Revenant

L’arte non è mai finita, solo abbandonata.

Those are the truest words. We lost the right to finish created works, long ago. The Fall and The Temptation, opposite of each other in the chapel, high above, reminded me of that. That is why the background of the Temptation is blank—we could no longer see divine beauty.

But still, we remain somehow close to it: the angel casting out Adam and Eve said that much.

Massacio's Brancacci Chapel (1425-27)

“You’re at the feet of your masters right now,” Dr. Dickson motioned to the room of Leonardo’s works, the Annunciation on the left, the unfinished Adoration of the Magi on the right, and The Baptism of Christ across the room.

I nodded to him, looking around at the crowd gawking over the unpainted Adoration of the Magi. Though I could only hope to understand it, I could see why people flocked to this city. It breathed a soul. A city’s soul more alive that I, just some American girl from Los Angeles, had never met before.

Dr. Dickson was right. I was at my Masters’ feet in the Uffizi. Young and foolish as I am, I was practicing to be like these old, revered Masters, wasn’t I? Is it too bold to say that I did see myself as an apprentice, learning like they did, however much slower and different from them?

Maybe the first step to learning how to see the soul these Masters did had to be first overwhelmed by it.

The art historian was talking, but I gave up trying to listen. These were paintings I would study for forever in my kid’s art history book. But no picture could capture the history, the work, the time, and the brilliance to create and keep alive this Chapel.

Tears messily fell into my hair as I craned my neck to see The Temptation and The Fall. How could paintings of the worst act of our first parents and of the curse that broke all humankind into the chaos we have today be so enchanting?

The historian pointed out the blank background of  The Temptation. I had not realized that before.

I also had not felt such a pang of sorrow so deeply before.

We walked to the café, awkwardly obeying the waiters to a table on the patio. The sunlight seemed more glaring than before. Sleepiness gripped savagely as I watched sparrows and pigeons picking at crumbs littered under tables.

I had finally seen art I had only dreamed of seeing. But seeing the Brancacci Chapel felt more real than being in one of the most infamous and prestigious art museums in the world.

This was only the beginning of a new life and I felt like my eyes would explode from what I had seen. We had only been in the city of Florence and two museums in our first few days. All foreign because of a new life; but familiar because it was still a human life.

So many new rules from simple etiquette to trash bins; so many unknown words crashing on my ears from all directions as we meandered a city older than we could imagine; smells old and alien wafting from all directions. The sky was still blue and full of clouds, but it had a different character when the cross of the Duomo glinted in the sunlight. All the people were people, but distinctly a different kind of people.

The waitress looked at me expectantly.

“The, uh,” I glanced at my menu and pointed, “the succo di frutta, piacere.”

“What flavor?” she asked, thickly Italian, proceeding to list at least five different flavors, but all I understood was “peach” and “blueberry.”

I had not thought that far. Well, I did not like peaches, and I was getting back into blueberries.

The juice was a darker, richer red than I expected. It still tasted like blueberries fresh from a garden.

The patio seemed to be going just as dark as well.

I was sobbing on the steps before the church. Everyone else was talking into the microphone Dr. Horner was passing around, echoing my classmates’ voices into the radio on my ear. They were all saying the same thing.

“It was beautiful.”

“I was just in awe.”

“Like, I could not believe what I was seeing.”

Meanwhile, I could not even see the cobblestones at my feet. I forced my crying to be as quiet as possible, but it broke a little when my classmate passed the microphone to me.

“I…” No. There were no words for what we just saw. “I mean I’m sobbing over here, so, I’ll let that speak for itself.” And I passed it to the next person.

I jerked awake. My classmates were getting up, readying to head to empty side of the patio.

Fumbling, I followed them out.

My eyes were gluttonous through the rest of the gallery. I wanted to keep feasting, turning mournful as we headed to the exit; but much more and I might have snapped from the overwhelm of abandoned masterpieces.

Maybe Leonardo’s words were not quite as I thought, as we rushed through pouring rain, heading for dinner after an entire day at the Uffizi. At first, the words were hope wrapped in black: a joyful surrender of perfectionism that plagued me and my creations incessantly. I could not remember what Dr. Horner had continued on about it, but all I could think was this:

That even though we lost the right to finish created works, that still left room for humanity to progress after having been given the foundations from another time.

Maybe even if the Fall made it so that we lost our right to see divine beauty, and replicate it fully, the city I was now rushing down narrow streets through spoke that we were not fully lost. That the memory of that beauty still remained.

I realized why Florence called to our souls: it was not a new city we were visiting for academics, but rather, a returning to a root of humanity.

We were revenants in a city we never met before.