6 minute read
Cara Gose
Lying on the Floor of the Sistine Chapel
Maria Elser
“No, no, no, no! You did it all wrong,” my nonno explained in his slight Italian accent.
At thirteen years old, I saw an image of Michelangelo’s “The Creation of Adam” in an art history textbook and my love for the Sistine Chapel was born. The intricacy of the angels, the cracking, weathered paint, the emotional chord that is struck when one imagines God reaching out to the first created man with a gentle paternal love. From the moment I studied this painting, my dream destination became the Sistine Chapel in Rome, and I daydreamed about little else. I would concoct vivid scenes of me entering the doors as the subtle smell of incense reached my nose. In complete solitude, I would only hear the sound of my shoes echoing softly off the chapel walls. Just then, I would walk to the middle of that beautiful chapel and raise my eyes to the painting that brought me there: “The Creation of Adam.”
This past summer, in my twentieth year of life, I finally saw the Sistine Chapel. And it was nothing like I had imagined.
I went in the afternoon on a late July day with a sweltering temperature of 98 degrees. I funneled through the chapel doors shoulder to shoulder with hundreds of other tourists. The smell of the Sistine Chapel? Any incense that had been burned or was being burned was imperceptible. With so many people bustling in and out, it smelled like nothing in particular. The sound of the Sistine Chapel? I could only hear the hundreds of people failing to whisper. The occasional security guard would scold someone for speaking too loudly. Every so often, a guard barked into a megaphone, “Attenzione. Silenzio. No fotos.” I finally plowed through the crowd like a linebacker to reach the room’s center and gaze upon the painting that had brought me some 4,450 miles. That painting which I had stared at in books and on computer screens for the last seven years was finally there above me, stretched across that stunning ceiling. It was much smaller than I anticipated, but no less breathtaking. God was reaching out to the first created man above my very head. But still, the madness pressed in all around me.
When I got back to the States, I told my nonno of the outcome of this longawaited experience at the Sistine Chapel. A native of Italy, he had walked through that chapel dozens of times when he still lived there in his youth. I told him of it all: the disappointing smell of nothing, the overwhelming bustling bodies, and
the interrupting sounds of impatient guards. Throughout my explanation, he wouldn’t stop reiterating, “No, no, no, no! You did it all wrong.”
“Did it wrong? What do you mean?” I retorted. “How do you visit a building ‘all wrong?’”
“Oh, in so very many ways!” he exclaimed with flailing hands. I furrowed my brow in confusion and interest in whatever wisdom he was about to impart. “For one, you chose the wrong time of day,” he explained. “The afternoon is peak tourist time. You can never soak in the peace of that Chapel with hundreds of people pressing in on you.
“Back in my day, I would visit the Sistine at 6 a.m.—as early as they’d let me in,” he went on. “That early in the day, there is hardly a soul around, save the few guards who pay you little mind. I would stroll through those heavy wooden doors with a purpose and excitement that never diminished, no matter how many times I visited. In the silence, I could only hear my shoes click, click, clicking, my deep breaths, and my own thoughts of awe and wonder. I could stare at a fresco for ages and ages but notice something entirely new in that painting each time I went back. That is the magic of the Sistine. It is always new. It is always a work to be freshly analyzed. Appreciated. Prayed over.”
“That sounds so very different from my own visit,” I explained. “I mean, even when I was looking at ‘The Creation of Adam’ I felt so rushed. So run over. I couldn’t even fully appreciate the piece because of the madness around me.”
“Ah, yes. And that is part two of what you did wrong,” he chuckled in that kind-old-man sort of way.
“When you stare at the artistry on the Sistine Chapel ceiling, you cannot just crane your neck and squint as if you’re searching for cobwebs in your dusty old house. This is the Sistine for goodness sake,” he said raising both eyebrows.
“No, no, no. To truly take in the fullness of beauty, you have to lie down on the Chapel floor,” he said. “Now, I know what you’re thinking: those guards wouldn’t even let me take a picture, much less roll around on the Chapel floor. But I am telling you, that early in the morning, they will let you,” he insisted. “They understand, I think, the beauty that you are seeking.”
“I can still remember it myself as if I visited just this morning. The first time I ever lay on that chapel floor, I was 17 years old. It was my fourth visit. A hot July day much like the day you visited. The incense from that day had not yet worn off and my nose welcomed it. My footsteps shuffled rhythmically. Hesitatingly, I looked around the room for any monitoring guards. Seeing that they were preoccupied with casual banter, I got down slowly and lay on my back, feeling the cool tile against
They understand... the beauty that you
are seeking. “ “
my overheating skin. From that angle, the ceiling seems all the more vast. The frescos seem to stretch on for acres. The stories that the paintings tell seem to cry out, “Read me! Read me!” And at first, you are overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by what to look at first. But eventually, your eyes will settle on one piece and you’ll stare and analyze and absorb and feel for as long as you need to. Mostly, I myself felt two things. For one, I felt the immense smallness of myself. I, a young Italian man who knew only of hard work, family, and the city of Rome, was somehow born into this massive Universe by a massive God who loved me infinitely. Secondly, I felt simultaneously in union with this massive Universe and this massive God who loved me so. I, in all of my smallness, was satisfied if life meant that I was in communion with the birds of the air. The fish of the rivers and streams. The plants, the grass, the sea. The people. The painters. Michelangelo himself. Adam. God. I felt that all things were one. This, above all else, is what I felt lying on the floor of the Sistine Chapel.”
We sat in silence for a few moments as I processed all that my nonno had said. This experience of his was all of my dreams of visiting the Sistine plus more. This meant that it was real. The magic and beauty of the Sistine was real and it was still waiting for me. But I thought of a slight hitch.
“That’s really incredible, Nonno, but...nowadays the Sistine doesn’t even open until 9 a.m. I highly doubt they’d let us in any sooner,” I explained. “Especially if our only reason is we want to lie on the floor.”
“Oh, really? That is such a shame,” he said with a genuine frown. He stared off into the open air for a few seconds before his frown shifted into a mischievous smirk. “But don’t you worry,” he said turning to face me again. “I think I know a guy.”
You will never guess what floor I’ll be lying around on all summer.
