Vatican Museums

We’ve been in the process of brainstorming for Sansepolcro Superlatives for the Immortal Nine, as we are so fond of calling ourselves. While some of them have been obvious (Nutella Queen, you know who you are), others have been less so. I’m the resident Museum Buff…which is neither a superlative nor particularly Sansepocro-y. But it is accurate, so I’ll take it. You can imagine how very much I enjoyed my morning in the Vatican Museums.
I think every kid goes through and Egypt phase, when they read The Egypt Game, obsess about hieroglyphics, secret passages, and grave-robbers, and have occasional nightmares about mummies. I felt a strong resurgence of my personal fascination (which was not as acute as some kids I knew) when I gazed at the shriveled body in the golden sarcophagus and recalled all the gruesome details of the mummification process. I don’t care if I’m dead, I really don’t want anyone pulling my brain out of my nose. However, the slender stillness of the animal-man god images, the yellowed papyrus scrolls, and the mysterious tiny amulets still capture my imagination. But a few moments later I’ve traveled to another civilization, and am contemplating the harsh, arbitrary of Hammurabi as I look as tiny tablets covered with the little triangular marks of cuneiform. I imagine that once the archeologists figured out “death” they felt they had made significant progress in the translation. I’m curious what was on the tablets I saw: deeds, contracts, epitaphs? Oh, the useless intricate rubbish that humanity leaves behind.
My head still spinning from time travel, I turned a corner and suddenly found myself in Greece. Perhaps “rubbish” was a bit harsh. Actually, I’ll go so far as to say that I’m quite glad that humanity is able to leave something of beauty behind for future generations. The lovely, balanced poses of heros and goddesses do much towards overcoming my personal objections to their bloody and often perverse mythological inspirations. Who wouldn’t trade their jeans and t-shirt for a chiton? However, seeing all the interpretations of ideal beauty made a bit dissatisfied with the people wandering around gawking. I know we can’t all be gods and goddesses, but everyone looked so graceless compared to the beautiful marble forms lining the walls. I suppose that I, with my just-out-of-the-backback outfit, didn’t look any better. However, it didn’t make it any easier to forgive my fellow museum goers for their clumsy appearance.
Even the famed Sistine Chapel injured my faith in modern humanity. Irritated guards shushing the noisy crowds, people shoving for a place on the benches along the walls, and who knows how many ardent photographers blatantly taking forbidden pictures. I wanted to stick my fingers in my ears and just look up. Which is more or less what I did. Michelangelo’s vibrant, warm colors tend to help sooth a disillusioned soul. The Botticelli and Perugino on the walls offer a more delicate contrast when the neck and eyes threaten to give out. Even so, I couldn’t help but just lean back and gaze. I’m not even going to attempt to describe it. All I can say is that the master sculptor could paint like the dickens.