Progress vs Regress: Listening to Those Who Lived Through It

Visitors watching Progress vs Regress (2016) by the Dutch artist Melanie Bonajo.

I saw this film at the Museum van Bommel van Dam in Venlo (The Netherlands). It is Progress vs Regress (2016) by the Dutch artist Melanie Bonajo.

The film begins with a simple idea: instead of asking what progress means in theory, ask the people who have actually lived through it.

Bonajo gives the floor to people in their eighties and nineties. They speak about changes that shaped their lives—women’s suffrage, the contraceptive pill, television, the car. Things we now take for granted once redefined what freedom meant. Some of these changes clearly expanded their world.

But the tone shifts when the conversation moves to the present. The internet, smartphones, constant connectivity—these are not simply improvements. They make communication easier, but can also create distance. The world feels faster, more efficient, but not always more human.

What makes the film compelling is its calm honesty. There is no grand argument, no dramatic conclusion. Just people reflecting on what has been gained—and what may have been lost.

In the second half, younger and older generations speak side by side. The contrast is subtle but telling. What one group experiences as natural, the other experiences as disorienting. Not because they resist change, but because they remember a different rhythm of life.

The film leaves you with an uncomfortable but important question: if progress keeps moving forward, who decides what counts as improvement?

And perhaps even more quietly: who gets left behind when we do not ask that question?

Faith, Power, and Justice: The Story of Saint Remy

The famous 16th-century tapestries depicting the life of Saint Remigius are housed in the Musée Saint-Remi (Reims, France), where they can still be admired today.

Birth of Saint Remy — The story unfolds in multiple scenes. At the center, Céline gives birth, surrounded by women attending both mother and child. Below, the infant is washed and presented. Around them, figures gesture and converse, suggesting that this is no ordinary birth. The imagery hints at prophecy and expectation: this child will grow into a figure of importance. The quiet domestic setting contrasts with the historical weight of what is to come.

The life of Saint Remy (Remigius of Reims) is not only preserved in texts—it was also woven, quite literally, into fabric.

In the early 16th century, a remarkable series of large tapestries was created for the city of Reims: the “Tentures de la vie de Saint Remi.” Comprising 10 monumental tapestries, the cycle tells the story of the bishop who baptized King Clovis and helped shape the religious and political identity of early medieval Europe.

These tapestries function like a visual narrative—almost like a medieval graphic novel. Each panel contains multiple scenes, accompanied by short texts in Middle French. Rather than showing a single moment, they unfold events step by step: birth, recognition, miracles, conflict, kingship, and justice.

What follows is the life of Saint Remy, told through these woven images—where history, legend, and moral teaching come together.

1. A Child Born into a Changing World

The story begins with the birth of Remy, presented as an event of quiet but profound significance. His mother, Céline, is surrounded by attendants, while the newborn child is carefully received and examined.

This is more than a domestic scene. It signals that this life is part of a larger design. In a world where the Roman order is fading, figures like Remy are presented as anchors—individuals through whom continuity and meaning are preserved.

The Calling of Remy as Bishop — Different scenes show the recognition of Remy’s authority. Clergy gather, gestures indicate acceptance and blessing, and Remy is placed within a structured ecclesiastical setting. The architecture—columns, altars, and enclosed spaces—reinforces the institutional nature of the moment. This is not a sudden rise, but a collective acknowledgment. The young man becomes bishop, stepping into a role that is both spiritual and political.

2. Authority Recognised, Not Claimed

Remy’s elevation to bishop comes early and unexpectedly. The tapestries show a collective act of recognition: clergy and people gather, acknowledging his authority.

From this point onward, Remy is not only a religious figure. He becomes a mediator in a fragmented society—someone who can restore order where political structures are weakening.

His early miracles reinforce this role. Healing, intervention, and acts of restoration appear in sequence, building trust in a world where certainty is scarce.

The Baptism of Clovis — In a richly structured interior, the baptism takes place. Clovis kneels, stripped of royal distance, as Remy performs the ritual. Around them, a carefully arranged audience witnesses the act—nobles, clergy, attendants. Architectural elements frame the scene, giving it a sense of permanence and order. This is both a religious ceremony and a political declaration: a king aligns himself with a new faith.

3. The King Who Changes Everything

The narrative shifts dramatically with the arrival of Clovis, king of the Franks.

The tapestries show a progression:

• persuasion at court

• crisis in battle

• a vow made under pressure

At the Battle of Tolbiac, Clovis promises to convert if he is granted victory. The battle is won, and the promise is kept.

The baptism that follows—one of the most iconic scenes in the series—marks a turning point. In a carefully staged ritual, Clovis kneels before Remy. This is not just a spiritual act. It is a political transformation that will shape the future of Western Europe.

The Dispute Over the Inheritance —This tapestry unfolds like a legal drama. In one scene, a dying man lies in bed while family members gather—his wealth and intentions at stake. Elsewhere, documents are exchanged, and discussions take place around a table. Another scene shows a figure presenting arguments, possibly supported by false witnesses. Finally, authority intervenes—Remy and the king appear within a formal setting where judgment is rendered. The sequence moves from private death to public justice, revealing the fragile line between faith, property, and power.

4. Justice in a Human World

The final part of the story moves away from kings and into everyday life.

One tapestry presents a dispute over an inheritance. A dying man’s wishes are contested, false witnesses are brought forward, and legal arguments unfold. The scenes progress from private spaces—bedrooms and family gatherings—to public judgment.

Remy appears here not as a miracle worker, but as a moral authority. The case reaches royal power and is resolved. Justice is restored, but only after conflict and deception.

This closing note is significant. It reminds the viewer that holiness is not only about miracles or kings—it is also about how people act, argue, and live together.

A Life That Connects Worlds

Across the tapestry cycle, Remy stands at the intersection of worlds:

• Roman and medieval

• spiritual and political

• divine intention and human action

His life is not told as a sequence of isolated miracles, but as a continuous engagement with society. These tapestries do not just celebrate a saint—they explain how order itself is created and maintained.

Books, Madness, and Don Quixote

José Moreno Carbonero, El escrutinio (1925), Museo de Málaga – The priest and barber put Don Quixote’s library on trial.

In the Museo de Málaga hangs a painting inspired by one of the most memorable scenes in Spanish literature. The work, “El escrutinio” (“The Scrutiny”), was painted in 1925 by the Malagueño artist José Moreno Carbonero.

The scene comes from Don Quijote de la Mancha by Miguel de Cervantes.

The Painter

José Moreno Carbonero (1860–1942) was one of Spain’s leading historical painters. Born in Málaga, he trained in Madrid and Paris and became known for dramatic scenes from Spanish history. One of his most famous paintings shows the moment Christopher Columbus was received by the Catholic Monarchs after returning from the New World.

Besides historical subjects, he occasionally turned to Spanish literature for inspiration. “El escrutinio” is one such example.

The Scene

In the early chapters of Don Quixote, the aging nobleman Alonso Quijano loses himself in books about knights and chivalry. Convinced that these stories have driven him mad, his friends decide to examine his library.

The village priest and the barber inspect the books one by one—“the scrutiny.” Some are condemned and thrown aside to be burned, while a few are spared. The episode is humorous, but it also allowed Cervantes to poke fun at the popular literature of his time.

Moreno Carbonero captures this moment perfectly: figures gathered around a pile of books, debating their fate.

Seen today in the museum in Málaga, the painting is both a tribute to Cervantes and a reminder of the power of stories. After all, in Don Quixote it is books that inspire a man to reinvent the world—and sometimes even himself.

Trier's Dom and the Liebfrauenkirche

Trier’s Dom (left) and the Liebfrauenkirche (right).

Stand on the Domfreihof, squarely before the west front of Trier’s cathedral. The stones give off that old, cool breath. Bells roll somewhere above the roofs. In this one view—Dom St. Peter straight ahead, Liebfrauenkirche just to the right—the city’s whole timeline seems to unspool.

The Dom: Rome Repurposed, Empire Remembered

Beneath the Romanesque towers runs a core of 4th-century masonry: a Constantinian church complex raised after Christianity’s legalization. Trier—Augusta Treverorum, founded as a Roman city around 16 BCE—became an imperial residence in the early 300s; Constantine and his court were here c. 306–316. Around c. 326–330, palace ground and Roman brick were folded into a monumental double church. You’re looking at that antique skeleton wrapped in later skin.

The rebuilds came in waves. 10th–12th centuries: Ottonian and Romanesque campaigns thickened the westwork and towers, giving the façade its fortress calm. 13th century: Gothic openings at the east drew more light into the choir. Late 17th–18th centuries: Baroque furnishings softened the interior. 1944 air raids cracked vaults; post-1945 restorations pared the space back to clarity.

The cathedral also reads like a ledger of power. By 1356, the Archbishop of Trier stood among the empire’s seven prince-electors under the Golden Bull, choosing kings of the Romans. From chancery to mint, from market tolls to monasteries, the cathedral chapter worked within government as much as alongside it. And devotion ran on its own clock: pilgrim surges for the Heiliger Rock (Holy Tunic) mark dates across the centuries—1512, 1844, 1891, 1933, 1959, 1996, 2012—each season swelling the square you’re standing in.

The interior of Trier’s Dom.

The Liebfrauenkirche: A Rose of Early Gothic

Glance right and the mood changes. Where the Dom plants its feet, Liebfrauen rises on tiptoe. Built c. 1227–1243 (with finishing work into the 1260s), it is among the earliest pure Gothic churches in Germany. Its plan—an interlaced cross inscribed in a circle—unfurls like a stone flower. Twelve main supports ring the center: apostles, months, tribes, the ordered cosmos in geometry. Tracery and pointed arches turn stone into lace; the portal frames shadow rather than mass. If the Dom is Rome baptized, Liebfrauen is France translated—Gothic ideas traveling the Moselle in the early 1200s and settling into local craft.

The interior of the Liebfrauenkirche.

One Square, Many Ages

From this spot you can pace the centuries with your eyes. The Dom’s antique core (c. 330) meets its medieval armor (1000s–1200s); Liebfrauen’s airy leap (1230s) stands almost shoulder-to-shoulder. Behind the façades lies a city that has practiced continuity: the Aula Palatina (Constantine’s throne hall, c. 310), the Imperial Baths (4th century), the Porta Nigra (c. 180–200). Power shifted—from emperors to bishops to electors to citizens—but the thread held.

War shook both churches; scaffolds grew like forests. When the dust of the 1940s settled, careful restorations returned them to the rhythm of daily use. The square filled again with processions and choirs; tourists folded into pews; a baptismal font caught candlelight as it had six hundred years earlier.

Reading the Façades from Left to Right

Let your gaze travel across the Dom’s west front: layered portals, blind arcades, the disciplined stacking of volumes—architecture meant to hold a crowd’s attention on a feast day. Slide to the right and the rhythm quickens. Liebfrauen’s tracery reads like script on vellum; its buttresses pull the eye upward; its plan—circle, cross, petals—seems to turn even while it stands still. Two voices, one conversation: memory and ascent, weight and light.

The Present Tense of Old Stones

In 1986, UNESCO folded these churches into the World Heritage listing “Roman Monuments, Cathedral of St. Peter and Church of Our Lady in Trier.” That inscription didn’t freeze them in amber; it simply named what you feel on the square. The Dom’s Roman bones and medieval muscle, Liebfrauen’s early Gothic inventiveness, the Roman city still breathing all around—each has taken its turn leading. They still do. Stand here long enough, and the bell that calls the hour will sound like a page turning.

The Four Troublesome Heads by Georges Méliès

While visiting the Museo Picasso Málaga, we unexpectedly encountered a small piece of film history: Un Homme de Tête (1898) by the French filmmaker and magician Georges Méliès.

The film lasts barely a minute. Méliès sits at a table, removes his own head, places it on the table, and then calmly grows a new one. Soon several identical heads are singing and moving next to each other like a strange little choir.

For audiences in 1898, this must have looked like pure magic. In reality Méliès used simple but ingenious techniques such as multiple exposures and stop-camera editing—methods that made the camera itself a magician’s tool.

Seeing this playful experiment in the Picasso Museum makes sense in an unexpected way. Artists of the early twentieth century were fascinated by new ways of showing reality. Just as Méliès multiplied his own head on screen, Pablo Picasso would later fragment faces and perspectives in his paintings.

Different media, but the same spirit: curiosity, experimentation, and the joy of discovering what images can do.

And all of it captured in a film that lasts barely a minute.

The Cathedral of Bourges: Gothic Architecture and its Messages Carved in Stone

The façade of the Cathedral of Bourges rising above the narrow streets of the old town.

In the quiet center of France stands one of the most remarkable Gothic churches in Europe: Saint-Étienne Cathedral in Bourges.

At first sight it looks like many other medieval cathedrals—towers, flying buttresses, and stained glass rising above the rooftops of the old town. But Bourges reveals its uniqueness the moment you begin to explore it, both inside and outside.

The cathedral tells its story not only through space and light, but also through sculpture.

A Bold Vision of the Gothic Age

Construction of the cathedral began in 1195, under Archbishop Henri de Sully. The eastern end was built first, followed during the thirteenth century by the nave and façade. The church was finally consecrated in 1324.

What makes Bourges exceptional is its plan. Unlike most Gothic cathedrals, it has no transept. Instead of forming a cross shape, the building stretches forward in a continuous space composed of five parallel aisles running the full length of the church.

The central nave rises high above two layers of side aisles, creating a powerful sense of depth and perspective that draws the eye toward the choir.

Geometry in Stone

Medieval builders believed that geometry reflected the divine order of the world. At Bourges this idea becomes visible in the architecture itself.

The cathedral appears to follow a carefully structured system of proportions. The plan and the vertical structure are closely related, giving the building an extraordinary sense of unity. Even today, Bourges feels less like a collection of separate parts than like a single architectural idea carried consistently through the entire structure.

The Sculptures Above the Doors

Before you even enter the cathedral, however, one of its most striking features awaits you above the great portals of the west façade.

These sculpted scenes—known as tympana—form a vast stone narrative carved above the entrance doors. In the Middle Ages they functioned almost like a public book, telling biblical stories to a largely illiterate population.

The Last Judgment carved above the central portal of Bourges Cathedral.

The central portal presents a dramatic vision of the Last Judgment. Christ sits in majesty at the center while angels, saints, and resurrected souls fill the scene. Below, the dead rise from their graves while demons drag the damned toward hell. The imagery is both vivid and deeply human: fear, hope, redemption, and justice all appear in the carved figures.

The portals on either side depict other episodes from Christian tradition, creating a sculptural introduction to the sacred space inside.

For medieval visitors arriving in Bourges, the message would have been unmistakable: this building was not just a church, but a gateway between the earthly world and the divine.

Beneath the Cathedral

Below the choir lies another fascinating space: the vast crypt. Because the cathedral was partly built over an old ditch near the Roman city walls, medieval builders constructed a massive substructure to support the new church.

Today the crypt holds sculptures, fragments of earlier decorations, and the tomb of Jean, Duke of Berry, the great patron famous for the illuminated manuscript Les Très Riches Heures.

A Quiet Masterpiece

Bourges Cathedral is now recognized as one of the great achievements of Gothic architecture and has been listed as a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

Yet compared with more famous cathedrals such as Chartres or Notre-Dame in Paris, Bourges often feels surprisingly calm.

Perhaps that makes it easier to notice what medieval builders understood so well: that architecture, sculpture, geometry, and light can all work together to tell a story.

At Bourges, that story is still written in stone.

A Contemporary Version of The Myriad Horsemen of the Apocalypse

A contemporary version of The Myriad Horsemen of the Apocalypse, this time with Xi Jinping, Ali Khamenei, Donald Trump, Benjamin Netanyahu, and Vladimir Putin.

At first glance, the image above looks like a fragment of a medieval tapestry: armored riders charging forward, people crushed beneath their horses. But look again. The riders are not medieval knights. Their faces resemble figures from today’s headlines — Xi Jinping, Ali Khamenei, Donald Trump, Benjamin Netanyahu, and Vladimir Putin.

This modern image reimagines one of the most striking scenes from the Apocalypse Tapestry in Angers, the panel often called The Myriad Horsemen. The original 14th-century tapestry illustrates the terrifying armies described in the Book of Revelation. (For the story behind the tapestry itself, see: The Apocalypse Tapestry, Château d’Angers, Angers (France).)

But medieval viewers probably saw more than a biblical vision. Europe was reeling from the Black Death and the destruction of the Hundred Years’ War. The riders even wear the armor of contemporary soldiers. To many people in 14th-century France, the apocalypse did not feel symbolic — it felt like the news of the day.

This modern reinterpretation simply continues that tradition.

Each age replaces the riders with the figures that embody its own anxieties. In the Middle Ages, they could evoke the armies ravaging France. Today, they may evoke a world unsettled by wars, rival powers, and a fragile international order.

The faces change. The uneasy sense of living in dangerous times does not.

The Bronze Horse of Cancho Roano (Spain)

The Bronze Horse of Cancho Roano (6th–5th century BCE, Archaeological Museum of Badajoz).

In the Archaeological Museum of Badajoz, a small bronze horse quietly carries a big story. This horse sculpture from Cancho Roano, found near Zalamea de la Serena, dates to the 6th–5th century BCE, a period of profound transformation on the Iberian Peninsula.

Cast in bronze and depicted with clear elements of harness and tack, the sculpture immediately signals that this is not just an animal portrait. Horses in Iron Age Iberia were markers of power, mobility, and status, deeply embedded in both social and ritual life. Their presence in art and votive objects points to a symbolic role that went far beyond transport or warfare.

Cancho Roano itself is one of the most enigmatic archaeological sites in western Europe. Often described as a sanctuary-palace, it was constructed, modified, and ultimately destroyed in a carefully staged ritual process. Before its final abandonment, the complex was deliberately burned and sealed, preserving an extraordinary assemblage of objects beneath its floors—among them metalwork related to horses, chariots, and elite display.

The bronze horse fits seamlessly into this context. It suggests a world in which ritual, power, and belief were closely intertwined. Whether offered as a votive object, used in ceremonial display, or associated with elite identity, the sculpture reflects a society where the horse occupied a central symbolic position. Seen today, it is both an artwork and a fragment of a belief system that is only partly understood.

Further Reading

• Sebastián Celestino Pérez, Cancho Roano: Un santuario orientalizante en el valle medio del Guadiana

• Almagro-Gorbea & Torres Ortiz, La Edad del Hierro en la Península Ibérica

• Barry Cunliffe, Iron Age Communities in Britain and Beyond

• María Cruz Fernández Castro, Protohistoria de la Península Ibérica

• Museo Arqueológico Provincial de Badajoz – exhibition catalogues and research publications

A Flemish Passion in Castile

The Passion Triptych in the Royal Abbey of Las Huelgas, Burgos

Passion Triptych, attributed to Jan de Beer, early 16th century, Monasterio de las Huelgas Reales (Burgos, Spain).

Displayed within the austere yet regal setting of the Monasterio de las Huelgas Reales in Burgos, the Tríptico de la Pasión quietly tells a far larger European story than its scale might suggest. Dated to the first quarter of the sixteenth century and attributed to Jan de Beer, the triptych is not only a devotional image of Christ’s suffering, death, and resurrection. It is also a tangible trace of the intense artistic, commercial, and dynastic ties between Flanders and Castile.

The Triptych Itself

The composition unfolds across three panels in a familiar but carefully calibrated sequence. On the left, Christ carries the cross, surrounded by a dense crowd that presses the drama into the viewer’s space. The central panel shows the Descent from the Cross: Christ’s lifeless body is lowered with solemn care, while Mary collapses in grief, her posture echoing that of her son. On the right, the Resurrection introduces a note of transcendence—Christ rises, serene and victorious, as the guards remain earthbound, asleep or bewildered.

Stylistically, the triptych belongs to the world of early-sixteenth-century Antwerp painting. The figures are elegant, sometimes slightly elongated, their gestures expressive without becoming theatrical. Draperies fall in elaborate, decorative folds; colours are rich but controlled. This balance between emotional intensity and visual refinement is characteristic of Jan de Beer and his circle, poised between late medieval devotion and the emerging tastes of the Renaissance.

Made to Travel

Works like this were never meant to stay close to home. Around 1500, Antwerp—the great commercial hub of northern Europe—had become a centre for the production of painted panels destined for export. Workshops supplied both bespoke commissions and high-quality “stock” images, especially Passion scenes and Marian subjects, which appealed to a broad international clientele. Castile, and Burgos in particular, was one of the prime destinations.

The reason was not purely aesthetic. Burgos was deeply embedded in the wool trade linking Castile to the Low Countries, and its merchants, clerics, and royal foundations had direct access to Flemish markets. Paintings travelled alongside textiles, books, and luxury goods, carried by the same commercial networks that enriched both regions.

Dynastic Ties and Royal Taste

Trade alone, however, does not explain why Flemish art found such fertile ground in royal and monastic settings. Dynastic politics played an equally decisive role. The marriage of Joanna of Castile (Juana la Loca) to Philip the Handsome, heir to the Burgundian-Habsburg realms, symbolised a profound alignment between Castile and the Burgundian Netherlands. Through this union, courtly tastes, devotional preferences, and artistic models circulated with unprecedented intensity.

Royal foundations such as Las Huelgas—closely linked to the Castilian crown and used as a dynastic mausoleum—were natural recipients of this cultural exchange. Flemish paintings, admired for their technical mastery and emotional depth, suited both the spiritual ideals of monastic life and the representational ambitions of a monarchy that now looked north as well as south.

A Quiet Witness to European Exchange

Seen today, the Tríptico de la Pasión does not shout its international pedigree. It invites close, quiet looking rather than spectacle. Yet it stands as a witness to a moment when Europe was knitted together by marriage alliances, merchant fleets, and shared religious culture. In the stillness of Las Huelgas, a Flemish Passion continues to speak—of devotion, of trade, and of a royal world that once stretched seamlessly from Antwerp to Castile.

The Gileppe Dam (Belgium)

The two intake towers next to the Gileppe dam (Belgium).

In the hills above Verviers, the Gileppe River widens into a quiet, steel-blue sheet. Cutting across it is a slim footbridge that seems to float—and, anchoring the span, two white cylinders rise from the water like sentinels. These are the intake towers of the Gileppe Dam, the pieces of engineering you rarely notice in postcards but that keep the whole system breathing.

The story began in the 19th century, when Verviers’ booming wool industry needed a steady supply of clean, soft water. Belgium built one of Europe’s earliest large masonry dams here to regulate flow and store reserves. It worked—so well that, a century later, the reservoir was expanded and modernized. The intake towers you see were added during that upgrade. Each can “sip” water at different depths, mixing the right layers so what leaves the lake for homes and factories is clear, cool, and consistent year-round.

The Lion of Gileppe.

Walk the crest and the site reads like a timeline of industrial ambition and environmental pragmatism. The monumental Lion of Gileppe still keeps guard, a symbol of the dam’s first age; the elegant towers and footbridge mark the second. When the water is low, the pale bands on the concrete tell of dry summers; after rain, the lake climbs back to the tree line and the towers seem shorter, as if the landscape has taken a long breath.

Come for the views from the panoramic tower, the forest trails, and the wide skies reflected in the reservoir. Stay a moment by those two white sentinels. They’re the quiet heart of the lake—engineering disguised as calm.

A Romanesque Altar Frontal of the León Cathedral: A Window into Pilgrimage and Legend

In the grandeur of León Cathedral, a striking frontal de altar from the 14th century tells a vivid story of faith, legend, and the enduring power of the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela. This polychrome masterpiece, painted on wood and richly adorned with gold leaf, weaves together key episodes from the legend of Saint James (Santiago), alongside the figure of Saint Christopher, protector of travelers.

The altar frontal is structured in five narrative panels, each depicting a crucial episode of the legendary transfer of Saint James' body to Galicia.

Top Left: Queen Lupa and the Disciples of Santiago
According to legend, after Saint James' martyrdom in Jerusalem, his disciples carried his body to Hispania. Seeking a burial place, they approached Queen Lupa in Flavia (modern-day Padrón). Initially resistant, she subjected them to trials before she ultimately converted to Christianity. The scene captures the moment of their plea before the queen, her regal posture contrasting with their humble gestures.

Lower Left: Saint Christopher and Saint James as the Warrior Pilgrim
A striking image shows a bearded figure wading through water with a child on his shoulder—Saint Christopher, the patron saint of travelers, who carried Christ across a river. Beside him, a knightly figure on horseback with a flag is likely Saint James in his Matamoros guise, a vision that was said to have inspired Christian forces in battle. This juxtaposition reinforces the protection of travelers and the role of Santiago as a spiritual and military guide.

Top Right: The Oxen and the Coffin
One of the trials Queen Lupa imposed on Saint James’ disciples was to give them a cart with wild, untamed oxen to transport his remains, hoping they would fail. However, through divine intervention, the animals were miraculously tamed, allowing the disciples to complete their mission. This scene captures the sacred nature of their journey, emphasizing the role of faith and divine guidance in overcoming obstacles.

Lower Right: The Boat Carrying Saint James
A small vessel with two figures—one possibly a disciple, the other haloed—holds what is likely the coffin of Saint James. This recalls the legend of his miraculous sea voyage from Jerusalem to Galicia, carried by divine will. The scene is rendered with simple, powerful forms, reinforcing the mystical nature of the tale.

Central Panel: A Pilgrim or a King?
The most enigmatic figure stands beneath an arched structure crowned with castle towers. Could this be a representation of King Alfonso II of Asturias, the first known pilgrim to Santiago de Compostela, paying homage to the saint’s newly discovered tomb? Or is it an anonymous pilgrim, embodying the devotion of countless travelers? The ambiguity invites contemplation, drawing the viewer into the world of medieval belief.

A Testament to Pilgrimage Culture

This altar frontal is not just an artwork; it is a testimony to the deep cultural and religious currents of medieval Spain. The Camino de Santiago was one of Europe’s most significant pilgrimage routes, and artifacts like this offered both instruction and inspiration to the faithful.

Fool’s Paradise

Schopenhauer, Dunning–Kruger, and the Comfort of Being Certain

Hieronymus Bosch, The Extraction of the Stone of Madness (c. 1494–1516, Museo del Prado, Madrid, Spain).
A fool submits to surgery to remove the “stone” of stupidity, while the surgeon himself wears a funnel — the medieval symbol of folly. Bosch’s satire is razor-sharp: ignorance is not a pebble to be extracted, nor wisdom something that can be poured in. Five centuries later, the scene still reads like a warning against the comfort of a fool’s paradise.

Have you ever argued with someone who was completely wrong — and completely certain?

No hesitation. No nuance. No curiosity. Just calm assurance, as if reality itself had signed off on their conclusion.

A recent YouTube video titled “Why ‘Idiots’ Think They're Intelligent – Schopenhauer” revisits an old and unsettling insight: long before modern psychology described the Dunning–Kruger effect, Arthur Schopenhauer had already identified the mechanism behind confident ignorance.

He called it, in essence, a fool’s paradise.

When Ignorance Feels Like Clarity

Schopenhauer observed something simple and devastating: intelligence perceives complexity; ignorance does not.

If you lack the knowledge to detect nuance, competing interpretations, hidden assumptions, and technical depth, everything appears straightforward. And when the world appears simple, you feel certain.

Doubt only begins when complexity becomes visible.

Anyone who has seriously studied a discipline recognizes the pattern. At first, it looks manageable. Then, as you go deeper, the terrain becomes more intricate. What once felt obvious dissolves into questions. That uncomfortable realization — the sudden awareness of how much you do not know — is the beginning of competence.

But if you never reach that point, you remain in a fool’s paradise: a state of effortless confidence sustained by limited perception.

Familiarity Is Not Understanding

The video draws a crucial distinction between recognition and comprehension.

We live in an age of exposure. We scroll through psychology threads, listen to economics podcasts, quote philosophers on social media, and absorb fragments of neuroscience. We become familiar with terminology. We can follow conversations. We feel informed.

Familiarity is passive. Expertise is active.

Expertise allows you to apply ideas, defend them against strong criticism, explain them clearly, and recognize their limits. Familiarity simply means you have encountered the vocabulary before. The mind easily confuses the two. Once we believe we understand something, curiosity fades. Why investigate further what already feels known?

Modern psychology later formalized this pattern through the work of David Dunning and Justin Kruger. Their research showed that the skills required to perform well in a domain are often the same skills required to evaluate performance accurately. Without those skills, self-assessment becomes unreliable — and confidence inflates.

Schopenhauer had already seen this dynamic in academic life and public debate.

Blindness Disguised as Equality

There is a harsher dimension.

To recognize excellence, you need some baseline competence yourself. Without it, the expert and the amateur appear indistinguishable. A rigorous philosophical system and a casual opinion can look equally valid. A peer-reviewed study and a persuasive blog post may seem interchangeable.

From inside that limitation, the person is not necessarily arrogant. They are blind. And blindness feels like equality.

If you cannot see higher standards, you do not aspire to them. Without aspiration, there is no improvement. Without improvement, the gap remains invisible. The fool’s paradise sustains itself.

Complexity as Camouflage

Not all confident ignorance sounds simple. Sometimes it sounds impressively complex.

Dense language, elaborate frameworks, and abstract terminology can create the illusion of depth. Yet complexity is not proof of understanding. True intelligence can move between complex and simple forms without losing precision. Performed intelligence hides in obscurity because obscurity is harder to challenge.

If an idea cannot be explained clearly, it is often not because it is profound. It may be because it has not yet been fully understood.

The Closed Loop of Certainty

The most frustrating aspect of the fool’s paradise is correction.

If someone lacks the conceptual tools to detect their own error, evidence does not penetrate. Counterarguments feel like mere disagreement. Data appears biased. Logical analysis sounds like unnecessary complication. The corrective signal never arrives because the receiver is not equipped to process it.

This is why arguing with confident ignorance often feels futile. The problem is not always stubbornness. It is structural limitation.

And here is the uncomfortable truth: every person who has ever been confidently wrong believed they were right at the time. Including you. Including me.

The only reliable antidote is disciplined doubt — not paralyzing insecurity, but the habit of asking, “What might I be missing? Who understands this better than I do? What evidence would change my mind?”

Certainty is comfortable. Doubt is demanding. But doubt is the only way out of the fool’s paradise.

Further Reading

• David Dunning & Justin Kruger (1999), Unskilled and Unaware of It

• David Dunning, Self-Insight: Roadblocks and Detours on the Path to Knowing Thyself

• Arthur Schopenhauer, The Wisdom of Life (from Parerga and Paralipomena)

• Arthur Schopenhauer, On the Basis of Morality

• Marcus Aurelius, Meditations

• Bertrand Russell, The Triumph of Stupidity

• Daniel Kahneman, Thinking, Fast and Slow

• Richard Feynman, Surely You’re Joking, Mr. Feynman!

• Nassim Nicholas Taleb, The Black Swan

• The Article is based on YouTube: Why “Idiots” Think They're Intelligent – Schopenhauer

The Journey of the Bells of Santiago de Compostela

Panel depicting the legendary transport of Santiago’s cathedral bells to Córdoba after the sack of 997, and their later return in 1236. Museum of the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela.

If you walk into the cathedral of Santiago de Compostela today, you’ll hear the peal of bells rolling out over the old Galician city. But legend says those same bells once rang in Córdoba, nearly a thousand kilometers to the south, carried there on the shoulders of Christian captives. It is a story that mixes history, humiliation, and perhaps a dash of medieval imagination.

The year was 997. At that time, much of Spain was under Muslim rule. The most powerful figure of the day was Almanzor (al-Mansur), the vizier of Córdoba. He led dozens of campaigns deep into Christian lands, and in 997 he set his sights on Santiago de Compostela, the shrine of Saint James, already a major destination for pilgrims.

According to the chronicles, Almanzor’s army swept through Galicia, defeated local resistance, and sacked the city. Yet, remarkably, the shrine of the Apostle was left untouched—possibly out of reverence, possibly to avoid inflaming Christian devotion further. The rest of the city, though, was destroyed. And then comes the detail that every Spaniard seems to know: the great bells of the cathedral were taken down and carried all the way to Córdoba by Christian prisoners.

For over two centuries, the bells are said to have hung in the great mosque of Córdoba, turned upside down and used as lamps. Then, in 1236, when King Ferdinand III of Castile conquered Córdoba, the tables were turned. Muslim captives were forced to carry the bells back to Santiago, where they rang once again for the Apostle.

It’s a great story—almost too great. And here’s where the historian’s caution comes in. The earliest references to the bells being taken come from chronicles written long after the events, in the 12th and 13th centuries. They were compiled in León and Castile, at a time when Christian rulers wanted to stress both the humiliation inflicted by Muslim rulers and the glorious reversal brought by the Reconquista. Was it true? Possibly. Did Almanzor take trophies from Santiago? Certainly—he was famed for parading spoils through Córdoba. But whether the cathedral bells really made the long march twice is harder to prove. Archaeology has yet to confirm the tale, and the silence of contemporary Muslim sources makes us wonder.

Still, the story endures because it captures so much: the clash of faiths, the rise and fall of empires, and the way symbols can weigh as heavily as iron. To carry a bell is to carry the voice of a city, the call of a people. And whether or not every detail happened exactly as told, the legend of Santiago’s bells continues to echo, reminding us how memory and myth shape the past.

Further Reading

• Roger Collins, The Arab Conquest of Spain, 710–797 (Blackwell, 1989) – for context on the early Muslim presence in Iberia.

• Richard Fletcher, Moorish Spain (University of California Press, 1992) – a clear narrative of Al-Andalus, including Almanzor’s campaigns.

• Bernard F. Reilly, The Kingdom of León-Castilla under King Alfonso VI, 1065–1109 (Princeton University Press, 1988) – helpful background on the Christian kingdoms where the story of the bells was later shaped.

• Ramón Menéndez Pidal, La España del Cid (Espasa-Calpe, 1929) – a Spanish classic that discusses the building of historical myths.

Alfonso VIII and Leonor of England — A Royal Marriage Carved in Stone

The painted limestone tombs of a Alfonso VIII and Leonor of England who shaped medieval Spain (Abbey of Las Huelgas in Burgos).

Among the many remarkable royal tombs in the abbey of Las Huelgas in Burgos, two stand out for both their artistry and their story: those of King Alfonso VIII of Castile and his wife Leonor Plantagenet, daughter of Henry II of England and Eleanor of Aquitaine. Their monumental sarcophagi, carved from polychrome limestone, still retain traces of medieval colour — a rare survival that adds warmth and humanity to these otherwise austere royal monuments.

Alfonso VIII (1155–1214) became king as a child after his father Sancho III died when he was only three. His early reign was marked by civil war and rival noble families fighting for control of Castile. Only in his late teens did Alfonso truly assume power, ruling with determination and political vision.

In 1170 he married Leonor of England, a princess raised in one of the most sophisticated courts of medieval Europe. Through her mother, Eleanor of Aquitaine, Leonor brought the cultural refinement of southern France and England into the Castilian court. Their marriage was both a political alliance and, by medieval standards, an unusually stable and effective partnership.

Together they ruled for more than forty years. Alfonso became one of the central figures of the Reconquista, culminating in the decisive Christian victory over the Almohads at the Battle of Las Navas de Tolosa (1212) — a turning point in Iberian history.

Leonor played an active role as queen. She founded monasteries, supported learning, and acted as a diplomatic bridge between Castile, England and France. Under their patronage, Las Huelgas grew into one of the most powerful abbeys in medieval Europe, closely bound to the royal dynasty.

They had eleven children, many of whom married into the royal houses of Europe, weaving Castile into a vast international network of alliances.

Alfonso died in 1214, Leonor only weeks later. They were laid to rest side by side beneath their painted limestone tombs — not just funerary monuments, but enduring witnesses to a reign that shaped the political and cultural future of medieval Spain.

In the cool silence of Las Huelgas, their story still rests in stone — coloured, carved, and quietly magnificent.

The “Conclamatio” Relief – A Roman Farewell Reimagined

Funerary Ceremony, called the Conclamatio — marble relief made in northern Italy around 1500–1515, a Renaissance imitation of an ancient Roman scene showing the ritual calling of the deceased’s name at a funeral. The work is now held in the Louvre Museum, Paris.

The Scene

This marble relief, created in northern Italy around 1500–1515, is a Renaissance imitation of an ancient Roman work. Now housed in the Louvre, it depicts the conclamatio — the moment in a Roman funeral when family and attendants called aloud the name of the deceased.

At the center lies the body on a klinē, surrounded by mourners and musicians. Two figures raise wind instruments, amplifying the chorus of grief. Beneath the couch rest a pair of sandals and a small dog — tokens of loyalty and life left behind. To the left, a ritual flame burns; above, a draped cloth marks the threshold between the living and the dead.

The Meaning

The conclamatio confirmed death and released the deceased from the world of the living. It was both ritual and recognition — the collective voice of family ensuring that memory began where life had ended. Though carved a millennium and a half after the Roman original, this Renaissance piece captures the essence of the ancient rite: solemnity, movement, and human emotion rendered in stone.

The sculptor’s aim was not to copy but to evoke — to translate the lost sound of ritual into enduring silence. By showing grief as action, not sentiment, the relief bridges two worlds: the classical past and the reflective spirituality of the early sixteenth century.

Reflection

The “Conclamatio” relief reminds us that mourning was once a public act — a communal acknowledgment that someone had lived, and had left. Even as a Renaissance reimagining of antiquity, it preserves the universal impulse to give voice to loss. Across centuries, the echo of that final call still seems to resonate from the marble itself.

Further Reading

• Marie Erasmo, Reading Death in Ancient Rome

• Katherine Carroll, Living Through the Dead

• William H. Heller, Roman Funerary Ritual and Social Memory

The Tree of Jesse in the Wormser Dom

The Tree of Jesse in the Wormser Dom.

The relief of the Tree of Jesse in the Cathedral of St. Peter (Wormser Dom) presents the genealogy of the Holy Family with remarkable depth and grace.

At the base lies Jesse of Bethlehem, father of King David, from whose side a small tree trunk emerges. From this trunk rises a tangled yet elegant vine, filling the pointed Gothic arch with twisting branches and leaf-like crockets.

Along these branches sit or stand a succession of royal and prophetic ancestors of Christ, each set within the foliage:

• King David, often depicted with a harp

• King Solomon, wearing a crown and holding a scepter or book

• Other kings of Judah such as Hezekiah, Josiah, or Zedekiah, marked by regal insignia

• The prophets Isaiah and Jeremiah, holding scrolls with messianic prophecies

• Figures sometimes identified as the Virgin’s parents, Joachim and Anne, or other key ancestors named in the Gospel genealogies

High above them all, at the tree’s flowering crown, sits the Virgin Mary enthroned with the Christ Child, the final and perfect bloom of Jesse’s lineage.

Flanking the arch are additional full-length figures:

• Evangelists or apostles, recognizable by their books or scrolls

• A bishop or abbot in mitre and vestments, possibly representing a donor or the ecclesiastical authority who commissioned the work

This exuberant Gothic carving is far more than decoration. It transforms Isaiah 11:1—“A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse”—into a vivid three-dimensional family tree. Its carefully portrayed kings, prophets, and evangelists link the Old Testament to the New, proclaiming Christ as both heir of David and fulfillment of ancient prophecy.

The Silent Prophets Above the Gate of Chains (Santa María de Ciudad Rodrigo, Spain)

The silent guardians of the Puerta de las Cadenas of the Cathedral of Ciudad Rodrigo (13th century).

Above the Puerta de las Cadenas of the Cathedral of Ciudad Rodrigo stretches a striking frieze of Old Testament figures, carved in stone like a solemn assembly presiding over the cathedral’s northern entrance. According to Sendín, the sculptor gathered Abraham, Isaiah, the Queen of Sheba, Solomon, Ezekiel, Moses, Melchizedek, Balaam, David, Elijah, Saint John the Baptist, and Jeremiah—twelve figures who together trace the long arc of biblical history.

At the beginning stands Abraham, the patriarch of faith, followed by Isaiah holding the scroll of prophecy. The Queen of Sheba, crowned and elegant, brings a rare feminine presence, representing the nations recognizing divine wisdom; beside her, Solomon embodies that wisdom in royal calm. Ezekiel appears with the intensity of a visionary, while Moses—marked by his staff or the tablets of the Law—represents the covenant and its commandments.

Melchizedek, the mysterious priest-king who offered bread and wine, stands close to Balaam, the foreign prophet compelled to bless Israel. Their inclusion highlights the ways God’s voice, in medieval understanding, could emerge from unexpected places. David, with his crown and poetic bearing, re-establishes royal lineage before the frieze turns to Elijah, the fiery prophet taken to heaven in a whirlwind.

Only one figure belongs to the New Testament: Saint John the Baptist, the final herald before Christ, the bridge between old and new. The cycle closes with Jeremiah, carved in a gesture of lament, embodying the sorrow and longing that permeate Israel’s story.

Why place this assembly above a cathedral door? In the Middle Ages, façades were meant to teach. These prophets form a visual overture to the Gospel proclaimed inside, affirming that Christianity rises not in isolation but from a long, unfolding tradition. Together they create a threshold of memory and meaning: a carved chorus of voices preparing the visitor to step from the world into the sacred story beyond the gate.

The Cathedral of Ciudad Rodrigo (13th century) with the Puerta de las Cadenas.

The Saint-Léonard Relic Mural in Honfleur

Krug’s 1899 marouflé mural in Église Saint-Léonard, Honfleur, commemorates the transfer of a relic of Saint Léonard—patron of prisoners and freedom—in radiant Renaissance-style gold.

Step inside the Église Saint-Léonard in Honfleur and a luminous wall painting commands attention. Created in 1899 by artist Krug on a toile marouflée (canvas bonded to wall), it records the transfer of a relic of Saint Léonard, patron of prisoners and liberation.

Saint of Chains and Freedom

Saint Léonard, a 6th-century noble turned hermit near Limoges, was famed for freeing captives who invoked his name. Pilgrims long sought pieces of his relics. For this bustling port—often battered by war—the relic’s arrival was a promise of protection and safe return.

Ceremony in Gold

The mural shows a solemn procession led by Bishop Hugonin of Bayeux: robed clergy, incense, and faithful figures glide across a gold ground reminiscent of Fra Angelico. It is at once a historical record and a devotional icon, celebrating the day Honfleur welcomed its saint.

Catholic Revival

Painted during the post-1870 Catholic resurgence, the work reflected a desire to strengthen faith through art and memory. More than a century on, the mural still speaks of hope and deliverance, its silent pageant glowing in the church’s soft light.

The flamboyant Gothic façade of Église Saint-Léonard in Honfleur, crowned by its 18th-century octagonal bell tower.

Rotterdam my City — The Heart Torn Out — Zadkine’s Monument in Rotterdam

Ossip Zadkine’s “The Destroyed City” (1953): the figure cries to the sky, its heart torn away, mourning the loss that once defined Rotterdam.

When the bombs fell on Rotterdam on May 14, 1940, the medieval heart of the city vanished in a single afternoon. The aerial photograph taken shortly after the war shows the shocking emptiness — blocks of rubble replaced by a grid of bare streets, with only fragments of buildings standing like teeth in a broken jaw.

A few years later, Ossip Zadkine gave this loss a body and a voice. His bronze sculpture De Verwoeste Stad (The Destroyed City, 1953) stands near the city’s current center, close to where that lost heart once beat. The figure’s body torn open and twisted, with its arms reaching out to the sky — crying out in anguish, its chest ripped apart, its heart gone. Zadkine, a Russian-born sculptor who lived in Paris, said he was inspired after passing through Rotterdam and feeling the pain of a “city without a heart.”

The monument does not celebrate triumph; it embodies grief. Yet within its contorted form lives a strange vitality — the cry that turns upward, transforming pain into defiance. Around it, a new city has risen: modern, vertical, and full of life. The statue remains as its conscience, reminding Rotterdam not only of what was destroyed, but of the courage to rebuild.

An aerial photo of the city center taken shortly after World War II (1 June 1946, KLM Aerocarto).

The Venice Art Biennale – Where the World Comes to Imagine

Visitors of the Venice Art Biennale of 2011.

Every other years, Venice transforms into a living map of contemporary art. The Biennale, founded in 1895, stretches across the city — from the historic pavilions of the Giardini to the vast halls of the Arsenale and countless palazzi scattered along its canals. It’s not a single exhibition but a city-wide conversation, where artists, curators, and visitors explore what art can still say about the world.

Each edition has its own theme, but the real magic lies in the contrasts: quiet installations beside theatrical spectacles, digital dreams across from centuries-old frescoes. National pavilions show pride, politics, and poetry side by side. Venice itself, half sinking and half eternal, adds its own commentary — a reminder that beauty and fragility often walk together.

The Biennale isn’t about answers. It’s about curiosity — about stepping into rooms that challenge, delight, or disturb, and leaving with more questions than before. In a city built on reflections, that seems perfectly fitting.