In the church of St. Ignatius there is a painting in the left chapel by the door. I don't know the name,
or the painter, but what I do know, what I do see first, is the cherub in the bottom left corner, clutching the leg of the man closest to her. I can't help but stare at the blood red cloth covering her backside, as the white cloth of the man covers her face, blending into the flowers above her head.
I follow the cloth up to the haloed man's face, staring up at the cherubic group gathered around what looks to be a glowing post on a cloud. The other cherubs wave their hands and lie on clouds underneath the post, all but the one at the bottom. It's me.
I'm sitting in this chapel while all the other students are staring at a piece of artwork above them: the dome that's not a dome, Pozzo's fresco of the ascension of St. Ignatius, the four corners of the Earth, and I'm in the far left corner, huddled against a wooden pew. This piece, dark but welcoming, with the two centered men facing the audience, a space just for me, for you. I don't have to look too closely to see what's happening, unlike Pozzo's ceiling fresco I'm able to come close and see the feet of the men, see the astonishment on their faces, see the fallen crown in the bottom right.
To be that cherubic girl means I must sacrifice some happiness to be left here on the ground. To be that cherubic girl, I must veer off the road, veer into the corner where I watch the rest enjoy the art we must know, must feel. Half naked, stripped of the American "godliness," failing to ascend into Spoleto, or Rome's, eternal romanticism. Am I destined to cling to the leg and white robe of some haloed priest? Why can't I stand? Why can't she?
Taylor,
ReplyDeleteI really like this image that you chose. I like that you zeroed in on one specific thing, in this case the lone cherub. I like how you point out the "dome that is not a dome." My favorite sentence of this is the sentence about the "American 'godliness;" and failing to ascend to Spoleto's "eternal romanticism." That line is what really stuck out to me when I first read this.
I like the last two lines of this, but I think you can go more in depth about why the cherub is like you. Is it just that you cannot stand? Or that you are alone? Who is the priest you are clinging to? Another thing I noticed was that you describe the "blood-red cloth" on the cherub's backside and the white cloth covering her face. The blood-red just seemed out of place, at least to me, while reading it. Perhaps instead of "blood," which seemed to be the word I was having a problem with, you can find another word to describe it? Blood-red is a cliché, and I am completely guilty of using it as well.
Overall, I really loved this. Your descriptions are great, and you do a nice job of getting off-topic in the fact that you don't solely focus on the cherub or on the painting as a whole. You also mention your surroundings. Very good work!