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Blocked Entry and Judgment |
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written
by sariah / 10.24.2005 |
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| Silence and Belief |
1 of 1 |
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Assignment |
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Santi Quattro Coronati is empty when I arrive. After misplacing the directions from the Campo de Fiori, it has taken me over an hour to reach this small church, casually referred to as “an amazing space” by my classmates. Passing through multiple chambers from the entry through a courtyard into the basilica, leaves me expectant for the cloistered experience within; such would be a perfect respite from the hectic journey thus far.
But my quest was not meant to be so ideally finished. Instead, I find that special events have closed the “chiostro” during its normal opening hours. A gold-edged, burgundy curtain covers the entry door on the left side of the basilica, its velvet thick enough to completely conceal the entryway beneath. As I am alone in the church, I feel at liberty to push aside the curtain, allowing light to stream in from the cloister. Moving my face close to the frosted glass, I see ten men seated at folding plastic tables and chairs within a square open space framed with regular arches. Some have priests’ collars, some do not. They laugh with relaxed composure in the bright light of a cloudy afternoon sky.
After sitting through a mass in the basilica, I eventually gain access to the cloister after the men have left and before the cloister closes. Nonetheless, it is not my time within the cloister, but the time locked outside, that is particularly memorable. Most poignant are the moments that I stand in the basilica, blocked from entering the cloister. This position is metaphorical for my experiences of moving through Rome’s Catholic spaces. Repeatedly, I feel like a spiritual outsider who will be destined for hell, like the lost souls depicted in the frescos, tapestries and sculptures. In Michelangelo’s masterpiece of the Sistine Chapel, I search the faces of the damned most carefully. In his vision of final judgment, I feel that my fate is somehow tied to the poor souls being dragged down by the devils.
A few days later, I am reminded of the cloister when I visit the Benedictine Monastery in Subiaco. Walking through the monastery rooms, all smaller in size than those of Rome’s monumental churches, I feel more comforted than intimidated. Our monk guide moves through the space intimately, with efficient, quick steps, and without the habitual bowing at alters frequently done by nuns and priests at Santi Quattro Coronati’s basilica. However, it is not the interior of the monastery that provides the most memorable image for me. Instead, as I approach the altar through the center aisle of pews and look right, I see the darkness of the interior framed against the grey light outside. The door to the courtyard has been left open by our guide, and dense rain is visible, running in rivulets across the outside stone floor. My eyes have adjusted to the grey, intense light of the rainstorm; as a result, the frescos on the arched walls of the monastery are no longer clearly visible. Instead, the clouds and green plants of the garden are more striking than the earthy fresco colors within. Gazing outside from within the Monastery is the image that I will remember most. Shifting my attention from the constant judgment portrayed in most religious art, I find peace in the neutrality of the sky.
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