Along with the artworks and architecture, I am always intrigued by the conscious use of light in many of the churches I’ve photographed.
In Santa Fe, New Mexico’s historic San Miguel Chapel, a small stand of flickering candles caught my eye, little dancing flames illuminating the nearby white adobe wall. A ray of afternoon sun in Tbilisi, Georgia’s Anchiskhati Basilica, catching the faint whispers of smoke from hundreds of beeswax candles grabbed my attention. Listening to vespers in Belgrade, Serbia’s Ružica Church as the warm evening sun filtered through the buildings thick glass windows was an experience I’ll never forget.
In Toulouse, France, I added another church to my list of places where the light took me to another place, far from the daily routines of the city outside.
From the front, Toulouse, France’s Basilica of Notre Dame la Daurade doesn’t look like many churches. Its classical architecture, six Doric columns supporting a simply decorated pediment, reminded me of a bank or government building.
The first Christian church where the basilica is located was constructed in the 5th or 6th century on the site of a pagan temple then became intertwined with the region’s history. The first people to use the new church, evidence suggests, were Arian Christians, a sect adhered to by many Visigoths, whose doctrine held that Jesus was not coeternal with God. In the 500s, Catholics took over the church, which became a Benedictine monastery.
In 1761, the basilica was demolished following more than a century of neglect, and today’s church was built.
Corie and I entered the basilica around the corner from the façade, through an unassuming black door. The only indications one was about to enter such a special place were a small wooden cross above the door and a modest sign with the basilica’s name in a simple script font.
For a moment, as we stood in a short hallway, we didn’t think we were in the right place, but another, almost inconspicuous sign, guided the way.
We arrived at just the right time. The rising sun filtered through the stained-glass windows, casting pools of colored light on the church’s frescoes. As Corie explored the artwork in the chapels, I sat on one of the pews, watching the light creep across a painting of Luke the Evangelist. The sun’s warm glow, filtered through a rainbow of glass, made the image come to life as the flames on long, tapered candles below swayed at the faintest hint of moving air.
Across the nave, the morning light danced on the silvery pipes of the basilica’s 1864 organ. To my surprise and delight, the organ roared to life, filling the sunlit nave with sound.
In our short time in the basilica, the light slowly sank along the walls as the sun rose higher. Those magical few moments, when the light perfectly sailed through an ocean of music was coming to an end for the day.
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