The Church of S. Maria Cosemedin is unique in that it is the only church in Rome that is protected by a living wall. To reach it, one must push through the damp bodies of weary tourists, who wait for a chance to have their photograph taken with their hand tentatively placed in the mouth of that Hollywood empowered lion that rests outside the doors. If only he would crush just one liar’s hand between his worn and tired stone jaws, then there would be no confused and annoyed glances from those people whose vacation consists of creating physical proof that they were on vacation. Then one might simply walk into the church, passing through nothing but the soft Roman air.
But until the lion tests his bite, the church will be obscured behind money belts and wagging tour guide flags. Pushing past these one enters the church. Here, within the simple medieval walls, one might expect to find a place where everyday sunlight has been harnessed to transport the viewer to a realm of the spirit, far from the concerns of tomorrow’s writing assignment or the impatient stomach. Here, daylight might become the light of God shining through the shadows of ignorance and fear to illuminate what had previously been a crudely worked wooden Christ now metamorphosed into the image of suffering for the world. And such would you find in S. Maria Cosemedin, but for the fluorescent lights that line the walls along the central nave.
These fluorescent lamps plow through the darkness and shadows and overbear the passive sunlight. They tactlessly show corners of the church that should have remained hidden. The darkness that once must have expanded it, stretching inky corners into vast corridors, has been exposed as a forger of space. Observing the shape of the walls, the number of windows, one may imagine what the church might have looked like before these unwelcome illuminators arrived.
Remnants can still be seen of what must have been the dominating light source. Scratches of sunlight, the product of thick, hazy windows, curl about the ceiling above the central walkway. Standing in the dim church, this light would be intensified until it seemed that without the roof, in the terrible brightness, one’s skin might become as translucent as a cave salamander. The eyes are drawn upward to see the brightness that comes from God’s presence just out of sight above the roof. But through the windows the bleary sunlight would shine down here comfortably. It would redirect all attention to the pathway toward the altar. All directions but this one, would pass on into shadow. Behind the altar are three sets of windows, collections of fist-sized, golden portals. With their frayed edges, they resemble a small galaxy of suns, each casting its own light toward the altar. So standing there at the threshold of the church, one would see the light of the heavens above and the light of the golden altar framed before.
But instead all receive the indiscriminate light of the alien fluorescent bulbs, so careless that they might have been the illumination of another tourist’s flash. The light-trail toward the altar is no longer the clear option; one might meander off toward a chapel. The pathway has been lost. But maybe there is an hour during the summer when the church closes before the sun has set. Then there would be a divine moment when the fluorescent bulbs would be silenced, retired for the evening, when the last rays of the setting sun might again be the master of the church. They might again be able to, through their straight and unerring course inward, engineer the path to salvation.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Thursday, October 11, 2007
A View from the Tower.
From the tower in San Ginignano one can see all of the surrounding landscape. When I stood there it was windy and the clouds flew past in the sky above. Tuscany is a country of hills.
Before aviation, towers must have seemed like the only way in which man might look down on the world. They would offer the closest thing to a map of the surrounding land. It is no wonder that towers and mountains were associated with wisdom and worship. With sight of what lies below comes power.
Before aviation, towers must have seemed like the only way in which man might look down on the world. They would offer the closest thing to a map of the surrounding land. It is no wonder that towers and mountains were associated with wisdom and worship. With sight of what lies below comes power.
Rice Between the Cracks.
As one walks the cobblestones of San Ginignano one can see bits of rice scattered in certain areas on the street. Where did these come from.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
The Marshes of Rome.
They say that Rome is built upon a marsh and I certainly believe it after seeing the city when it rains. We walked through several inches of water trying to get back to the Rome center. All the while waterfalls were cascading down the sides of churches, and streams were trickling off of open umbrellas, under which frightened tourists hid as if they had suddenly been transported to a war zone. I look down at the water that is almost up to my ankles. In this water is the sweat of Rome. Everything that has fallen to the cobblestones in the last ten days is floating in this great soup, resurrected for some comic and ultimately short lived judgment day.
Postcard from Piazza Navona III
9/14/07
6:29pm
To You-Who-Are-Not-Present,
While light and architecture dominated the space of the Piazza Navona in the afternoon and morning, humans conquer the evening. The Piazza is made up of families, couples, and lone walkers that orbit around the fountains. Like bacteria they ocassionally form aggregate membranes that surround a human nucleus, some entertainer. Tonight it is a man that rides a unicycle around in circles. Garbage men and police sit around the perifery of the square. An old man with a violin plays furiously, while the rest of his tired body supports itself on the rail of the Fountain of Neptune.
The obelisk, throne of the sun god, no longer holds the light of day. It is now lit from below by the vendors lights, which shoot upward into the air trying to outdo the weary obelisk. The top of S. Agnese in Agone glows red, hinting at a sunset somewhere far beyond the buildings of the city. Through all the other noise I can hear a child singing in some language I do not know, but to me it sounds like a song devoted to the ending of the day.
6:29pm
To You-Who-Are-Not-Present,
While light and architecture dominated the space of the Piazza Navona in the afternoon and morning, humans conquer the evening. The Piazza is made up of families, couples, and lone walkers that orbit around the fountains. Like bacteria they ocassionally form aggregate membranes that surround a human nucleus, some entertainer. Tonight it is a man that rides a unicycle around in circles. Garbage men and police sit around the perifery of the square. An old man with a violin plays furiously, while the rest of his tired body supports itself on the rail of the Fountain of Neptune.
The obelisk, throne of the sun god, no longer holds the light of day. It is now lit from below by the vendors lights, which shoot upward into the air trying to outdo the weary obelisk. The top of S. Agnese in Agone glows red, hinting at a sunset somewhere far beyond the buildings of the city. Through all the other noise I can hear a child singing in some language I do not know, but to me it sounds like a song devoted to the ending of the day.
Postcard from Piazza Navona II
9/13/07
8:50am
To You-Who-Are-Not-Present,
The Piazza rests in the cool shade at this hour of the morning. Unlike yesterday this is not the diffuse light of an overcast sky. The shadows that carpet the cobblestones are deep. To the West the Church of S. Agnes in Agone shines brilliantly, almost blindingly, the sun seeming to activate some radiance inside of the marble. I remember yesterday when this church loomed, concealed in umbrage.
The Piazza is nearly empty of pedestrians now. The benches stand bare. There is a residue of calm that still clings to the chilled stones. The few people that do move through this place do so with purpose, striding past the autumnal forest of collapsed umbrellas that stand on the East side of the square.
The most striking impression at this time is the sky. It is a luminous and pale blue that contrasts sharply with the deeply shadowed square.
8:50am
To You-Who-Are-Not-Present,
The Piazza rests in the cool shade at this hour of the morning. Unlike yesterday this is not the diffuse light of an overcast sky. The shadows that carpet the cobblestones are deep. To the West the Church of S. Agnes in Agone shines brilliantly, almost blindingly, the sun seeming to activate some radiance inside of the marble. I remember yesterday when this church loomed, concealed in umbrage.
The Piazza is nearly empty of pedestrians now. The benches stand bare. There is a residue of calm that still clings to the chilled stones. The few people that do move through this place do so with purpose, striding past the autumnal forest of collapsed umbrellas that stand on the East side of the square.
The most striking impression at this time is the sky. It is a luminous and pale blue that contrasts sharply with the deeply shadowed square.
Postcard from Piazza Navona I
9/12/07
1:46pm
To You-Who-Are-Not-Present,
The sun is hidden. The light of the Piazza Navona is diffuse. There is an equality in the square, for the dichotomy between shadow and blinding brightness that so usually characterizes this place is gone. Accordion music still drifts, bouncing from building to building. But where I sit by the fountain, the chattering of water greeting water submerges most of the other sounds. The people move slowly in the surprising shade, they linger by the Fountain of Neptune. The benches are all full. Time seems to move slower when the sun is not looking. At the North end vendors are selling prints of paintings. The cobblestones are clean.
Without warning the top of the obelisk grows bright, sunlight reflecting off of the frozen dove. The light slides down the hieroglyphics that cover the obelisk's sides as if some occult incantation has been cast. The Church of S. Agnese in Agone replies to this when its marble towers counter the red granite of Egypt. Soon the whole Piazza is again shadow and light. The benches are vacant now, and people move away quickly to avoid the heat of the sun.
1:46pm
To You-Who-Are-Not-Present,
The sun is hidden. The light of the Piazza Navona is diffuse. There is an equality in the square, for the dichotomy between shadow and blinding brightness that so usually characterizes this place is gone. Accordion music still drifts, bouncing from building to building. But where I sit by the fountain, the chattering of water greeting water submerges most of the other sounds. The people move slowly in the surprising shade, they linger by the Fountain of Neptune. The benches are all full. Time seems to move slower when the sun is not looking. At the North end vendors are selling prints of paintings. The cobblestones are clean.
Without warning the top of the obelisk grows bright, sunlight reflecting off of the frozen dove. The light slides down the hieroglyphics that cover the obelisk's sides as if some occult incantation has been cast. The Church of S. Agnese in Agone replies to this when its marble towers counter the red granite of Egypt. Soon the whole Piazza is again shadow and light. The benches are vacant now, and people move away quickly to avoid the heat of the sun.
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