Smiling at a Small Act of Rebellion

As far back as I can remember I’ve been fascinated with religious art. I find the interior of Catholic churches, particularly their use of iconography, spellbinding.

When my family returned to live in Nicaragua, I was placed in an all-boys Catholic school. During my first three years there it was obligatory for students to attend mass every morning. To alleviate the moments of tedium, I’d stare on the religious images and the complex handiwork in the school’s chapel.

Undoubtedly, my fascination with Catholicism continues to this day. In every novel I’ve published so far the Church and its teachings have played important roles.

On a recent trip through the provinces of Coclé, Herrera, and Los Santos—in the Republic of Panamá, where my wife and I live—we stopped to visit several historic church buildings. Our first stop was at the church in Natá. It was built in 1522 and is the oldest church on the American mainland still in use.


We visited several similar churches, and I indulged myself, taking as many photographs as possible of the religious artwork within their walls.

Inside the church of San Atanasio, in Villa de los Santos, I couldn’t resist posing with this portrait of a fork-tongued Spaniard, carved sheepishly by the indigenous artists who performed the labor in these elaborate designs.


Such displays of rebelliousness are common in Colonial Latin American religious artwork, and today they constitute a legacy that’s bound to bring about a smile in even the stodgiest visitor.