|
|
 |
|
Pantheon |
|
written
by peeter / 10.24.2005 |
|
|
| |
Part 1: |
| |
On approaching the massive temple I encroach upon a heard of tourists—some nervous, some bored—waiting beneath the “porch” for the light rain to subside. I enter and am slightly disappointed by the poor visibility I encounter when peering up into the hemispherical space below the oculus. The coffered dome has been illuminated by a collection of offensively-bright bulbs at is round base, thus denying my eyes the ability to visually perceive the droplets of water that I know are responding affirmatively to the invitation from the giant hole to come into the temple. The oculus now appears white, not blue, but the longer I view it, the more I notice its “true” color: Light, Soviet, overcast gray.
Some Dutch tourists sit down on the end of my bench, next to my friends, and I hear a mild argument break out as to whether or not a piece of glass separates us from those gray clouds. I want to ask them where all the bird crap goes if it isn’t plastered onto the supposed “window.” I guess the Pantheon isn’t so impressive that it makes petty arguments seem trivial.
A few days later I return to the Pantheon and observe a young girl with her little brother. She loves playing with him: Manipulating the slight, resistive movements of his arms until he submits, letting them go limp; bouncing him with her superior hips, then pulling him back and embracing him, but tightly so that he has no choice in the matter; and finally, petting his head against his will.
The boy escapes, and is then free to manipulate his own toy: The small, two-piece, plastic apparatus that permits a small child to launch a thin disk twenty meters into the air with a slight pull of the wrist. One can physically observe the temptation to expel the disk growing within the boy, the only thing holding it back being the stern, semi-amused warning from his stylish mom minutes before the familial entry into the Pantheon. Apparently the Pantheon’s grandeur isn’t sufficient to
The next evening the normal hum of the Pantheon and all its residents meets my anticipatory ears before a long, powerful F resonating with all of our eardrums is liberated into the hemisphere. The hum ceases as everyone silently locates the source: A young, thin blonde woman wearing a black sleeveless top and a long, white skirt. At times she looks pained, staring at us throughout the aria. This place is meant for operatic, worshipful voices. Applause is meant for those voices, and it arrives punctually. All the while the oculus projects its beam onto the coffered equator of the hemisphere, animating the orbital motion of the Earth.
|
| |
|
| |
|
| |
Part 2: |
| |
Headed aimlessly through the thunderous weather, I finally find the Pantheon, or perhaps it finds me; the awesome dome suddenly obstructing more than 80 percent of my view. I wander over to the Piazza di Sant’Ignazio, and settle near some Italian teenagers. A girl with sagged white pants revealing a black modest undergarment has not yet succumbed to the horrible pressure in this country to be so nastily thin. Her boyfriend parades a super-tight Dolce & Gabana shirt and cannot keep his hands off of her, but her facial expression offers no help as it tells him that everything is okay…for now. Another boy—the sidekick, no doubt—wearing a backwards baseball hat, frequently interrupts the couple’s theatrical display of affection to say something about which he wears a huge, quiet smile. Another boy that turns out to be a girl wears baggy light-blue jeans and a yellow waterproof jacket. She has a black, short, boy-haircut and a pretty face, whose beauty she doesn’t realize. Heavy lightning strikes to join the pathetic, infrequent drops. The teenage microcosm has dispersed and my exploitation is cut short. I wait for more substantial thunder, lightning, and rain before moving to enter the Pantheon.
I wait for the rain, staring up at the black textured rim of the oculus. A few specks, but nothing spectacular. I search more, panning downward to use the coffered dome as my background. Nothing. I wait. Then comes the sound; the beautiful, pleasant, dampened patter of large, bulbous rain drops on polished church-quality marble. This sound has never before reached my tympani. I look up to see little dots of static descending in a pattern, their tiny silhouettes piercing against the bright white backdrop of heaven. I peer down to then see sheets of rain moving in front of the coffers.
“Dov’è Piazza Navona,” I ask with insecurity, having just rehearsed the question several times to myself, wondering whether my pronunciation is intelligible. “Là,” the youthful Italian woman says, gesturing to her left, down a typical Roman street, “è vicino.” It’s close, excellent. I am supposed to meet my two older sisters and my brother-in-law at the aforementioned piazza sometime between now and forever, and I have no clue as to where it is. I’ll just keep an eye out for this “là” place.
I finally enter into the long, well-enclosed rectangle and begin the loathsome task of finding my siblings among the thousands of individuals enjoying its atmosphere. I see the huge obelisk atop the fountain in the center of the space and remember that they were to be sitting somewhere around its border. My first lap yields no results, but eventually I find them sitting on one of the many stone benches usually occupied by street vendors selling imitation designer sunglasses. They barely acknowledge my arrival, so captivated are they by the man before them hoping to convince them to buy a flashy heart-shaped pin blinking red green and blue.
While Piazza di Sant’Ignazio and Piazza Navona are full of the comedy and tragedy of everyday life, the Pantheon seems free of the mundane, to the point where I feel almost unworthy to stand in its majestic interior. All three are of course public spaces, but the Pantheon truly humbles those who enter. It levels the playing field completely, allowing neither the selling of illegal goods, nor the manifestation of adolescent romances to occur beneath its dome.
|
| |
|
| |
|
|
|
|
