Paris

 

Night falls on Paris and grows with it the imponence of the Madeleine that elevates itself on the surrounding palaces like an impossible and impudent relic of a lost, past, never died world.
A Madeleine that, titanical and arrogant, breaks with its enourmous columns the holyness of the sunset's light, using it only to become more luminous, to change color and to accentuate in this way the extraneity to that square. The cars turns around foolishly as in an african dance, rhythmed by arhythmical clacsons and by the alternating lights of the semaphores. Cars that seems to be there only to adore an idol. But the sun falls, careless, and with it the night vainly tries to envelope and hide the arrogant Madeleine without succeeding because Man, adorer of symbols, illuminates what have to be concealed in the obscurity during the night. I walk in the Boulevards and I feel in the air, perfumed of the nineteenth century, a new flavour, a presence: the perfume that every rite spread. But it was not incense what I smelt. I walk alone in the Boulevards and Paris, its palaces, its streets, seems to be in ferment, a ferment not made of movement, but made of missing sounds, lights, perfumes. That ferment that you can feel in nature when the smells of the woods, the sounds of the animals and the lights of the day disappear and appears in the air the wet perfume of the tempest. And it was a smell of tempest the one that everybody could feel in those hours, a smell of saltness that brought Paris, for some moments, on the coast of the ocean. The Madeleine then, proud and foolishly titanical, stand up in front of this sea like a mad rock in the middle of the ocean. Paris disappeared, submerged by the event, by the sea, by the sea of art. Only the Madeleine stand up upon the waters like the Purgatory's mountain. Abruptly arrived the hour of the event and with it my feet crossed the door-sill, door of the Purgatory from the Hell, only way to Paradise. I walked slowly in the apparent silence of an indifferent and careless Madeleine. People passed me by and slowly the emptyness of the church started filling up with a composed mass. But as always happens during the manifestation of art, the mass become unity and every being remains alone in its challenge with the irrational, with art, with himself. But at the same time the manifestation of art unify and close the spaces dismissing all the things that doesn't belong to it: Paris remained so out of the Madeleine, like a submerged Atlantide, forgotten by all the people who crossed that door-sill.
The doors closed and the long awaited tempest arrived with calm, serenity and composed fury. Madredeus entered the stage, the Madeleine was silent. The music showed and with it the chant rose in the spectral silence of Paris.
The rite, the celebration of beauty, of poetry, of spirit had begun and Beauty, Poetry, Spirit crossed the doors of the Madeleine spreading among the audience, talking to everybody, talking to the heart and narrating the reason of Love. The songs followed each other like words of a declarazion to our beloved, always and inevitably pulled by the heart and not by the reason. The Madeleine stopped itself, got silent and listened... For the first time the Madeleine listened what was narrated among his walls and inevitably learned. It learned the humbleness of art which, shy and fragile, appear and disappear just to remain concrete in the heart of the people, without invading squares, without challenging the sea like a mad rock. And the Madeleine cried because her adorers, her Paris in esthatic contemplation of her columns had disappeared. It cried seeing her adorers worshipping another prophet, more humble and more true, a prophet able to talk to the heart. The Madeleine cried and she bent. Her columns, her walls, got soft and contracted themselves in the discovery of their arrogance and they bent to the earth, listening in silence. Her straight lines died in curves, sinuous and softly humble in front of the greatness of a rite that was celebrated in her. The Madeleine, used to drown in her power the holyness of the christian rite that is made there, had to bent, becoming a pure container of a rite which is much more powerful than her, and her columns, so oppressing at the look for the fact that they suppose a great weight to be sustained, got thin, elegant, pointed, because the music, just with its reverb cancelled that weighty ceiling. The Madeleine, the major representative of an arrogance applicated to religion, bent, becoming imperfect and, for this reason, much more beautiful, reducing to be a mere gift-paper, fascinating but extremely less interesting than the present, and in this rediscovered humbleness she expressed a noble pride that she forgot in her vanity. In that moment the Madeleine moved, understood the stupidity of her challenge to the sea and she dived in it, becoming a ship pulled by the wind of music. And this immense and sculpturesque caravel voyaged bringing all the listeners to another land, the land of Spirit, forgotten island in the sea of Art.

Corvinus

from the site Madredeus - O Porto - http://go.to/madredeus