So today we visited the Vatican. Do you have any legitimate idea how huge that place is? You do not. Unless you've been there, you do not. It is so big. We walked through the Vatican Museum for probably four hours. It just kept going. And the art there? You can't even believe how much there was.
See, I thought, apparently not having read adequately on the matter, that the Vatican Museum consisted mostly of the Sistine Chapel, with also some frescoes by Raphael, and maybe a few sculptures.
It is so vast! The first several rooms (many of which we weren't able to explore, in some cases because they were closed, and in others because we were foolishly thinking that the Sistine Chapel must be nearby and we could come back) were filled with antiquities. Marble sculptures of Greek Gods and figures, early Roman sculpture, the famed Laocoon that I have always loved, posed figures at rest in that contraposto position that was so fun to cover in humanities and arts and culture classes. Marble sculpted into softly flowing garments and rippling muscles and tender faces. Reliefs of such intricacy that it's nearly impossible to imagine the methods used by the sculptor to achieve them. The great head (and toe) of Constantine that barely gives a flavor of the imposing grandeur that the fully assembled sculpture must have exhibited. Egyptian granite sculptures and mummies and sarcophagi covered with the brightly colored, carefully detailed instructions for the afterlife to the deceased in images and hieroglyphs. And there were frescoes. So many frescoes. I thought the Sistine chapel was the only one, but no. There was hallway after hallway, chapel after chapel, brilliantly decorated both across the ceiling and down the walls with not some half-rate work, but truly beautiful, contemplative, moving art. I could hardly imagine what made the Sistine chapel so special by comparison, because certainly the frescoes that preceded it made their own stunning impression. After winding our way through for hours, following any number of tantalizing signs with arrows to Capella Sistena, we knew we were getting close when we came upon room after room of marvelous Raphael frescoes. So many of them were enchanting. Just beautiful. But when I finally saw the School of Athens, always a favorite of mine for its gracious marriage of the Renaissance with its historical, philosophical, and artistic inspiration in the ancient Greek culture, I was awestruck. I could hardly believe the size and magnitude of the glorious fresco, which stretched across the entire wall. Its magnificence can hardly be overstated.
Of course, then we finally entered the Sistine Chapel and all my earlier doubts fled. The majestic simplicity of Michelangelo's work is without equal, even among the best that have ever been. I can't possibly describe, and now realize that nobody had adequately described to me, the richness of the colors, contrasted with the wide stretches of open space, the sense of roundness and solidness about the figures, the simple glory depicted in each panel. I suppose that is the reason that every person has to make his or her own pilgrimage. So go. Make the pilgrimage. Nobody will ever be able to give you a just description. If only we could each contribute one such thing to the world, what a world we would have!
But no. Michelangelo did not only contribute one such thing. After nearly dying on our ultra-long walk through the Vatican Museum, we felt like nothing so much as curling up and sleeping on the pavement. Jet lag kicked in hard. But we forced ourselves to trudge on, and found ourselves in the stunning piazza in front of St. Peter's basilica. It's so adorable how all these textbooks have pictures of it. It's sweet of them to try, really. Justice is not done in them, not by a mile. The embracing arms of Christianity are of a size and scale that I never imagined. Again, words are so inadequate. We followed the curve of the piazza to enter St. Peter's Basilica, to marvel at how much further Michelangelo actually went in his short life (I mean, he lived into his seventies, but that is short considering all that he packed into those years!). Immediately to the right when we entered (did I mention that the Basilica is huge?), Michelangelo's stunning Pieta, completed when he was a mere 26 years old, actually took my breath away. We entered during a mass service, which I'm not at all sure how or why they hold these services as tourists truck on through snapping pictures. I'm sure our church would never allow such things in the sacred temples, and truly St. Peter's is a temple of the highest order. I'm both extremely grateful and a little sad that such a thing occurs, with my gratitude greatly outweighing my sadness. The strains of a boy choir singing some part of the liturgy echoed through the vast interior of the church as I gazed on this sacred work of art. It was the first thing I saw today that was smaller than I expected. Smaller, but infinitely more moving. The tenderness on Mary's face. The utter tragedy of her dead son. The part of me that couldn't remember all the details of The Da Vinci Code, but in that moment wondered if in some strange way the sculpture might be a depiction of Mary Magdelene who might possibly have been Jesus' wife (certainly she looks far too young to be his mother in the sculpture). I don't know. It was overpowering, I had tears in my eyes and the whole thing. Those boy voices in the background, don't forget those. The Pieta. I think I will always remember the moment I saw it.
The rest of the chapel (chapel sounds like such a small word, and there is literally no other chapel so vast as this one), was filled with even more to ponder on. The words of the catholic mass echoed through the chambers, including several portions of monophonic Gregorian chant. Toward the back we were able to stand under the dome to which Bernini, Michelangelo, and Raphael (I think those are the right guys unless I'm getting confused with the Florence Duomo, which may be the case, I have no Google powers at my command at the moment) contributed. What those great men sacrificed in the name of God. I can hardly comprehend the humility—that perfect humility of greatness—which they possessed and so willing gave. I gained greater reverence for popes. Even the ones who were totally corrupt and did some pretty unspiritual stuff to the people in their care. I just can hardly believe that that amazing structure, in its infinite hugeness is literally covered, ceiling to floor (I haven't and probably won't go into detail about the mosaics that spread across the floors) in glorious, beautiful art that praises God and raises his name high. And I admit it. I felt something, not quite envy, but a certain yearning to be part of something so sublime. The centuries over which the Catholic Church has built and sponsored things of beauty has resulted in a treasure trove too rich to be counted. So let me just give a shout-out to Catholics from this Mormon girl. You are fortunate to be a part of this. Your history is rich and full of good and wise and wonderful things. Thank you for sharing it with the world. I'm really sorry that noisy tourists interrupt your worship (I was quiet, I promise).
Oh. P.S. Gelato in Italy is all it is cracked up to be. Every bit. And the pizza? It is wow. Just in case I forget to mention this later on.
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