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| The
Via Crucis of Camille - Crux 2 - Page 20 |
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I
took the camera in my hands, briefly this
time, to get some closer shots of Camille's
body in her new position. This was new to
us. A new position, a new angle, a new situation.
Camille understood the mechanics of the situation,
she was familiar with the ritual by now. What
I was having a hard time explaining was the
motivations of the characters, particularly
that of Maricelli.
Sometimes I saw Maricelli as an alter ego
for myself. She was the expression of my early
feelings, my early fantasies, the ones that
pervaded my days in school and the Church.
That was the hard part, explaining to Camille
what it all meant for me.
Why did I made the character female? Why
not male? I was the one with the fantasies
of martyrs, crosses, whips.
Perhaps because I wanted to meet Maricelli.
I wanted to believe that she exists somewhere.
Camille was happy to be the one to bring her
to life, but for a movie, not for real, she
didn't commune with that fantasy, she had
her own. |
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Lyvia had her eyes fixed on the sky for the next
20 lashes of the heavy whip. She kept her mouth
closed tight, moaning her pain, no longer screaming.
The lash fallin hard on her broken skin.
The crowd mostly
silent, the cries of mercy from some of the
people were constant. But the sentence was going
to be carried on until its completion. The 100
lashes were going to be counted and her feet
were going to be crushed. No one had the power
to stop it.
Lyvia turned her
head away from the sky as the lashes continued
falling, her head fell down as if she had died,
some blood and mucos came out of her mouth and
nose, she could no longer move her head up,
so her head went from side to side after each
new blow of the whip.
The last ten lashes
were the most intense, as if the torturer wanted
to end her life once and for all. But she lived
through them, her head no longer moving, not
even to the sides.
Her body was still,
stretched, her open arms pulled by the weight
of the block under her feet, her broken hands
turned black and purple. She fainted again as
the last lash wrapped her legs.
Lyvia's naked body
was still, her head down, her eyes closed. The
soldier with the hot iron, pressed it agains
her flesh to bring her back to live.
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I
left the Camera back on the tripod, I was
ready to move on to the next step. I approached
Camille to get her off her bonds, to free
her wrists. She was leaning against the post,
drained of all energy. Her punishment had
taken a toll on her body.
The saint was resigned to her fate, in fact
she was calling it to her. She wanted to go
through it, as Maricelly wanted to experience
her own martyrdom, if she only could. Camille
was living the experience of both withtout
really knowing their motivations and without
guilt.
The guilt was in me, tugging the strings
of my conscience, screeming at my from the
depths of my religious upbringing: "Blasphemy!"
I didn't want to pay attention to those inner
screams.
But Camille wasn't concerned with that. She
was fine to do what she was doing. No guilt,
no shame, nothing. In fact a lot of good feelings,
some pride for the work well done, a lot of
eagerness to do better each time.
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As
I placed the wooden crossbar over Camille's
back, I thought of the image of Christ. I wasn't
making a story of a female Christ. That was
not the intention. There were enough female
martyrs to inspire me. But the image was there.
I saw this as Camille's head leaned forward
and the wood was on top of her.
I knew at that moment that I had go the way
I was supposed to go. There was a time in the
past when I stopped the fantasies at the doorsteps
of the cross.
There was always torture and gruesome executions,
some resembling a crucifixion. But the actual
crucifixion was something I warmed up to slowly.
Again, my religious upbringing making me avoid
the obvious.
My very first memory of a fantasy game is that
of the cross, nothing else. Later I built a
world of fantasy that included everything I
could imagine, known and unknown methods of
torture. My favorite magazines were those of
saints or heros in distress. But they were all
leading to this moment. They were leading to
the cross.
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