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The Pantheon |
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written
by joelnish / 10.24.2005 |
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Part 1: |
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For me the greatest contrast in Rome is between the public public and the private public—between the piazzas and the churches. Before Rome I never expected to feel so alone in a giant basilica nor obvious in a crowded market.
My experience of Piazza Navona is that it has a very, almost moralistic directionality assigned to it. There are essentially two directions while in the piazza, and all other directions are punishable by vehicular death. I find that when in the piazza this orientation takes over, and my body begins to move along the line the space defines for me. My movement then defines my thoughts and I think of reaching of the end of the piazza; the energy is quick and focused. I remember the shape of the Piazza the generalities but not the details.
I found the Pantheon to be entirely different. From the terrestrial perspective the Pantheon is seemingly lacking in orientation, there are no corners and no dominant beginning or ending. I find that while the center is definitely different than the edges neither seems more or less a conclusion than the other. This is until I look up. All lines lead to the great oculus in the middle and the eye must follow. Suddenly the orientation of the building is clear, it is a ray into the heavens. This path though cannot be traversed, not even started. We are doomed to failure by our terrestrial mortality. I find this has an odd effect though, one of freeing us. Looking up to the oculus I realize that I haven’t anywhere to go, I am left to wander humbly and simply awe. I think this is partly why the features of the pantheon seem so clear and the colors so vivid, because there isn’t anywhere else to look to and nowhere to go from there. Yet the space in the Pantheon is fragile and never quite repeated. I’ve visited the Pantheon numerous times and each time the experience is different, it became a game to try and visit the Pantheon at all sort of different times.
Trying to see the Pantheon when it rains is a game of painful expectation. The first few times I went I saw only a weak rain, the invisible kind that only manages to wet the ground. I have seen it once when it rained hard, but even then the raindrops got lost somewhere between the oculus and the ground. I blame the artificial lights. The most noticeable aspect of the rain was how it changed the terrestrial space though. With the rain, or even the anticipation of the rain came the barricades and the ropes, cordoning off the rain and the hopes of standing under it. This is what really changes the effect for me; suddenly there is something to huddle around. People seem different in the rain too. Like the rain brings us together, we all root for the rain to come and for it go away simultaneously. Either a better spectacle or freedom is acceptable.
It took a long time before I finally made it to the Pantheon in the early morning. It‘s almost like it called me to it. I was awoken this morning by a heavy rain on the tin eaves outside my window. Unable to fall back asleep I finally decided to drag myself out of bed and walk the city. When I wandered my way into the Pantheon I found myself to be one of about six other people, three of which were classmates. It finally was a truly holy and spiritual place. And those obscene giant lights that dull the dome and hide the rain were off. The rain almost forms a column of small fluttering beads. For at least a little while the Pantheon is my private cloister with a path to the heavens. I know this can’t last and it doesn’t. People trickle in and then come the first tour groups, and the Pantheon feels cheaper.
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