Ekphrasis: The Dying Gaul

Giornale #2

            As I walked along the street, the marble façade and saint figures, arms outstretched towards the heavens, loomed in the distance.  Its green doors yawned into the cavernous space beyond, beckoning me away from the rush of Vespas and the cries of young Italian soccer players in the courtyard.  Once I passed through the doors, the cacophony of noise faded away, replaced by the mutterings of an Italian mass and the hushed quiet of tourists milling about.  The priest’s calls to remember the works of St. Paul and the importance of baptism as a way of spreading Jesus’s message reverberated throughout the cave-like ceilings.  Throughout the service, several worshippers nodded as the glasses-clad and bean-pole priest spoke with a calm but authoritative reminder to remember the Gospel.  These words stuck with me as I wandered the church’s aisles.  Decorated frescoes of Mary holding her child, guarded by iron gates, adorned the walls while portraits of saints in agony stared down at worshippers kneeling at the center altars.  Votive candles flickered at the chapel entrance, their soft light illuminated the paintings within and created a sense of warmth among the wind whispering in the ceilings.  I felt small among the sky-scraper ceilings and immense statues, mouth agape, and head craned upwards at a roof that seemed to go on forever.  The position of the paintings looming above me as I kneeled in front of the chapel’s altar reinforced the ideals of hierarchy in the Catholic tradition and their all-knowing presence in sacred space. While I personally find St. Sebastian’s chiseled chest and somehow perfect curls, even in death very endearing, I don’t exactly need his wistful stare when I’m praying to God.  Yet the depiction of the saints was all around me.  These chapels as miniature art museums could’ve kept my attention for days as well as the connection towards religious art among Rome’s most prominent elite.  The endless paintings of Madonna clutching her child, her face turned towards her son while he clamps onto her finger, or followers being lifted into heaven by pubescent angels reminded me of a spiritual gallery, one where the messages and will of God were further transmitted by the splendid pictures lining the walls of his palace.  Not even the floors were spared from artistic renderings.  Swirls of black marble permeated the smooth gray and tombs of famous popes lined the central aisle.  The occasional engraving of a robed man, coupled with hollow eyes, seemed to follow me as I trekked up and down the length of the church.  However, the lingering moisture of the holy water on my brow and the chant of the Eucharist practitioners allowed me to center myself in the space and to truly appreciate both the religious impact it had on me, as well as the densely layered history this building has had both in Rome’s historical and contemporary landscape.  I left the quiet and stillness and entered back into a city of pastel buildings and Vespas, drivers yelling past oblivious tourists, heads buried in maps, and the barking of dogs.  I had found a slice of peace amongst the chaos and bustle of Rome.

Sant Maria sopra Minerva 5/26