Lights Out

In the church of Orsanmichele, Florence, you can no longer light a proper candle. After centuries, the church keepers have swapped their wax votives for a press-a-button electric horror. An embarrassed worker whispered something about health and safety. In 1349, as the Black Death raged in the city, the confraternity attached to the Marian sanctuary sold an average 77,075 candles a month. In the old banks of candles, it was possible to taste the old Florentines’ fear, fervour. Picking up the small votives, placing them on the black candelabra before Daddi’s golden Madonna and Child, I imagined myself in the relays of people committing their intentions to the Virgin and the flame, over centuries. ‘Please Mary, good health for my wife, a child for my daughter, work for my son, just a little more money so we can manage, heal my broken heart.’ So I go on now to the Duomo and Santissima Annunziata. At Orsanmichele, the prayers left unsaid, the button left unpressed.