In the face of all. (Roundtable).

THE SASSI, MATERA, IN SOUTHERN Italy, summer 2001. I was invited to do a solo exhibition and, while still not sure of what work I would show, I found myself entering a church. This, surprisingly, after many years of trying to wash off the holy water that stained my subconscious. I was born a Catholic without choice like one that inherited some title of worth. But here I was, back within the walls of the doctrine and all around me were the saints; mesmerizing saints. Real hair, clothing, jewelry, everything to make them look alive. Sensationalism, right out of a Vincent Price "House of Wax" film. They were installed in ornate glass coffins, far above the human eye. I needed to shoot them, to penetrate the surface to find their spirit. I quickly moved a chair and stood on it to raise myself to their level. But that was not enough. So I placed my camera over my head and tried to find the right angle. I was shooting blindly.

The gallery was at once pleased and shocked. As in all small towns, the word of my work soon spread. Nasty rumors always go fast, distorting a distant objectivity. The story of the saints was becoming similar to a monkey wrench being thrown into the chain of a bicycle. The exhibition was canceled. My gut felt the Catholic guilt: "I am always fucking up." But through all this commotion, a sweet surprise rose. People working for the church wanted more. The doors to the holy building were closing to the praying masses so that I could open the glass encasements, stand on the altar, anything at all to get that shot. One man even asked me if I would agree to shoot two of his saints for prayer cards.

The largest gallery in the south of Italy showed interest in the work. Within two hours, the curator had an art historian over. Arrangements were made for me to enter a top security place, with my camera, a driver at my disposal, plus a few assistants. A restoration place for all saints in need of cosmetic surgery, thousands upon thousands of them, a mall. Instantly, the Monty Python film, The Life of Brian, came to my mind: "Ah good, crucifixions to the right, Marys to the left, Pietas down the center." Every saint was now below my eye level. Crowds so dense that if you lost sight of one, you could hardly find it again. I was there every day shooting, so familiar with the place that I soon knew each saint's schedule--some were only outpatients, others on an extended holiday.

When I work on projects I somehow don't sleep through the night, my schedule is erratic, I am driven like a junkie's addiction, I'm wired. My last day of shooting was September 11, 2001. One last morning of work and then I needed to catch up on some sleep. The phone rang quite a while before I even heard. A call from New York City--the second plane had just hit the tower. Some weeks later, after it all sunk in, I realized that my martyr saints would not have their day any time soon. As one curator told me, "Now we need Happy Days, Little House on the Prairie and I Love Lucy."

CYNTHIA KARALLA was born in Grosse Point Park, Michigan, where she attended Catholic school. By the age of 12 she was on the streets of Michigan and New York City. An artist and critic, she now lives and works in New York City and Italy. Her website is www.karalla.com.