The crèche in Provence isn’t just a nativity scene — it’s a miniature village brought to life, with dozens or even hundreds of figurines that tell the story of the Nativity and of Provençal daily life.
The word santon comes from Provençal santoun, meaning “little saint.” During the French Revolution, when church nativity scenes were banned, people began making their own at home with small clay figures, and thus the tradition of domestic crèches spread widely.
The Holy Family—Mary, Joseph, and baby Jesus—is usually placed in the crèche on Christmas Eve. The ox and the donkey are set nearby, warming the child with their breath. The Three Wise Men typically arrive on Epiphany, January sixth. What makes the Provençal crèche unique is that it also tells the story of the people of the countryside: bakers, shepherds, fishermen, washerwomen, and even the ravi, the joyous rustic figure with arms raised in wonder. Characters from local pastorales, the traditional Christmas plays of Provence, and figures representing village trades fill out the landscape, making the entire village converge on the nativity.
My Provençal crèche is a collection of santons I’ve gathered at the brocante ever since I first laid eyes on them, over thirty years ago. I especially love the ones that have clearly been around the block (I mean countryside) a few times—maybe played with by children, handled a little too lovingly, dropped once or twice, and then patched back together. Their faces aren’t perfect, which is exactly why I adore them, especially the ones carrying vegetables with such earnest determination. They symbolize people who’ve lived a life, survived a few tumbles, and still show up proudly in my crèche (life) every year.
I haven’t unpacked them all yet because I’m the sort of person who never puts them away in the same place twice. When Christmas is over, some santons go in a drawer, others end up in a little box in the cupboard, a few perch on a shelf, and every year I’m convinced I’ll remember where everything is. And, well that hasn’t happened yet.
You see I am the kind of person who tucks things away without strategy, who trusts future-self to remember — even though I will not, and now finding santons—has become an unexpected tradition.
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