I Cross Borders Into The Vatican

Yesterday we high tailed it to the Vatican, much like criminals high tail it to Mexico, because, as you well know, the Vatican is a separate country. They have their own flag, postal service, money - the whole shebang. Guarding the Vatican are the formidable Swiss Guard. Just look at those uniforms, purchased in bulk after a gypsy dance patriarchy disbanded. They can use excess folds of cloth both to confuse attackers and to surrender.

Five million people a year see the Sistine Chapel; most go straight there, ignoring the rest of the Vatican Museum, which, I am told, holds over twelve billion (12000000...000) euros worth of old things. And for no small reason - the Chapel was an evolution of a hundred years. The ceiling alone took four to paint. Heading towards the Chapel, visitors are funneled through a series of long hallways, capped by doors, used as screens to filter out noise. Less and less people talk, the more and more doors we went through. In one of the halls prior to the Chapel, there lies the gigantic marble tombs of Costanza and Elaine. They died immediately after being taken off the air, it seems.

The famous ceiling of the Sistine, the one with the strained fingers of God reaching out to the limp wristed hand of Adam (you know, the one parodied in Rocketman? Now that was cinema), tells the history of Genesis, from creation to the flood. It's really too much to take in, because most eyes start on the main wall of the Sistine, the one containing the Last Judgement frescoes. As you follow the paint up the wall and across the ceiling, by the time you reach the separation of the waters, you're pretty much burned out.

My favorite part of the entire Chapel was a small self portrait Michelangelo left. In the Last Judgement, admist souls being pulled up or pushed down, one angel holds an empty bag of skin, the remains of a man. This is said to be the likeness of the painter Michelangelo; that's just about the best autobiography I've ever heard of, next to Vonnegut's Timequake. After eight years of painting, who was Michelangelo but a empty shell? (And you might say, he was still Michelangelo, but you my friend are a balloon full of hot air. Well, I'm writing this blog, so pipe down.)

The Museum itself takes hours to navigate, if you have a real interest. It's mostly portraits and action shots of saints. Personal favorite: a painting of St. Nick, that's right, Santa Claus, flying by his own power, stopping a raging seastorm, while a mermaid looks on. I wanted to italicize one phrase in that last sentence for comic effect, but I can't decide which.

Obviously, Jesus takes the gold medal for number of times represented, but a close second had to be St. Sebastian. Seabass was tied to a stake by Diocletian and shot chock full of arrows, and, according to tradition, did not die. I wish artists had picked out a more photogenic torture to depict, because this one's quite gruesome. In fact, many of these grotesque paintings saw their rise during the Counter Reformation. After that one Luther raised a ruckus, the church leaders thought the best way to fight back would be to commission as many paintings representing martyrdom as possible, as a type of propaganda/recruitment blitz. Come join our blood cult!

A museum filled with twelve billion euros worth of paintings of martyrs got me thinking the way a cool ten billion could not. We really do try to justify ourselves, try to make ourselves matter in the grand scheme, and not like the grand scheme to rob three casinos in one night, but the grand scheme and endgame of the universe. With these paintings, we seem to be saying: Look, we can bleed, too. Take that, Jesus!

Or it could just be a culture thing.