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Sacrality is, above all, a category of          emplacement.Jonathan Smith, 1987, p. 104We necessarily express ourselves by          means of words, and we usually think in terms of space.Henri          Bergson, 1889, p. 7        What if instead of asking “What do you believe in?,” we asked “Where do you believe?” And        what if we supposed that religious places do not in fact derive from        belief, but that belief derives from place? This is the premise of the        line of thought taken in this volume, in which each article explores        how place or setting can influence religious practices,        representations, and emotions. By religious places, we are referring        to sanctuaries, temples, or churches, that is, any location designed        to accommodate devotees of a given religion. Yet we also ascribe a        broader meaning to the term, viewing a religious setting as a locus        whose “material affordances” (Gibson 1977) facilitate encounters        between different entities separated in space, in time, or even        ontologically; like a bond, a fundamental requirement for        communication with the other world; an “operator of connection,”1 as we might call it. In Haitian Voodoo, an        altar can “happen” on a tabletop, in a bottle, or even beneath the        skin of a practitioner (Brown 1996, p. 67). In Palo Monte or in Cuban        Spiritism, a tree that houses a deity can become the centre of a        ritual, as can a mirror became the surface of a spiritual encounter        (Palmié 2002, p. 2). A religious setting can also take a        dematerialized form. Some studies on the transnationalization of        Santería highlight the importance of digital communication devices in        the endurance of this practice among the diaspora. And “digital” is        not to say “disembodied”: some authors point out the importance of the        stimulation of electro-receptors when using these devices        (Beliso-De Jesús 2015). Going further, a religious setting can also be        defined by auditory space, like the one created by the        cassette-letters that Haitian emigrants use to communicate with their        relatives back home, which project their own sensory effect within        transnational Voodoo formations (Richman 2005, p. 215).        This volume follows a pragmatic line of thinking        that emphasizes the material and corporal nature of the religious,        namely the objects and substances brought into play during ritual        activities, the techniques of the body in worship, and religious        sensoriality.2 This approach in        religious anthropology sets aside the study of myth, doctrine, and        symbolism in favor of the pragmatic foundations of religious practice,        that is, how it is lived and experienced from both a concrete and        sensory perspective (see also Cohen et al. 2017). Such an approach        raises a number of important epistemological questions: should one,        for example, consider the material and corporal expressions of        religion as “mediations” (see Meyer 2009)? Some authors are reluctant        to use this term, arguing that it is rooted in Christian-centric        dualist thinking that ultimately preserves the distance and moral        hierarchy between the transcendentalism of faith and the secular        manifestations of the religious (see, e.g., Morgan 2013). By defining        a religious setting as a coherent space in which objects, bodies,        actions, and ideas form a system—or even an ecosystem—we can dispense        with the dualism of this back-and-forth between faith and matter. No        longer should we seek to isolate representation, action, sensation,        corporeity, and materiality from the whole picture, but rather to        consider them systematically and procedurally.        Religious experience is situational: it does not        simply occur in any given setting; rather it derives from the specific        nature of that setting (see also Richardson 2003, p. 77). Edward        Twitchell Hall’s (1966) theory of proxemics (i.e. the mechanisms of        interpersonal distancing between humans) provides some useful        methodological tools for analyzing religious experiences in their        physical context, both macroscopically—the author adopts a culturalist        perspective—and microscopically, essentially sensorially—the author        refers to “extensions of the organism,” like a computer (thus        anticipating the trend of extended cognition). Hall argues that our        physical environments are the material manifestations of sensory        patterns formed by our cultures through a filtering mechanism that        develops certain senses to the detriment of others. He seeks to        demonstrate how people from different cultures inhabit different        sensory worlds, made up of acoustic, olfactory, auditory, or thermal        spaces; some authors today refer to “smellscapes” and “soundscapes”        (Porteous 1990; Hirschkind 2006; Rowlands 2007). Inspired by this        perspective, we could designate the frame-spaces of interactions with        invisible beings (Goffman 1991) as an “extended sensorium” of various        -scapes: of feelings        (Morgan 2010, p. 57), of mood (Johnson, in this volume), of affects        (Halloy, in this volume), or of perceptions (Wirtz, Kerestetzi, in        this volume). Indeed, sensation, feelings, and religious experience in        general are all seen here as being distributed among (Gell 1998;        Hutchins 2001) and externalized in the operators of connection with        the other world, in their configuration and aesthetics.        Any belief-system conditions, to variable        extents, a certain way of perceiving one’s environment. This is        particularly true of Afro-American religions, some of which have        explicit spatial prescriptions by which their members are encouraged        to abide. In Cuban Santería, for example, initiates are ascribed an        oracular category (oddun), meant to represent a synthesis of        their own personal characteristics, fragilities, and fates. Among the        recommendations of the oddun, many relate to spatial prohibitions:        not standing at the center of a group of people; not crossing through        the middle of a park; not stopping in the middle of a crossroads; not        walking along a railway line; some even discourage people from        visiting hospitals or cemeteries. These spatial prescriptions        correspond to how an Afro-American deity relates to a particular        space. In Brazilian Candomblé, for example, Yemanjá is mistress of the        sea, Oxun is associated with rivers and waterfalls, Exu presides over        crossroads, etc. And so worshippers develop a specific, ritualized        relationship with the place of the deity with whom they are        associated. Thus, for the “sons” and “daughters” (filho, filha) of Yemanjá, beaches are        instinctively religious places where people come to lay offerings or        even meditate. The mere fact of walking along a beach carries with it        a sense of ritual convention. Consequently, a given place may be        loaded with religious significance for one practitioner, while meaning        little to another.        The importance of location in Afro-American        religions is also tied to their relative lack of institutionalization        and normalization. These are procedural religions structured by and        through the act of fabrication and creative consumption (“consumption”        in the sense of de Certeau [1980], i.e. the appropriation and        accommodation of religious items by practitioners); they center on        performance rather than on a formalized liturgy (Atkinson 1989), and        are distinguished by the considerable variability of their practices.        In the absence of normalized ritual protocols, the form of rituality        and its transmission is conditioned by the tangible supports of        culture, by their objects, and the aesthetic of their material        environment. The configuration of ritual objects, the specific nature        of the materials used, and the aesthetic of liturgical spaces engender        religious information, movement, and cognition.        The aim of this issue is to show that material        processes and their sensory effects cannot be considered without first        taking into account the setting in which they occur, and which        legitimizes them and orders them—the configuration of space gives        order to the experience, and constrains interpretation, perception,        and feeling (Cummins and Rappaport 1998). The relationship between        spatiality and materiality is so organic that a religious object can        acquire a completely new meaning depending on how and where it is        placed, and the context in which it is used. Paul C. Johnson’s article        provides an ethnohistorical perspective of how the simple        transposition in space of the icon of a Brazilian saint (Slave        Anastácia) evokes extraordinarily contrasting representations: a        symbol of black resistance; a ritual instrument for personal gain; the        patron saint of a favela; or even a fashion icon or TV star. In this        regard, we may refer to a situated materiality, to a sensoriality derived from        context, and to a “framed interaction” (Latour 2007, p. 39) with        invisible entities. The articles in this volume explore the emergence        of significant religious places that are capable of forming not only        ideological and experiential communities, but also individualized and        personalized practices. In other words, this issue seeks to        demonstrate how religion can also be the product of the very things        that it produces.                  Afro-American          materialities          Afro-American religions constitute an          impressive medley of objects, materials, icons (Johnson, in this          volume), substances, sounds (Wirtz, in this volume), colors          (Kerestetzi, in this volume), and smells (Halloy, in this volume).          And their practitioners tend to use these different elements without          moderation. From Haitian Voodoo, Brazilian Candomblé or Umbanda, to          Cuban Santería or Palo Monte, among many others, a large part of          Afro-American ritual activity and interactions between initiates is          dedicated to the making of religious artifacts (e.g. objects of          power, amulets, magic potions, ritual garments). The technical          moments involved in producing these objects are viewed as an          essential step in the construction of religious affiliation and          experience, primarily because they constitute privileged instances          of interaction, learning, and exchange between the members of          religious communities. Some authors, disputing the classical idea          that ritual and faith are not subject to technical and material          determinisms, have highlighted how ritual activity is inextricably          linked to technical activity (Lemonnier 2005; Warnier 2009).          Afro-American religions are a prime example of this: adherence to          their symbolic universe is literally based on technical gestures and          material transactions, to the extent that some followers, like those          of Palo Monte, even define them as “material religions.” In          Santería, for example, the initiation rite is called “making the          saint” (hacer santo),          and in Candomblé “saint-making” (feitura de santo). These expressions          refer to the fact that, during the initiation process, objects of          power, which constitute physical incarnations of designated gods,          are produced for the initiate. Indeed, within these religions,          initiation cannot be envisaged independently of material          production.3          When practitioners say that they “make a          saint,” this is meant literally. Religious objects are not mere          representations of deities and spirits; they are veritable          incarnations, imbued with personality, intent, feelings, and          material needs. Whether we call them “spirited things”          (Johnson 2014) or “god-objects” (Augé 1988), these sacred entities          are the true recipients of a worshipper’s prayers, not simply          go-betweens for the divine. They are “living” gods, made animate by          blood “transfusions” (Halloy 2015; Kerestetzi 2016), fed with food          offerings, refreshed with drinks; these are gods who must be          satisfied. In this way, the tension between the material and the          intangible that these divine incarnations represent is redoubled by          the tension between the animate and the inanimate.          This implicit theory of materiality, which          blurs ontological lines, is not limited to religious artifacts and          material products in the strictest sense; it also frames religious          experience at its most visceral level. Thus, an initiate’s body is          “constructed” in the same way as an object, in the Afro-American          sense, which means that the production of ritual subjectivity cannot          be considered separately from material production. Indeed, the          process of spiritual objectification mentioned above in reference to          initiations in Santería and Candomblé (which also applies to the          majority of related religions) is followed by a sort of          objectification of the human body. For example, the head is viewed          as something that is made to become the “seat” (asiento in Cuba) of a particular deity.          In Brazil, “fazer          cabeça” (making the head) is synonymous with “initiating”          (Johnson 2002, p. 18). And, during these rites, the same actions,          gestures, and substances are usually applied both to the newcomers’          bodies and to their ritual objects (e.g. offerings of sacrificial          blood, ritual cleansing), often one after the other, as if body and          object were interchangeable.          In this perspective, humans, things, and gods are ontological          hybrids, somewhere between subject, object, and spirit.          In concrete terms, this situation provides for          a rich repertoire of ritual actions: by objectifying religious          agents, that is, treating the bodies of initiates and their gods as          objects (in the Afro-American sense), practitioners can act on the          body and interact with the spirits without resorting to abstract          liturgical protocols; the materials and substances involved are of          this world, they are mundane, familiar to the touch. Gods and humans          are thus washed, polished, drawn, raised up, set down, sealed,          opened; and all these manipulations are ritual acts in their own          right. In Cuba, one must “lower” (bajar) Orula, the god of divination of          the Cuban Ifá cult, and set him down on the ground to carry out          certain delicate magical operations that require the full extent of          his power. Objectifying one’s religious agents serves to make them          more approachable, and interacting with them more comfortable.          Therefore, we might discern in the act of          production certain assumptions regarding the variability of          Afro-American practices. Thus the most ancestral, the most powerful          gods are fashioned by lowly devotees and for themselves. They are          their personal gods, for their own exclusive use (see Capone 1999;          Wirtz, in this volume). In this way, gods that are shared among the          collective become “customized,” tailored to specific people and to          specific contexts. Be it the powerful lwa of Haitian Voodoo, the prestigious          orichas of Santería,          their counterparts in Candomblé and Xangô in Brazil, or the dead of          Palo Monte in Cuba, these beings are made from scratch by the hands          of their practitioners, and often reflect a singular vision of the          religion in question, and of the idiosyncratic nature of each          individual religious modality.                          Pre-constrained          affordances          Combining the question of religious          sensoriality with that of materiality leads us naturally to examine          the material “affordances” of religious spaces. The notion of          affordance, part of the trend of the psychology of perception,          notably in the work of James Gibson (1977), designates how the          materiality or form of a given object or space dictates its usage          (an open space may invite movement, a mug incites the user to hold          it by the handle). Gibson viewed the physical environment as a “set          of affordances.” This approach has been widely criticized by          culturalist researchers. David Howes (2009), for instance,          highlighted the limitations of this cognitivist concept since, in          his view, it does not take cultural factors into account. This issue          seeks to bring together the two perspectives. In terms of its          methodology, Arnaud Halloy’s article is a good example of how to          combine the analytical tools of the cognitive sciences with a          precise ethnography of contextualized and culturally informed          practices. The author proposes an “olfactographic” approach to          religious practices, by examining how smell, ritual effectiveness,          and religious emotion interconnect within Brazilian Xangô. His          article shows how sensation and information come together in          specific settings to create movement, knowledge, and religious          memories.          In a linguistic approach, Kristina Wirtz’s          article, which examines the material production of the voice of the          orichas in Santería,          shows how the properties of the materials used ritualistically to          instantiate this voice help to construct a communicative grammar          with the other world. For example, the earthly nature of the orichas is transmitted          auditorily through the percussive sound of the coconut husk used for          divinatory purposes being thrown to the ground, and visually by          their organic appearance. But the author reminds us that these          properties do not automatically affect the way gods are perceived.          The terrestrial aesthetic of these divination methods does not          render the voice of the orichas terrestrial per se; rather it allows for a certain          “balancing” of indexical transductions, that is, an equilibration of          messages coming from different phono-sonic and indexical sources:          insofar as the voice of the orichas is produced during ritual          possessions and expressed through the bodies of the possessed, but          also through the instruments of divination and invocation, such as          bells, maracas, and sticks.                          Aesthetics          How then do the morphology of sanctuaries and          the aesthetic of god-objects impact practice itself? How do these          create common ground (Hanks 2009) between participants, and how do          they lead to the construction of an ideological community? For          religious groups not only share the same religious aesthetic, but in          fact grow and settle into “aesthetic formations” (Meyer 2009) or          “sensational forms” (Meyer 2011) that create a shared community;          here, “aesthetic formations” designate the material configurations          involved in the embodiment, transmission, and even establishment of          these communities, through the creation of unique “sensory orders”          (Howes 1991).4 Religious          experience is inextricably linked to sensory selection or          “attentional filtering” (Schaeffer 2015, cited in Halloy, in this          volume), which depends necessarily on the setting. Setting is key to          the mechanisms of enchantment found in Afro-American religions, but          this enchantment does not rest exclusively on beauty, even if in          certain religions, such as Santería, the effectiveness of a ritual          correlates with the beauty of the deities’ avatars, even depends on          it. The religious shaking found in Haitian or Cuban Voodoo, or in          the Brazilian Egungun death cult of Itaparica, among others, is          provoked by the anxiety and fear instilled by the enigmatic          aesthetic of their dark, morbid, and bloody surroundings. Aesthetic,          as we define it in this volume, should be seen not only as a product          (of ideologies or traditions), but also as something that produces          (ideologies and traditions). It is dynamic and constructive, in a          way that is pragmatic, sensory, and profoundly somatic: the          sensations aroused by the morphology of a religious place and its          layout, the emotions conjured by its smell, the feelings evoked by          its lighting—these elements are as necessary to the construction of          religious experience and thought as are symbolism, mythology, and          theology. This line of argument is developed in an analysis of          multi-religious Cuban households (Kerestetzi, in this volume). These          house-temples (casas-templos), which are at the heart          of Afro-Cuban rituality, often accommodate as many religions as          there are family members (e.g. Santería, Palo Monte, Ifá, syncretic          spiritism, Catholicism, or Protestantism). It should be noted that          in Cuba, but also in Brazil or in Haiti, religious spaces are almost          all domestic or private, sometimes the work of a single person, a          ritual chief, or a handful of devotees. The article on          multi-religious Cuban homes provides an analysis of the different          aesthetic styles that can be found in a single house-temple, and the          various logics that facilitate their coexistence under one roof. It          shows that religious coexistence does not rely solely on processes          of physical or symbolic distancing between different religious          worlds, but also, even mostly, on processes of contact and          interaction, in particular through the creation of aesthetic bridges; indeed, the          morphological affinity of certain objects with artifacts belonging          to other cults residing in the same household facilitates passage          from one religious world to another. Here, we consider a dialog          between aesthetic forms that open the doors of one cult to the space          of another.          Afro-American ritual practices are          quintessentially aesthetic, insofar as their sensory components—the          decorums of their liturgical spaces, the design of ritual garments          and religious objects—are ritual considerations in their own right,          which practitioners take extremely seriously, and to which they          dedicate much of their time and money.5 Afro-American spirits are seen as          profoundly sensory beings. For their followers, they are “living          beings” with whom they share the same sensory faculties: they hear,          see, smell, taste, touch, and move. Moreover, contact with the other          world is often seen in terms of interaction between human and divine          sensoriality. In this regard, Arnaud Halloy’s article shows us how          the orichas’ acute          sense of smell and their taste for sacrificial meat opens up a world          of praxis-based possibilities that condition religious emotion, at          times even triggering ritual possessions. Paul C. Johnson’s article demonstrates how          the role played by the holy Slave Anastácia differs according to the          aesthetic context in which she is featured. The author lays out how          the praxeology that results from this icon’s existence rests on a          combination of her physical representation in a given setting and an          imitation of her iconic properties: for example, when she is          included in a Candomblé healing ritual, the “patient” may be          required to observe a three-day silence in imitation of her          muteness, symbolized by a muzzle. And when she appears life-sized in          the Catholic Sanctuary of Anastácia, alongside the Archangel Michael          and Saint George, the adepts are incited to kneel before her and          pray. Ritual praxeology and the composition of the ritual worlds of          Afro-American religions are therefore often structured around their          practitioners’ notions of divine senses.          Human and divine sensibilities may sometimes          come into conflict, leading to contradictory situations: in certain          upscale Candomblé homes, for example, during ritual possession by          warrior gods of nature, there may also be waiters present,          circulating among the faithful offering champagne and appetizers. This situation exemplifies the          seemingly paradoxical nature of religious materiality: on the one          hand, ritual extravagance may be seen by religious devotees as a          betrayal of their so-called “African” or “modest” values, tied to          the romanticized setting of their original practices, while, on the          other hand, it is theologically correct: the more one spends on          one’s gods, the more one’s spiritual capital grows. Rather than          seeing this situation as paradoxical or contradictory, this volume          seeks in the aesthetic logic governing a religion a way to unlock a          world of possible perceptions and applications—a motor for          creativity.                          Spatial condensation          Religious settings can be considered as areas          of copresence between humans and deities, as well as points where          real space and mythical and imagined places meet and intertwine—the          residence of gods, or the sites of mythical events (see Hanks 2001;          Stépanoff 2013). In Haitian Voodoo temples, for example, this          spatial condensation takes material form in a post—the poteau-mitan—a veritable          axis mundi that unites          ritual space with the world of the spirits (Métraux 1959). Generally          speaking, religious practice necessarily implies a transformation of          the immediate setting. Various factors—linguistic, deictic,          material, or technical—may indicate this fusion that is inevitably          also temporal. In the rites of the Abakuá secret society, for          example, certain ritual designs known as firmas are drawn in chalk to evoke,          within the ceremonial space, the space-time of Abakuá’s foundation          myth (Bonhomme and Kerestetzi 2015).          For the practitioners themselves, spatial          condensation implies their simultaneous presence in different          spaces. This interrelation between their position in physical space          and their imagined position should not be under-emphasized. Indeed,          it is this very divergence, this artificial ubiquity, that allows          the other worlds to manifest here on earth. Initiates of          Afro-American religions are individuals who have come to embody          various spaces. During Palo Monte initiations in Cuba, for example,          initiates are said to “penetrate the world of the dead” and become          fully fledged members of their society. Now that the dead recognize          them, they follow them wherever they go, never losing sight of them.          In other words, in Palo Monte, the world of the dead constitutes          what Setha M. Low and Denise Lawrence-Zúñiga (2003) call an          “embodied space.” Initiation and ritual in general can also be          considered as processes of embodying specific spatialities. In this          way, Kristina Wirtz’s article demonstrates how, thanks to these          processes of spatial embodiment, practitioners of Santería are able          to speak to their gods even outside the ritual frame intended to          legitimize their interaction. And for Arnaud Halloy, the          somatization of a ritual setting’s olfactory experience triggers          associated perceptions which, by their association with this place,          become transportable. The author cites his own experience of Xangô          liturgical places in Brazil, and the smell of sacrificial blood that          he associated with them, to the extent that, in downtown Nice (in          France), the smell of a butcher’s shop was enough to plunge him          straight back into the ritual setting. This embodiment breaches the          confines of religious practice and carries it over into daily          life.                          Topological bricolages          The ritual space of Afro-American religions is          one of copresence between humans and spirits, but also between very          distinct physical spaces and temporalities, both religious in nature          and not: the romanticized Africa of their origins that remains          central to the development of Afro-American religious identities;          the space-time of myths and cosmogonies; the places currently          inhabited by spirits and gods; and even the space of the history of          South America and its indigenous populations—all of these represent          geometric coordinates for the religious present. Stephan Palmié          (2002) demonstrates, for example, how the historical representations          of enslaved Africans—seen as the founders of modern-day          religions—and their lives on the plantations not only structure          religious imagination, but actually turn into ritual components in          their own right, and even into material objects. David Brown (2003)          describes how the space of initiations in Santería condenses not          only mythical times, but also representations surrounding royalty          and the armies of the Spanish colonizers. As Aisha Beliso-De Jesús          writes, in regard to this Cuban example, “copresences are          comfortable with irreconcilability” (2015, p. 10). Multi-religious          households in Cuba represent an extreme case-study of how this          spatial organization functions (Kerestetzi, in this volume). These          places constitute a spectacular synthesis of different and often          contradictory spatialities and temporalities that must be reconciled          within the limited confines of a single house. Inside these homes,          family dynamics and the tastes of the inhabitants acquire a spatial          form themselves that becomes an essential part of these religious          practices.          This dynamic animating the day-to-day          interactions between different practices invites us to reflect on          the modalities of Afro-American syncretism. Generally speaking,          Afro-American religions are the product of contact between different          cultures, and as a result are deeply syncretic in nature. In Cuba,          Brazil, and elsewhere, local religions find themselves in a constant          exchange of symbols, religious procedures, and even gods. The theme          of syncretism therefore became a natural point of departure in the          anthropological study of these religious practices, and was mainly          approached through historical and sociological perspectives (e.g.          Rodrigues 1900; Herskovits 1941; Bastide 1970; Ortiz 2001 [1906])—a          logical consequence given that Afro-American religions emerged from          the historical fact of the colonization of the New World, and the          slave trade. This issue pursues this line of thinking, while also          seeking a fresh methodological approach, by exploring Afro-American          syncretism as a (perhaps material) process of conciliation between          different presences, different localities, and different aesthetics.          Syncretism thus becomes a topological question, one of connecting or          separating different religious worlds. This approach “secularizes”          the concept, insofar as not all the spaces and locations that make          up the religious are necessarily themselves religious in nature;          what we might describe as hybrid syncretism. By extension, we find          that the case of Cuban households demonstrates how certain processes          pertaining to Afro-Cuban syncretism operate according to a logic of practical          necessity. Within these settings, there exists what we might          call an ad hoc          syncretism that draws on all available material affordances          that the environment provides. Real-time practical considerations,          needs, and desires also come together and transform into ritual          components, thereby constraining syncretic modalities to the point          of eclipsing religious differences.          This collection of articles also shows how          history interacts with the material and aesthetic worlds of these          religions: how, for example, icons and ritual objects act on the          imagination and serve to create unique representations of the past.          Kristina Wirtz’s article, for instance, explores in detail how the          voices of the orichas          index different ritual space-times and different          genealogical-historical trajectories simultaneously. Paul C.          Johnson, meanwhile, highlights the creative vitality of          “Africanized” and “indigenized” versions of Catholicism,          demonstrating how the historical trajectory of a Brazilian saint          cannot be considered independently of her materiality and her          emplacement, which both serve to restructure the different          representations attached to her in Brazil.                          The situated body          Our proposal here does not seek to separate          the different categories of perception or sensitivity, or to          prescribe any relations of causality or primacy between them; the          sensoriality, morphology, and layout of a particular place confine          the body and its movements, its perceptions, its affects. One cannot          truly say if a movement provokes a sensation, or vice versa; if a          sensation provokes an emotion, or vice versa. In religious settings,          sensation, emotion, mood, and even thought come together to form an          interconnecting system.          Space creates action (Rapoport 1982). Whether          domestic, ritual, or digital, space can be viewed as a framework in          which actions repeat themselves. Spatial morphology regulates the          scope and orientation of our movements. A linear arrangement is more          open to action than a central, more “fixed” one (Baker 1994 [1985],          p. 9). Using a mobile device encourages us to stand still while the          fingers and eyes move hyperactively. The layout of a space may thus          provoke certain actions, as well as specific sensorimotor patterns          that constrain the body, what it feels and experiences. The          positioning of a religious object can also determine ritual form          itself. Placing ritual objects in the most commonly occupied parts          of a multi-religious Cuban household increases the chances for          interaction between its inhabitants and their gods, as well as the          number of specifically ritual acts. We might call this induced, or          opportunistic, rituality: copresence alone is enough to spur action.          In contrast, a more peripheral placement, or one with minimal          interactional value, may limit ritual practice and foment          inactivity.          This perspective opens the door to a situated approach to the          body, and to the processes of embodiment, which challenges its          ontological autonomy. It is no longer about a question of referring          to the ritual body and its various states per se, but rather as part of a larger          ecological relation: a body          in space and in context. And yet we can also view space as          an externalized body,          like a mirror being held up to it, reflecting its configuration, its          sensations and movements (Kerestetzi 2017). This is, moreover, what          Arnaud Halloy (in this volume) designates the “materiality of          perception.” For this author, religious sensations and perceptions          are not the result of interaction between an individual and an          object alone, but rather of an individual and a context, since they          depend on a set of bodily processes that only occur in a specific          frame of action. In a strictly synesthetic approach, the author          explains how the axé, a          sort of “Afro-American mana” (see Holbraad 2007) that endows earthly          beings with their vital and spiritual power, acquires its own smell          via these situated bodily processes, but also a taste and a texture.          Kristina Wirtz also shows how communication with the other world in          Santería is a matter of equivalences and heteroglossic transductions          that bring the sensoriality of a setting into play, in a marriage of          iconicity and indexicality: the voice of the orichas is not just heard; it is seen,          felt, and tasted, too.          In summary, the articles in this issue show          that the power of a religious setting is not only praxeological or          representational; it also involves what David Morgan (2010, p. 58)          described as the contagion of emotions (citing Thagard 2006 and          Lundquist and Dimberg 1995). The term was originally used to          designate a sort of unconscious imitation of the natural states of          other people. We borrow it here to describe the potential for          emotional contamination that the spirit of a religious place          holds.