Story #8: Ancient Studio

Ancient Studio

I cut up the brochures, the train tickets, the maps and the leftover paper. Into perfect rectangles – I cut them all. Uncut paper in the left corner, cut paper on the right, my sewing supplies by my right hand, glue and paintbrush by my left.

I count the stacks of mixed paper and section them out, punching holes for the binding to come. I thread the needle (on the third try) and sew the papers together to form a tight stack for the middle of the scrapbooked journal. Now, for the best part – the covers. I drag out the old paint and peel off the dried remnants of the last artist – squeezing out as much of the paint as I can, rolling it out like leftover toothpaste. I wait. The paint dries.

Ariel and Tyler run down the stairs to the studio and interrupt my silence. They quickly toss a “Hey, Megan” in my direction and continue on to rummage through the supply shelves. I sigh and silently complain about monastery life, intentional communities, and shared living spaces. I retire from my crafts for the afternoon and organize my area, already impatient to continue working on my books, with wet paint that will takes ages to dry in the monastery’s studio basement.

Maybe I am an artist now. A new identity found in cutting, gluing, pasting, painting, creating. My rigorous study abroad schedule of poetry classes and Renaissance Narrative leaves some time for me to be an artist in the studio – or at least pretend to be one amongst real art majors. The walls, the ceiling – this cold, damp space makes me feel like an artist with frescoes above me and then stone walls around me. The faded, red stars on the decaying ceiling crumbles here and there, serving as a constant source of grief for our program director because art isn’t supposed on fall down onto the desks like that. It’s an artist’s space.

Our necks are always sore here in Italy. We enter churches, cathedrals, duomos, and the first body motion is to crane our heads back and look up. The first time I realized I had a weak neck was two months ago before arriving in Orvieto until our first trip to the duomo, the cathedral. The second time I understood (and was fascinated by) paintings on ceilings was in the darkest corners of a Roman underground grave. It was the same there, too: the detail, the holes and cracks, the pieces falling.

At first, that underground cemetery was just another stop on our busy itinerary in Rome – the Catacomb of Priscilla is a quarry that was used for Christian burials from the late second century through the fourth century. I understood it as just another destination to see before it was time to travel back home to Orvieto, and disappear to our separate rooms on the fourth day of traveling together. We wait in the entryway, sandwiched between a middle school tour group and then what looked like a retirement home outing. Finally, our turn. A petite nun emerges from the underground cemetery – a catacomb – and motions for us to follow her down into the caves. She gives a small smile at our hesitation and motions us forward once again – leaving us to wondering whether she could actually speak or maybe she wasn’t going to bother with Italian words we most likely won’t understand. We weave through the dark and bump into each other, whispering and trying to sneak a picture or two. Burial places of early popes, saints, and martyrs adorned with Christian symbols cause us to linger and then hurry along to ensure we aren’t the last one in the group, left in the dark. Suddenly the dates on the tombs just become a small number: “Oh, the fourth century? That’s old I guess.”

The silent nun, whom we named “Sister Mystery,” leads us down to the locked cave where words are left at the gate and silence fills the small, crowded space. Candles rest in corners and illuminate the low ceiling, etchings of color in scenes of Noah, the Annunciation, the three wise men, the prophet Isaiah, the Good Shepherd. The world's oldest-known image of Mary depicts her nursing the infant Jesus from the 3rd century. An artist chose this space to bring Biblical names to visual life. Set here on this ceiling solely for the Christians buried here to rest. The artist didn’t know that tour groups would move in and out, trying to make out a face here, a scene here, wondering whether that was Jesus or Joseph or if that painting over there is a lamb or a dog. But we don’t discuss the features of the aged markings, staying silent for a while.

Professor Doll suggests that we sing the doxology – what I’ve come to realize as a prayer to be sung when words fail but the moment still begs for voices to join together and praise. Sister Mystery closes her eyes and sings in Italian while we whisper at first, voices rising gently: Praise God from whom all blessings flow. It’s soft and slightly broken – people lose their breath for a few seconds before continuing on, sort of singing in a round of lost breath as voices move in and out of the group’s combined song. An artist’s work of red and dark green paint, fading and crumbling down as our voices rise.