Rosalía’s Lux: Pop Icon and Faith?
Fernando De Haro - The release of singer Rosalía's album Lux comes at a particular moment, when there is talk of a "Catholic revival" in Spain.
Rosalía is magnetic, seductive, and captivating. Now we know her album Lux, which has won over critics, who speak of an "anti-commercial gamble," an "authentic sensory adventure," and a revolution in the history of pop. (But is it still pop, or is it flamenco, perhaps opera?) It uses many languages, draws on many styles with a beauty that hurts, and in which God is very present.
It is impossible to listen to some songs without being moved, without shedding tears. The first, entitled "Sexo, Violencia y Llantas" (Sex, Violence, and Tires), is a statement of intent: "Who could live between the two (between heaven and earth)? Who could come from this earth, enter heaven, and return to earth?" Rosalía wants to live in heaven without leaving earth. In the most innovative and fascinating track on Lux, "Berghain," which features an orchestra and a collaboration with Björk, the lyrics are even more explicit: "The only way I will be saved is through divine intervention."
Rosalía herself explained what this album meant to her: "Living in a world like today's is difficult; you don't really know what is true and what is not. Perhaps faith or certainty are more necessary than ever."
Rosalía's 18 new songs come out after days of intense debate, both online and in print, about the possible "Catholic turn" taking place in highly secularized Spain.
Everything seems to fit together: the aesthetics of the rosaries, crosses, and nun's habits used by the singer; her interview in which she confessed to feeling a void that success cannot fill; polls showing an increase in the number of Catholics among young people; and the release of the film Los Domingos by an agnostic director (in which a girl from a non-believing family discovers her religious vocation). Everything seems to indicate not only a "rebirth" of spirituality but also a rebirth of faith.
Few columnists, analysts, writers, or cultural figures have failed to take a position and offer an interpretation of the phenomenon. Time will tell if the so-called "Catholic turn" is just a label that encompasses very different experiences.
Spain has long considered itself a secular country. References to God in public opinion still exist, mainly due to popular religiosity, but they have decreased significantly. This is particularly true compared to 50 years ago, when the country was still living under a confessional dictatorship. Religious practice persists, especially in certain areas, but it is not widespread.
Surveys show that "religion," even for believers, is not considered a determining factor in life. Everything seems to confirm the "traditional doctrine" on secularization: a modern society is one in which the religious question has disappeared, at least publicly. Modernity and secularization are considered synonymous.
And this is where Rosalía appears, challenging this traditional doctrine. Because no one is more modern than her. What is striking is that many of those who have written to applaud or criticize the singer have done so following the pattern that identifies religion with the past. The word "turning point," in fact, means a change of direction within prevailing modernity.
There are converted writers who have celebrated Rosalía as a victory over the secularism that has shaped recent generations. There are political thinkers who have lamented that Rosalía's supposed victory over secularism is still insufficient: the lost Christianity, in which culture and politics were determined by faith, has not yet been recovered. They want a more resounding victory.
Writers on the "other side," those "defeated" by Rosalía, have complained about the excessive power that the Church still wields, its control over the world of education, and the cultural hegemony of Catholicism. Both sides are using outdated frameworks.
Fortunately, some understand that Rosalía can use the aesthetics she uses to express her search for meaning because she has freed herself from the old Christianity/anti-Christianity dichotomy. Her use of Christian symbols to express a religiosity that is not necessarily Christian reflects the fact that Christianity is not monolithic. Fortunately, some understand that what matters is not the debate among intellectuals and sociologists about the degree of secularization or the intensity of the "Catholic turn."
As Pedro Cuartango astutely observes, Rosalía has helped us to keep in mind that "we cannot ignore the question, even if some or many of us do not have an answer. The big question about the meaning of life (...) is not a passing fad or a reaction to social fatigue. It is something we cannot avoid, something that is part of our personal journey."
Modern, pre-modern, and postmodern people, fortunately, cannot evade this question that gnaws at our souls 24 hours a day (even while we sleep) if we want to be even remotely human.
If there is a "Catholic turning point," it will be evident because it will make the question bigger, more dramatic, and because it will help us walk alongside all those who have the courage to ask it. If faith, as an answer, does not amplify the question, it is not Catholic. There will be a turning point, but of a different kind. The presence of the beloved ignites the flame.
