.OPUS
CHRISTI
It was dark as I
entered the corridor that led to the staircase in
the tower. The staircase itself was rather heavy
and imposing but, then again towers were never
built for beauty, only defense. The heels of my
shoes clicked against the hard stone floor as I
made my way up towards the top floor.
I had earlier
decided to place my latest painting on an empty
wall at the top of the tower. It was partly to
fill space and partly to provide something for
the visitors to admire while waiting to climb out
on the crenelated rooftop to look out over the
mountainous landscape. The laborers had hung the
painting earlier in the day but, I hadn’t
been able to see it until early evening.
In anticipation
and nearly out of breath, I reached the top stair
to the landing below another set of narrow stairs
that led up onto the roof. I moved out to the
room altar measured about 30ft by 30ft. The light
was dim, as this section of the they had not
refurbished the castle for many years. There were
still two old austere iron candlesticks holding
two thick, dusty white candles on a large oak
table pushed up next to one wall. If I had had
the foresight to bring some matches, the candles
would have given a bit more light. As it was, I
had to admire my new painting alone in the still,
cool, dimness.
Covering most of
the wall was, "desolation" by a
well-known Italian painter. In a somber palette
or the colors of sorrow, gray, black, white and
beige, a portion of a crucified body was lying on
top of a marble altar. Wrapped in a white cloth
the lean, taut, muscular torso, legs and arms
could be seen dangling or hanging off the
imposing white structure. Death had come, and
death had gone but, a corpse was lying behind.
There was nothing else in this painting except
the dark, somber wash of color across the top of
the body, one could not even see the chest or
head. It was impossible to say what the figure
had seen or could still see for that matter. Was
it in a basilica or some ancient rotunda? I could
almost imagine the frescos that one might see on
a dome of a cathedral. But, maybe there was just
crisp, clear air, unpolluted air and then again
maybe there has never been any unpolluted air,
ever.
As I pondered
whether there had ever been the unpolluted air, I
sat down on an antique, dusty oak bench, next to
the table along the wall, across the room from
the painting. I couldn’t help but admire the
fact that the corpse looked chiseled from marble
or stone. I’ve always found the hardness and
softness of marble statues interesting and
contradicting at the same time. One always wants
to reach out and touch the sculptured muscles and
smooth velvety flesh. Even now I have a desire to
touch the leg, just to see if it feels like skin
or marble but I don’t. I remain sitting on
my bench.
As much as I
would like to move closer to the painting I
can’t manage to get up again. I’m not
sure if I’m tired or just old. Maybe both. I
sit a while longer until I feel my eyelids grow
heavy. I’ve never noticed my eyelids before.
But, now I can hardly hold them up, they keep
closing on their own. I struggle to bring them up
again and again and again until I just don’t
have the strength to open them up or look around
anymore.
I don’t
know what I saw last. Was I looking at the
painting or the tiny window on the other end of
the room or was I looking at the stone floor
between my feet, I just can’t remember.
Perhaps it doesn’t even matter because now I
can see what is up above in the painting. I
can’t move anything except my head, a little
to the left and right and a bit towards the back.
But, I can already see much more than you will.
Provided visit the tower to view the painting
yourself.
The altar, on
which I’m lying is in a large rotunda,
itself surrounded by arches leading to a gallery
on the other side. The building constructed of
pale sandstone with arches holding up the rotunda
of a pure white marble that had an elaborate
acanthus leaf pattern at the top. The arches move
around the room, alternating up above and between
them windows move around the bottom of the dome
letting in much-needed light.
The warm beams
of the sun, fall in through the windows as dust
particles dance around the open space, casting
light and heat on my naked body. At the same
time, it was warming the marble altar so as to
make it a little more comfortable, even though
the position in which I found myself could be
improved. I am unable to move the middle or lower
portion of my body; evidently the painter wanted
it this way.
Behind the
painter’s somber background, the arches
continue all the way around the room, completing
a circle. Behind these arches in the gallery are
mosaics that I can’t clearly make out, as
the light from above doesn’t penetrate that
far, only the rotunda baths in the light.
Above, in the
heart of the dome, is an another ancient mosaic
depicting Christus standing near the four streams
of paradise. God is flanked on each side by St.
Peter and St.Paul accepting God’s law on
behalf of the flock gathered round. It is an
enhanced pastoral scene. It shows the two palm
trees on the side along with buildings and green
grass below. It is in a style somewhat primitive,
except, whichever way I turn my head Christ is
always exactly above, looking right down into my
eyes. Even if I close my eyes, I can still feel
the intensity of his glare. It’s this glare
that makes me uncomfortable.
Down in the
tower, I can hear his bare feet shuffling across
the cool stone floor. I don’t know what
he’s doing down there, or how long he’s
been there. Some days I can hear a few words
spoken to visitors as they make their way through
the tower, but I have never been able to make out
what he says. It’s only a muffled
conversation, and the more I strain to catch a
word or two the less I hear.
I can’t see
anything or anyone down there. I don’t know
how long I’ve been up here either, maybe
it's been days or maybe years, I can’t say.
I try to move my head to look out into the
distance. I want to see if I recognize anyone or
to see if the fashions have changed. I am
searching something to give me a clue as to how
long I’ve been in this painting.
Unfortunately, I can’t see beyond the
gallery outside the rotunda.
At night,
everything is different, although I don’t
know how it comes to be so. Sometimes, as the sun
moves across the rotunda and shadows start to
appear near the altar, I succumb to a peaceful
sleep. When I wake in a sparse dimness, I find
myself sitting on the oak bench again. I lift my
eyes, and the painting is still there. Christus
is again lying on the alter. His hands, arms,
feet, legs and torso are in the same position,
hanging over the edge of the altar, just as the
painter left them.
Every night I
stand up and move towards the stairs but, they
have disappeared. What used to be a staircase is
now a big black hole, and I am afraid to stretch
out my foot and feel for something solid. I am
afraid of falling into deep, black, eternal
nothingness.
Instead, I
wonder over to the other side of the tower to a
small window where I can feel the cool night
breezes, and off in the distance I can see lights
in another mountain village. I’ve long
forgotten the name of the village or the names of
it’s inhabitants but, the lights reassure me
that someone is still there.
On clear nights
whispering voices float through the air and
someone sings in the distance. I don’t
recognize these voices, but they keep me company.
I don’t feel alone as I pull up my bench to
the large table and remove a sheet of paper from
its drawer to leave this message. Just to let you
know I’m trapped somewhere in eternity,
between dusk and dawn. But, all the voices
outside the tower walls tell me I’m not
alone. Just in case you are wondering, Christ is
asleep on the altar, in the painting, on the
wall. But the night is retreating, I hear the
birds stirring, soon it will be time for me to go
back to work.
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©2002 scm -
1521 – 070415
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