Silencio, Per Favore

I swayed on the bench, hunching forward to stare at the plain, sand-colored wood floor. Nausea both from exhaustion of having gotten lost last night—not getting to our apartments till one in the morning—and from rushing to hurry to the Vatican—that would not even let us in properly (it is a pdf, guard!)—were taking their toll. Fifteen of us crowded the white bench before the staircase to the chapel. The most infamous one.

The Sistine Chapel.

Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel (1508-1512)

All the nausea vanished as my neck ached from my head looking straight up, watching God create Adam out of the dust of the ground. My soul was soaked. It was immense. Myself and this bustling, disobediently loud crowd seemed like specks under it.

But I was not stunned. Not the way I was back in Florence, in the Brancacci Chapel or the Uffizi. I could not stop staring, but I was not filled with the same sense of overwhelm. Hating how quickly I realized this, I took care to analyze every bit I could, tracing the story of Genesis, of the prophets, of Moses and the wandering Israelites, of Christ and His Incarnation, of the earth’s Last Day as Christ returned.

“Silencio, per favore!”

I jumped at the unexpected voice, booming from probably the strange black rectangle hanging from the wall above where we came through behind the Last Judgement.

“Silence, please!” the voice added, more irritably. Through a chorus of “silencio per favore”s and “silence please”s, the crowd quieted to a rustling murmur. I sighed, knowing that that would not stay long.

A guard stalked past. I shuffled to the side—it was then I noticed his target: some wealthy couple, the woman holding out her phone at her waist, trying to take a shot of the ceiling. Her husband was at her side, being far too obvious with his stance to hide her phone. They were both prepared and smiling down. The guard shoved his fingers in front of the camera right when she clicked the button, and I choked down the snort of laughter at the infuriated face she made.

The crowd was getting louder, making it harder to focus on the ceiling and the walls. I tried covering my ears to no effect—

Apparently a guard agreed, as I watched him walk out and clap his hands twice, the noise sounding like gunshots from the echo. The noise died in an instant.

“Silencio, per favore!” he shouted. “No photo, no video,” he added glumly. I went back to studying Michelangelo’s work in relative quietness.

Minutes later, the noise was steadily increasing again. I shuffled again to a new place, only steps away from where I was, but my focus was dragged away. Always by British voices.

They were blondes, both trying to be chic.

“Are you grateful seeing it now?” the daughter asked triumphantly.

“It’s really….,” The mother gazed up at the Creation of Adam and sighed wearily, “something.”

I bristled at the response as they sidled away. Something? That was one way to put it if she was truly stunned by it; but she obviously was not, having the air of someone who would much rather have seen the ceiling on Instagram, so it became just a horrid understatement.

I gazed up at the ceiling again, up at God and Adam. I was always bothered by how so many people treated such monumental pieces of art as a backdrop for selfies, and then move on as if nothing happened more than walking in and out of a photography studio. This seemed especially true for people my age and for people with more money than they knew what to do with, or the lack thereof. Both people consumed with façades.

How irritating, I thought, shuffling to the side to let an elderly couple pass me. What I would do to scream aloud the importance of not just seeing, but understanding art.

Dr. Dickson shuffled past, his eyes wide up at the ceiling. Catching his eye, I walked over to him.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he motioned up to the paintings of Moses, filled with gold and shocking colors, seeming to pop wildly out of the wall, but lacking the movement of Michelangelo’s work.

“Yeah,” I sighed, nodding.

“Now, I can’t really tell, but,” Dr. Dickson leaned his head down, pointing up at Moses listening to God from the burning bush. “I cannot tell what’s really going on. Do you?”

“Oh! Uh, yes,” I genuinely did not expect to be called on to interpret a painting. I thought he would go to Dr. Horner, since he was the walking library of art knowledge—the kind I wanted to be one day. “Yeah, see that’s Moses with the burning bush, then going up to the Pharoah.”

He nodded as I explained the other three paintings. “Ah, I see,” he murmured, “so they paint the same character in the same outfit throughout it, huh? I assume to keep the story consistent.”

“Yeah, they do,” I nodded, elated. “To tell the story since, well, they relied a lot on paintings to teach people.”

“Yeah,” he said frowning; not frowning like disappointment or frustration, but the exact type of deep frown that I knew was him musing and appreciating something deeply, as if considering a facet of it I could not see. “So, over here then,” he turned to the other side of the chapel. “This is Christ’s Incarnation.”

“Yeah,” I nodded, pointing out the details of Christ healing and preaching on the mount, up to his death at the end of the chapel opposite the Last Judgement.

“So what is that one?” he pointed to the fresco beside it. I had assumed earlier it was Christ’s resurrection, but then I got as confused as my professor. There were other characters in the painting I did not recognize.

“Huh, yeah,” he narrowed his eyes, as I told him my thoughts. “Perhaps we should go ask Dr. Horner?” he grinned.

“Silencio, per favore!” the speaker voice boomed again. Dr. Dickson chuckled and lowered his voice through the rest of the hour and forty-one minute stay.