Wednesday was the much anticipated trip to the Vatican Museum on a timed ticket that starts at 10:30am. The day before we bargained the dentist for a 1:45pm appointment, so as to not rush ourselves. We walk "hard" for 45 minutes to get to the Museum… which is NOT at the front of St. Peters, but is 10 additional minutes of walking around the side. Thank God we have pre-ordered tickets, which means we don't have to wait in the incredibly long line that has already formed, and which we breeze past on our way to the entrance.
Though we are spared the long line, we are not spared the anxiety that perhaps our tickets won't really work… or that because we are "technically" 10 minutes late, that they won't let us in. We are further subject to the lack of signage, and the irrational confidence that the Italian museum staffers have that everything is self evident.
A line forms within the museum… finally… and we find ourselves being drawn into the museums… somehow. We are like milk being drawn up a bendy straw… the suction of a the huge mob ahead of us (i.e., the line) pulling us against our will. At one point there is a sign indicating either "Full Tour" (in one direction)… or "Abbreviated Tour" (in the other direction). Having no idea what any of this means… and not really being clear which direction we are headed… we are re-immersed in the aforementioned anxiety of not knowing.
Eventually we emerge from a hallway into the galleries containing ancient Greek and Roman sculpture. The most significant piece being the Laocoon… the ancient Roman Sculpture unearthed in 1506, and which was very influential to Michelangelo (who oversaw the excavation at that time). This sculpture interests me too because there is a cast of it at PAFA, which I had many times contemplated and even made quick drawings of.
Despite this fantastic piece, much of the ancient sculpture on display is very routine stuff. And there is just so much of it. It is literally stacked on itself in roped off rooms and galleries. I would later learn (after visiting the Capitaline Museum) that the vast amount of ancient Roman sculpture is simply the excavated remains of ancient Roman culture during the Renaissance and beyond… periods which put an increasing status value on the acquisition of remnants of the ancient past. Therefore, the galleries dedicated to this stuff are less art displays, and more on the order of warehouses of (often) indistinguishable "stuff" from some ancient past which (apparently) specialized in the mass production of it.
The real star of the show at the Vatican Museum is the Sistine Chapel. And because of this, it at the end of the museum route, not the beginning. Also of interest are selected Raphael and Carravaggio paintings, which are the very last things on the route… and due to terrible signage, one could actually exit the building without seeing them. Again… more anxiety.
There are vast hallways filled with endless baroque sculptures and frescos… and one must endure these while shuffling in a vast line of tourists. There is such a wealth of decorative objects, surfaces, and monumental architectural treatments… that one begins to not even care or notice it. It's as if one fell into a candy-cane factory and soon tired of sweets… and began viewing the candy canes not as fantasy taste treats, but as a miasma of red and white gunk.
On top of this strangeness… the galleries are incredibly stuff and overly-warm… to the point where I'm starting to feel ill. We had really walked "hard" to get there, and we adhered to the so-called dress code of long pants and covered shoulders… which left me overheated. Naturally, every other person was wearing shorts and a t-shirt. I was reduced to sitting down and closing my eyes, and putting water on the back of my neck. What a mess.
I almost forgot… the first relief from this monotony are the so-called "Raphael Rooms", where the famous fresco painting "The School of Athens" (and others) are located. These are actually the papal apartments from long ago. The apartment that has "The School of Athens" and "The Disputation" is the Stanza della Segnatura. It is a huge thrill to view the fresco up close. Frescos have some unique features that separate them from oil paintings, the most glaring of which (pun intended) is the lack of surface reflection. In other words, there is no glare on the fresco, so that it can be viewed from any angle. Furthermore, frescos are meant to be executed on a large scale to a large audience, and so they are designed to not rely on an ideal viewing position for their impact to be felt. This means one can scan the surface of the painting at close range and at odd angles, and notice thereby aspects of the work that are not obvious. One is aided in this by the fact that the frescos are typically very large, and so close-up or selective examination yields doesn't involve peering into a microscope or squinting at tiny details… but rather… even selected parts of the fresco may be life-sized and accessible without undue effort.
All of this was very pleasurable and intellectually exciting to consider. With the rise of easel painting and the diminished demand for fresco work… and the changes that made that come about… these facts give the impression that oil painting is the de fact most relevant form of painting. We imagine Rubens and Rembrandt and Carravaggio and Manet and so on… but we forget the long history of Renaissance painting in fresco and tempera, and we forget too the special qualities and opportunities such mediums provide. So I began to think on this.
Since we're speaking of fresco, it is natural to fast forward to the (nearly) end of the museum route and mention the Sistine Chapel. It really is quite shocking to look up and view that expanse of painterly bravura and imagined figurative constructions that Michelangelo unleashed on the Pope. The organization of this complex work is not immediately obvious, and I had usually been confused when looking at photographs of it. But a few weeks prior I had read an excellent book that discussed Michelangelo's compositional approach… and armed with this I was able to divide up the sprawling imagery into manageable parts, and not get lost in it. This was very nice, and it made my upward gaze more meaningful.
Back and forth, back and forth… over and over. Looking up at such a legendary work… trying to connect with it… to understand it… to feel it… to leave that room with something more than I came in with. This is (in fact) a typical moment when visiting the "great works". They're so hard to get to… they're so built-up in your mind… they're talked about to the point of being a cliche. And then "boom"… you're in the room with it, and the clock is ticking. When you walk out the door, the vast energy spent to stand before it will be extinguished forever. So you stare, and you hope to burn that image into your mind. But it doesn't work like that. You cannot construct a mental image that equals the moment. Strategies vary. I have mine, and sometimes I feel it working… and other times I steal one last, longing look at the artwork as I disappear around the corner and out of it's view. Then it's gone, and I don't always know what it all meant.
One of the more interesting moments in the Sistine Chapel is when the guard intones in a loud, droning voice… "Silenzio… SILENCE". The crowd quiets down real fast, and a hush falls over the room. In a minute or so the crowd murmor will slowly grow back to a buzz… and the guard will repeat his demand… "Silenzio… SILENCE". I appreciate the demand, as it casts a somber and serious tone over the space, and reminds us that we are in a religious moment… a moment of reverence.
We leave the Sistine Chapel and (luckily) remember to track down the galleries that contain Carravaggio's "Deposition From the Cross" and a room full of Raphael paintings. These are housed in the Pinacoteca (picture gallery), which the poor signage tries it's best to get you to miss. But we don't, and we can cross another set of masterpieces off the bucket list.
Finally we have to leave the museum and take a taxi back to the dentist, who digs around in my calcified tooth for over an hour. Enough said on that.
After the dentist we walked back to the Pantheon area to check out two churches. The first was the Church of San Luigi dei Francesci, which houses Carravaggio's "Triptych of Saint Matthew". This was awesome. It is strange to see perfect masterpiece of art… the kind of stuff that is include in every art history book ever written… to see it in the context for which it was originally intended. There it is… adorning the chapel walls in the dark and mysterious church.
Next, we went to the Church of Saint Augustino to see Carravaggio's "Madonna di Loretto, which was similarly awesome as the aforementioned triptych.
Following this, we walked across town and over the Tiber to the area known as Trastevere. Trastevere means "Over the Tevere"… where Tevere is the Italian word for "Tiber"… and "tras" means "over". So much for my Italian.
We walked down the main street there for a few blocks, and then checked out an art supply store on a side street. I keep expecting to find some magical art supply in these European cities, but I never do. It's just the same old stuff you can get anywhere. The only difference is how quaint the store is, and how conceited and arrogant the fifth generation proprietors are.
We walk some more, and then we begin to climb the roadways leading up the "Gianolo"… aka the "Janicum Hill", which overlooks room from a high elevation. It is not one of the original seven hills of Rome, but apparently it has the best views as the top, at a monument built to honor Garibaldi. On the walk up, we stop at the Church of San Pietro in Montorio to get a glimpse of the "Tempieto"… which is a tiny free-standing, commemorative tomb built by Renaissance master architect Bramante. It is regularly cited as the perfect embodiment of Renaissance classicism. It shows up in all the art history books, and I really wanted to get a glimpse of it. And so I did.
After the "Tempieto"… and after the great views of Rome, we descend the hill and wander the back alleys of Trastevere. We find a place to eat, and we eat. I have a plate full of potato gnocchi in pesto sauce. After diner we locate the Basilica of Santa Maria in Trastevere, whose courtyard revolves around a fountain, which is ringed by cafes and populated with all the people of the area. We soak this in for a bit, and then we walk back to the Campo, where we call it a day.
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