Tuesday, September 18, 2007

Assignment # 16

Matt(hew) Richardson
Church comparison story

To one side of the Santi Quattro Coronati cloister is a tiny chapel, one ransacked by time and utterly simple. It’s really very small, with ten or twelve plastic chairs arranged in a half-circle facing the entrance. Stepping inside is like stepping into a worn shed – light peeps in through holes and slits everywhere, the paint on the walls is chipped and the frescos on in the old niches are almost completely gone, leaving just a baby-Christ’s head or the edge of some unidentified figure’s robe. A single grungy light bulb hangs free from exposed cords, lighting poorly and unevenly a wide circle on the wooden floor. The room’s corners are full of dust and debris. But it’s not abandoned. The floorboards are worn smooth and kept clean, and the door opens and shuts smoothly on the old hinges. There is no dust on the seats themselves. It seems to me that, despite the room’s austerity, it is used. I’m no ecclesiastical, and I don’t know where the nuns pray or where they do their works, but I think it’s clear that this room is one that is still important to them in some way, they take care of it.
And so the image in my head most clear from my visit to Santi Quattro Coronati is not the groomed cloister, nor the centuries old frescos, nor the open courtyards, though all of those places were peacefully beautiful. Rather, my thoughts are of this room and the first moment of stepping into it. The transition from light to dark is sudden, and at first you are blind, squinting for bearings. Then, quickly, the walls and the chairs and the windows come into view, and you realize that you are in a tiny circular room. But when you consider that you are in a convent, at least I think of one thing – prayer. The value of a place of authentic prayer is, for me, the most important thing a place of holy worship can offer. No matter what your beliefs, everyone should reflect. That room, with its simplicity, seemed to me to be the most honest place of prayer. For all I know the nuns clean the dirt of tools in that room, but its purposefulness impressed me, that worn out but still preserved atmosphere of bare walls and cheap chairs.
This discussion of authenticity leads my thoughts to another church, San Lorenzo in Florence, that huge building dominating the leather market surrounding it. My God, what a shame of a place, that soulless church. I had to pay twice to see both halves, separated artificially by lock doors the architect never envisioned. Coming inside I stood behind pews full of tourists drinking from their water bottles, reading their guidebooks, text messaging, chatting, laughing, pointing, nodding off, doing anything, that is, except being observant and thoughtful. To one side there are the staffers, surely men leaning against the wall beneath a “silenzio” sign, bullshitting loudly, echoing.
All of the frescoes and paintings, the arches and dome, the pews and benches are preserved, lit, and oiled. It is a model of good presentation, strolling through it is like walking down a gallery in a museum. The gum on the floor, well advertised gift shop. I’m sure people do come to San Lorenzo to pray, but there were none there for me to see. When was it that San Lorenzo last justified itself by the people who came there to believe? When did the tourists arrive and when were the commemorative postcards printed? When did it use to be like that tiny chapel across the peninsula in Rome? I suppose San Lorenzo was always designed to impress, but it was a holy place at one time, not a place where holy things may happen.

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