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Seriously |
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written
by peeter / 10.24.2005 |
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Assignment |
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My quest for the Rome of high society begins at a Lamborghini shop on the Via Veneto. So little glass separates me from so much class. Ah, but some would not find this as bizarre as I do. The typical goers of the Via Veneto seem to allow Rome to watch them, not the alternative whereby they would observe the city in its role as a giant, interactive, diachronic museum. These people visit Rome from their far off mansions and estates and yachts and expect their time in the ancient city to offer no less. There will be no run-ins with “Gypsies,” and surely no sticky afternoons under the penetrating Latin sun. Rome will serve them as it has always served its most cherished inhabitants.
I embark upon the Spanish Steps from their most superior platform, giving me an expansive view—first of the large primary portion of the steps just above the Piazza di Spagna, and then of the excessive Via dei Condotti with some of its notorious residents: Armani, Dolce, and of course Gabana. I descend from the right, down the hemispiral and onto the first tier. My view has already lost some of its luster, but I can now make out the faces of the people gathered around the Bernini Sr. fountain. Pondering the number of heartbeats occupying the huge white staircase at any given time, my mind wanders into Hollywood as images of a solitary Gwyneth Paltrow making the same downward journey in the disturbing “The Talented Mr. Ripley” flow vividly into my thoughts. How did they get all of the people off of these stairs? How did Gwyneth float down them so effortlessly when I can feel these steps because they’re heavy and each one takes a toll on my bones. By now I am working my way down the main artery of the structure, more fatigued than I expected to be. Passing through little clumps of people, I make it to the comparatively unimpressive fountain. My surprisingly long journey down the great steps has ended as I am greeted by the via of high rollers and top models.
I step through the doorway leading to the church at the top of the staircase that takes off from the Via Veneto. Passing the woman monitoring the souvenir area, I turn right to see a long, narrow, poorly, but naturally lit corridor with a ceiling moderate in height. I follow the other people into the passage to find near silence. I am now in the first room of the church and I immediately notice the small chandelier dangling above my head. It is clearly made of long, thin human bones, probably from the arm of a man. Looking to the wall opposite the now much appreciated windows on my right, I see a dark painting surrounded by thousands of bones. I quickly proceed to the next room. Relief! No bones in sight. I now begin to believe that this is actually a church. I continue to the next room. Thousands upon thousands of bones—not the beautiful, ivory-white, calcium-rich bones that I know, but dark, gritty, dirty, porous little bones that make the human skeleton seem a ridiculous joke. The next room is much the same: arches, textured ceilings, molding, altars, light fixtures, floral patterns, and yes, non-functional chimney vents, all made of bones. The only thing missing is an exit sign made of bones; there is no exit sign, period. This is pornographic. I want out of here, and the only way out is to turn around and re-experience all of this junk in reverse order. I turn around and quickly proceed through the seemingly endless hall, utterly disgusted by all of the freaks revering this mess. Revering?! Don’t Christians believe that man is just dust; that his soul is what lives on in eternity, so to make storefront arrangements of skeletons is really just Childs play? Therefore this silence disturbs me for it is as if we are standing on hollowed ground.
Finally out, I find a pamphlet in English recounting the history of this place. I discover some interpretations that I may just like. “One monk’s effort to show that life conquers all”? Okay, I can work with that. I take a breath of fresh air and return to the crypt, attempting to view it through a new lens. I notice the skeletons dressed up like monks and begin imagining some old friar struggling to dress up the remains—unruly mannequins that they are—exhausting himself in the process, screaming obscenities at all of the random, impossible-to-catalog bones around him. This place is absolutely hilarious. Some skeletons dressed as monks are lounging beneath the bone arches as if swinging from a hammock on a hot summer’s day, lemonade in hand. I half expect Michael Jackson to appear from behind one of the many femur niches. Resurrection equals four thousand friars laughing hysterically at death.
The Spanish Steps is sort of an intermediary space between the Via Veneto and Santa Maria della Concezione. The former—with its upscale hotels and Lamborghinis—takes itself far too seriously, and the latter, perhaps not quite seriously enough. One laughs at something taken very gravely by society, and the other needs to lighten up and laugh at itself. The steps falling between them demonstrate more moderation. They allow one to pass by but not without leaving an offering in honor of their extravagant yet functional design.
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