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| Santa Margherita |
As I
climbed the long, steep Via Crucis of Etruscan Cortona, I could fully empathise
with pilgrims intently trekking to a religious destination. I was en route to Santa Margherita, the
ancient basilica at the summit of this fortified Tuscan town in Italy. My pilgrimage was to revere and record the
religious art - a rather indirect homage to God, but with equal spiritual
respect and certainly an element of physical endurance. The lengthy ascent of this 600 metre hillside
was rather more challenging than I had anticipated, especially in the
mid-August heat. It was thus a great
reward to reach my goal and see the beautiful Renaissance exterior of Santa
Margherita with its central rose window glistening in the sunshine. This whetted my appetite for the works of art
I was yet to find in its vast interior.
I quietly entered the refreshingly cool, dimly lit vestibule, eager to
explore and record my impressions.
However, my spiritual reverie was suddenly interrupted by a small, officious
nun scurrying towards me, her arms anxiously signalling for me to leave. I had mistakenly committed the ‘mortal sin’
of wearing a sleeveless shirt in the house of God. I quietly left feeling embarrassed and
unintentionally disrespectful, as well as deeply disappointed to think that my
great efforts had been pointless. I
stood in the contrastingly bright sunshine, contemplating the situation and
finally concluded that a loving, forgiving God would not consider me sinful,
knowing that my intentions were full of respect. I thus furtively opened the heavy basilica
door to find it devoid of nuns and safe for me to quietly enter, arms
reverently crossed over my chest, covering my shoulders. I tiptoed into a side chapel and found a
corner where I would secretively sketch the colourful artwork which adorned the
walls and vaulted ceiling. I had not
long begun sketching when organ music started playing, announcing the beginning
of a church service, soon to be attended by a host of nuns and local
parishioners. I felt all the more guilty
in my hideaway, where I was now trapped, fearing the admonition of the sisters,
priest and congregation. I had no other
choice but to remain in situ awaiting the end of the service. Despite the circumstances, it made my art pilgrimage
all the more spiritual, sketching to echoes of the Lord’s Prayer, scriptures,
confessions, and even sermon, recited in poetical Italian. However, I then started to worry when this
main service was immediately followed by a seemingly endless, post-mass rosary,
with Hail Marys and Our Fathers symbolising a penitence for my sins. As time went on, I decided I would have to
make an escape before nightfall. So I
plucked up courage, replaced my hands to hide my immodesty, wished myself
invisible and quietly passed by the congregation, like a ghost arisen from a
tomb. I was greeted to safety by the rose
coloured dusk of the day, whereupon I breathed a sigh of relief and thanked God
for his understanding.
