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Perhaps that is the true "or" in the title—not an either/or, but an unbearable both. And until the film resurfaces (or the dove finally flies), the 2005 version of Saint Eulalia’s death remains a ghost in the machine of sacred art, waiting for its resurrection. If you have any information regarding the whereabouts of John Deakin-Ashley’s original 2005 work, please contact the [fictional] Archive of Lost Saints Project.
For centuries, artists from John William Waterhouse (1885) to José de Ribera painted her as a serene, partially nude figure gazing upward, her suffering glossed with divine light. But the 2005 version strips away the celestial gloss. It asks a brutal question: What if the martyrdom was not holy, but merely a horror show? The "Martyr or the Death of Saint Eulalia 2005" is credited (disputedly) to British visual provocateur John Deakin-Ashley—not to be confused with the mid-century photographer John Deakin. In 2005, Deakin-Ashley unveiled a 22-minute digital video piece at the now-defunct Candela Gallery in Barcelona, coinciding with the city’s festival honoring Santa Eulà lia (February 12). martyr or the death of saint eulalia 2005
In visual art, photographer Teresa Margolles has acknowledged the piece’s influence on her series "Muerte sin fin" (Endless Death), which features anonymous bodies of murdered women staged like deposed saints. The 2005 Eulalia became a touchstone for artists asking: Can the spectator look at torture without becoming a voyeur or a worshipper? For those hunting "Martyr or the Death of Saint Eulalia 2005," prepare for a detective’s journey. Archives like the Barcelona Filmoteca have no record. WorldCat shows no ISBN. The artist himself, now rumored to be living under a pseudonym in Oaxaca, Mexico, has not been heard from since 2010. Perhaps that is the true "or" in the
Refusing to worship Roman gods, Eulalia was subjected to a series of tortures: the rack, hooks tearing her flesh, and burning torches applied to her sides. According to legend, her wounds bled profusely, and as she died, a white dove flew from her mouth toward heaven, causing the Roman soldiers to flee. Her cry—"Lord, look upon my wounds"—became a staple of Mercedarian iconography. For centuries, artists from John William Waterhouse (1885)
The final three minutes show the girl’s body alone, the torturers gone. A faint breath of air (not a dove, but wind from an open window) stirs her hair. The screen cuts to black, then text appears: "Martyr. Or the death of a child. You decide." The year 2005 is crucial to understanding this work’s reception. The world was four years past 9/11, deep into the Abu Ghraib torture scandal (exposed 2004), and witnessing the rise of beheading videos circulated online via early social media. The "martyr" had become an ambivalent figure—no longer purely saintly, but sometimes a terrorist, sometimes a victim.
Since 2006, no copy of Martyr or the Death of Saint Eulalia 2005 has been publicly available. Rumors persist of a VHS copy in a Barcelona flea market, or a digital file on a forgotten hard drive in London’s Slade School of Fine Art. Some believe Deakin-Ashley destroyed the only master. Others claim it was stolen. Despite its obscurity, the 2005 piece has influenced a wave of "trauma cinema" focused on female saints. Mel Gibson’s The Passion of the Christ (2004) had already pushed boundaries, but Eulalia 2005 went further by removing redemption. Later films—such as The Girl Who Wore Silence (2012) and the controversial Santa Eulà lia: Unbound (2018)—directly cite the 2005 work in their production notes.
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