I’m an independent photographer originally from Québec, Canada, now based in Chicago. My journey into photography was anything but linear. After years in academia immersed in research, I found myself increasingly drawn to the world beyond the page—specifically, to the human stories unfolding all around me. Photography became my way of engaging with the world, allowing me to explore the social, cultural, and political realities that intrigue and challenge me.
Over the years, I’ve walked the streets of large cities and the paths of quiet villages, camera in hand, chasing not spectacle but humanity. I often describe what I do as “life photography”—documenting people in their resilience, celebrations, rituals, and everyday beauty. I’m especially drawn to moments of collective emotion: how people celebrate, mourn, worship, and come together. Semana Santa—Holy Week—in Antigua, Guatemala, is such a moment.
I had long dreamed of witnessing this event in Antigua, a charming colonial town framed by three volcanoes, one still active. When I finally made the pilgrimage, I encountered not only a vibrant religious festival but also an extraordinary confluence of light, movement, emotion, and devotion—an ideal canvas for photography. Introduced by Spanish missionaries during colonial times, Semana Santa is a deeply rooted tradition that has evolved into one of Guatemala’s most important and visually rich events. Despite its vulnerability to earthquakes and eruptions, Antigua stands proud with its pastel-colored buildings, baroque architecture, and cobbled streets. During Semana Santa, the city becomes a living theater.
The most visually commanding element is the procession—an act of worship, performance, and community that floods the narrow streets. Massive wooden floats, known as “andas,” are carried by dozens—even over a hundred—of devoted participants, their faces often strained yet serene. These floats bear life-sized sculptures of Christ, the Virgin Mary, and saints, intricately detailed and dramatically lit. Some of the floats’ size, scale, and weight seem incompatible with being carried by people, yet men, women, and children bear them. The carriers are worshippers who volunteer for this challenging task to honor God, perform penance, or both.
The carriers are measured and organized by height so the float’s weight is evenly distributed—I pity the tallest in the group. The children’s procession is endearing, as the young display pride and joy amid inevitable little challenges. Processions travel narrow cobbled streets on routes returning to the church from which they originated. Each course differs, sometimes lasting up to twelve hours, but all stop in front of the magnificent cathedral on the central plaza. Each procession is organized by religious brotherhoods (hermandades) that have practiced their roles for generations. The carriers—called “cucuruchos” for men and “devotas” for women—wear robes of purple, black, or white, moving in synchronized rhythm to create the illusion of the andas gently swaying through the streets. Combined with plumes of incense and solemn drumbeats from funeral bands, the atmosphere is one of intense reverence and rich photographic opportunity.
At the heart of the visual drama are the alfombras—intricate carpets made from colored sawdust, flowers, pine needles, fruits, and vegetables. These ephemeral artworks are painstakingly created on the streets only to be walked over and destroyed by the advancing processions. Each is unique, often combining Christian iconography with Mayan motifs. Photographing them requires timing and a deep respect for their sacred impermanence.
Night processions add another dimension, both literally and metaphorically. Shadows stretch across dimly lit facades as torchlight flickers and incense thickens the air. One unforgettable moment began at 1:00 a.m., when I joined early risers to witness a pre-dawn procession. Bleary-eyed yet wide awake, I found myself immersed in an otherworldly ambiance where time seemed suspended.
Crowds are massive, especially on Good Friday. At times, I was transported back to my experience at the Kumbh Mela in India—another spiritual gathering where the human tide feels overwhelming. In Antigua, everyone shares in the procession’s purpose. Despite Guatemala’s stark socio-economic divides, Semana Santa is a rare moment of unity. Through my lens, I saw faces from all walks of life—rich and poor, indigenous and mestizo—converging in shared devotion.
Photographing Semana Santa is as much about patience and humility as it is about timing and composition. It requires sensitivity to sacred rituals and awareness of one’s place in the crowd. But for those willing to immerse themselves, the rewards are profound. You capture not just images, but the deep spiritual pulse of a people.
May that spirit of unity and devotion resonate beyond the frames we take—and echo throughout the year and across the world.
