Archives of Innocence
Photography with letterpress, 2006.
Aguas Blancas, Juderia Vieja (old Jewish Quarter of Segovia)
Archival pigment print
and letterpress on cotton paper, 13" x 17.5"
2006, Westmount and Concordia University, Montreal, Quebec, Canada
IN THE SUMMER OF 1997 my wife and I spent three weeks in Spain on honeymoon. Travelling in a dying old Citroen with a pump up suspension system, we travelled in from Portugal to the north of Spain, Lugo, Ribideo, Gijon, driving along the coast until the Basque Region, Donastasia, where we visited the cities of Vitoria, San Sebastian and Bilboa (the Guggenheim externally complete upon our visit) and then on to Guernica. I attempted busking with guitar and song in a park in Bilboa but didn't get a single peso; I consoled myself that rather than my lack of talent, it must have been because there were so few people interested in unknown songs.
IT WAS JULY and it was hot and dry in the planalto of Spain. The sunroof of Boginhos, our jalopy, provided scant relief from heat and sun. We travelled back south, through Vitoria to Segovia. Knowing little about the city, we more interested in taking things in stride along with our nuptial activities than in thoroughly researching our travel destination. We had no room booked. Having no images of the city, we arrived in Segovia without preconceptions and were simply awestruck to see a widely spanned, and perfectly intact, Roman aqueduct which earlier had been used to hydrate the high walled medieval city; its Alcazar, rising high at its end point with all the weight and piercing force of a ship's prow making its way in the auburn dusk of the simmering Spanish plain.
AFTER VISITING the third pension, we realized it had been the start of a long weekend, and that walking in and finding a room within its walls would be impossible on our newly wed budget. For a moment's rest on our the search, we stopped briefly at the Aguas Blancas cafe in the old Jewish quarter, picking up the only bit of near-Judaica I could find at that hour, a matchbox. The history of the place loomed. The thriving quarter was wiped out in the Inquisition. There had been recent archeological discoveries of graves, just outside the city walls with carefully placed minyans of bodies, groups of ten, laid down just so their heads would be bowed in prayer toward Jerusalem. Only when there is a quorum of ten Jews can the Torah be read. I was deeply moved and looked high up at the city looming above its walls; the contrasting storks roosting in a small haunted forest of cathedral spires sprouting up from the expansive nave of the town's central meeting place, the cathedral. It was a scene to force a mystic to make an internal reckoning.
FINALLY, after driving through the maze of cobblestone, our poor old Citroen trying to float awkwardly on its old air cushioned suspension, we found a small pension a bit further out on the main road. After begging the attendant concierge, we were awarded with what seemed like a broomcloset for the cleaning staff to rest in. The bathroom was across the hall. Never mind, we were in a magic kingdom and used our prized matches to light the evening candles. Shabbat Shalom!
