The Ondarroa church that is full of ghosts

Anyone who has had the privilege of strolling through Ondarroa, in the Basque Country, has more than likely, at one time or another, admired the Church of Santa María and its imposing arcades. For decades, this Catholic church, which stands solemnly in the old town of Ondarroa and was built on a large rock, has also aroused the curiosity of Txomin Badiola (Bilbao, 1957), not only for its architecture but also for the creatures that live there. Ever since he spent his summers there as a child, he hasn't been able to get them out of his head. So much so, that he has made them the protagonists of his new novel, Mamuk (Cliff).

The title, in Basque, translates as "ghosts" and refers to the gargoyles and other sculptures that crown the place. "There are monsters and animals, but also portraits of courtiers, clerics, soldiers, pilgrims... Alongside them is Leokadi, a woman who, according to legend, was turned to stone as punishment. I wanted to find out who they were, or, failing that, imagine who they might be and what story they were hiding. That's what motivated me to write," says this renowned artist, who now devotes most of his time to writing and who visited Barcelona this summer to talk about this ensemble plot.

Another of the story's protagonists is the fictional Béranger de Bourgogne, who was commissioned at the end of the 15th century to continue the construction of the church after the sudden death of the previous master builder. His plan included a mysterious decoration with reliefs and the aforementioned monstrous figures, which the townspeople later used to frighten misbehaving children, as if they were the bogeyman.

Béranger, whose surname is inspired by the style of sculpture, Burgundian, allows the author to intertwine past and present, as well as delve into the world of ghosts and legends. Meanwhile, the contemporary dialogues focus on an unnamed character, Béranger, "an artist who deals as best he can with his own ghosts," something Badiola admits he understands "perfectly."

Most mamuk are not visible to the naked eye, as they are on the roof.

The author doesn't rule out the possibility of some curious reader coming to see the place where he and the Mamuks spend most of their time, but he is convinced that mass tourism will eventually take over the space, as "most of these figures are not visible to the naked eye, as they are on the roof. I needed a drone to study them in detail, and I realized there were many more than I imagined."

He also confesses that he felt "the need to know about them and to make them known." This feeling arose upon his return after forty years to Ondarroa, where he spent his childhood summers. "It's a town to which I am intimately connected, but upon my return, I felt like I didn't belong there. It was strange. The familiar became alien. That made me uncomfortable, but at the same time, it inspired me to try to write as objectively as possible."

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It also encouraged him to use many of the elements of his plot as metaphors, as is the case with the church itself, where a battle between good and evil seems to be taking place. “In fact, the figures are outside, and high up, because the profane is supposed to remain outside. They put monsters in so that other potential monsters can't break in. And the curious thing is that, as a whole, the building has hardly any divine elements. Almost all of them are demonic and secular.”

In his writing, Badiola also sought to reflect "the moment in which the medieval was left behind. Burgundy is not yet a Renaissance man, but he finds himself in that impasse. And this radical cultural and intellectual shift is evident in the Church and at all levels of existence." Saint Mary of Ondarroa thus becomes a witness to the evolution of human beings, and the author feels satisfied with having endowed this idea with literature.

“The transition from visual art to writing has been a natural one for me. My way of working is the same in both cases, as I work with unconnected fragments that I end up connecting. A bit like life itself.” He does so without activism, because then, “both art and literature would lose their primordial essence,” he concludes.