Photo by Philippe Garcia
The fabric is Scottish broadcloth, a white as warm as the sunlit cathedral stone. The colors have the pure brilliance of the stained glass. The design is clean, strong, and radiant; I cannot imagine anything more joyful.
Or riskier.
In a time when many Catholics are growing more conservative, the Archbishop of Paris personally sought out Jean-Charles de Castelbajac to design the vestments for the reopening of the Cathedral of Notre-Dame.
Jean-Charles de Castelbajac, who designed a teddy-bear coat (a statement against fur) worn by Madonna and Drake. Who made an outfit out of stuffed Kermit the Frogs for Lady Gaga. And who, for the 1997 World Youth Day in Paris, designed streetwear for the kids, vestments for the priests, and a bejeweled chasuble and miter for Pope John Paul II—all with the rainbow motif that signals LGBTQ acceptance.
De Castelbajac had warned the previous archbishop of Paris ahead of time: “You might find this transgressive. But for me, the link between man and God is the rainbow. It is the symbol of unity.” Recalling the conversation for The New York Times, he added, “Plus, I thought it was youthful, and there was no copyright to deal with.” The archbishop acceded, and miraculously, the Pope—who strongly opposed same-sex marriage and upheld the Catholic notion of homosexual acts as “depraved” and “intrinsically disordered”—loved the design, telling de Castelbajac that he had used color as the cement of faith.
This time round, de Castelbajac is explaining, just as plausibly, how he created “an epic work that speaks to the Middle Ages and the history of the cathedral, yet also speaks to the youth of today.” The heraldic pattern, the antique gold of the cross, and the suggestion of stained glass feel medieval, but the bright simplicity feels entirely modern. Its glorious scatter of color, the luminous energy of sunlight streaming through shards of glass, pays homage to the Radiant Baby, an iconic late-twentieth-century image drawn by de Castelbajac’s friend Keith Haring.
Haring cartooned his image, a crawling baby haloed by rays of light, in 1982, and as the AIDS epidemic began to steal lives, it became an icon of hope. Openly gay and a tireless activist for LGBTQ rights, the pop artist lost his own life to AIDS in 1990. In his journal, he had written, “I’m sure when I die, I won’t really die, because I live in many people.”
De Castelbajac just added a fresh layer of truth to those words. The radiant baby is now a radiant cross. The chasubles that will be worn in a long, solemn procession down the aisle of the restored medieval cathedral bear this large, simple gold cross on front and back, printed with the sublimation process used to decorate T-shirts. The flocking on the colored appliques—which de Castelbajac cut and glued on himself—is the sort that emblazons sweatshirts.
In other words, the conduits of God’s word and love are about to be arrayed in the whimsy of a young street artist, polished up by one of his pals. The current archbishop of Paris, Msgr. Laurent Ulrich, is a brave man. Rather than leave the selection of designer up to a committee or public vote, he approached de Castelbajac directly. It is perhaps not a coincidence that Ulrich is part of a group of French bishops working on proposals to reformulate the Church’s views on homosexuality. He has described homophobia as a form of hatred that “destroys and sows evil.”
De Castelbajac’s sketchess part of a group of French bishops working on proposals to reformulate the Church’s views on homosexuality. He has described homophobia as a form of hatred that “destroys and sows evil.”
De Castelbajac is not, if this feels relevant, gay himself. His marriage and other significant relationships have all been with women. He is also a devout Catholic, and traces his artistic inspiration to his strict Catholic education at boarding and military schools, where daily life was austere and the boys were confined to campus. “It is there that my imagination developed,” he has said, “and I saw little things can be beautiful.”
In his own way, he has fought as hard as Haring for social causes—and for a Catholicism that embraces them. Formally the Marquis de Castelbajac, he can trace his family’s service back to the Crusades. His cousin, Claire de Castelbajac, shared his artistic talent; when she died of meningitis at twenty-one, she had already helped restore the frescoes of the Basilica of St. Francis of Assisi. After her death, cloistered nuns who asked her to intercede with God reported that their prayers had been answered; she is now being considered for canonization. So the de Castelbajac family has aristocratic, artistic, and spiritual clout. Which may be why de Castelbajac keeps getting away with gorgeous mischief.
Having grown up just after Vatican II, in a time when hippy-dippy felt banners were glued together by the parish’s seventh graders, I find the bright sophistication of these vestments hopeful. They suggest, at last, a grown-up acceptance of the ideals that flung the church doors halfway open. But that acceptance is harder to see in the rest of the worldwide church. Looking through de Castelbajac’s sketches, I grin, wondering how much flak he will receive. So far, the reported criticism is vague and peevish—the vestments are deemed too modern, lacking in reverence, insufficiently solemn, shockingly minimalist. Not a peep about the implied acceptance of homosexuality. How many conservative Catholics even know what he is quoting?
If the Church’s traditional teachings are accurate, it is hard to know which of them God would heed: Keith Haring might be an angel by now, looking down at these vestments with delight, or he might have burned to a crisp for loving men. Clearly, both the archbishop of Paris and the current pope would like to see the judgment lifted. The world needs more, not less, radiant joy.
Read more by Jeannette Cooperman here.
