viking Court (Corte Vikinga), 60 Vikings (vikingos), 17 Vimeo, 148

201

Index

violence on images, 109, 110 La virgen de los alambres (the virgin of the barbed wire), 99, 100f, 103 Virgen of Coromoto, 163 Virgin Mary, 3, 11, 34, 35, 41, 42, 45, 127, 138, 165, 167, 176 Virgin of Coromoto, 34, 164, 165 Virgin of Guadalupe, 146 the virgin of the barbed wire (La virgen de los alambres), 99 visions, 132–34, 171; Lionza, María, 132–34, 134–36 visual anthropology, 19, 20, 21 visual creativity, 7 visual mediations, 179 Vodou, 11, 12, 50, 51

W water, relationship with, 33, 34 water serpents, 29, 30, 33, 49, 104 web pages, 145–49. See also Internet websites, 20 What Do Pictures Want? (Mitchell), 24 white magic, 147 white woman, María Lionza as a, 34–36 the woman of the comb (La dama del peine), 163, 168 Y Yara, 41, 164. See also Lionza, María Yaracuy region (Venezuela), 52, 53 Yemanyá, 37 YouTube, 148

202