Empire of Light (20 page)

Jason. You’re here to see the miracles? Excellent. Feed me, and I’ll shed light on the greatest of wonders.

Screw you, light box. I’m already running low on funds. I’m going to save my lunch money and sketch by the sunlight, which I’m sure some NPR fancy pants art critic will tell you is the best way to view a Caravaggio, anyway. It’s at this moment, at the zenith of my indignation, that a school group barrels into the church escorted by a teacher with literally a sack full of euros. The guy begins to drop coins into the timer like a white trash granny at an Atlantic City slot machine. I sketch greedily as I leech off of the students’ light. Yes. Do my bidding. Suckers. Give me light!

Hey…

The light went dead.

The teacher is so busy pontificating that he let the damn meter run out.

I slip one of the little brats some of my chocolate snacks from my hotel and I point at the light box.

The kid actually winks at me.

“
Scusami. Non posso vedere i dinti,”
he says to his teacher, whining that he can’t see the painting.

CLINK!

CLINK!

CLINK!

CLINK
!

The teacher drops a few more euro into the box. It whirs to life and once again there is light.

“
Grazie,”
the boy says happily and chews like a cow on the chocolate I gave him. It’s brats like this that make me want to have kids.

The school group leaves, but is followed closely by three other tour groups, giving me a solid hour of free light and Caravaggio lectures. This is like Hanukkah. The Eternal Flame was only supposed to last a few minutes, but it burned bright for me for hours. A brotha could get used to this miracle business.

The first painting I take on is
The Calling of Saint Matthew,
which takes place in a dark counting house.

Matthew sits with other tax collectors hunched over a table, greedily counting their ill-gotten dough. The Counting Room is not very well lit, considering they’re doing something as tedious as counting money. What never changes throughout history is this, if you roll up on a room where dudes are counting money in the dark, turn your ass around and exit, ‘cause there’s some shady shit going down.

The only light illuminating the scene is from the door that was opened by Christ and his main boy, Peter. The light jets through the blackness and stabs at Matthew. Jesus casually points at Matthew, calling him to leave the tax game and walk with him and Peter. Matthew doesn’t seem all that interested in leaving such a lucrative occupation, especially for one that entails sleeping on the ground and saving souls. He points a questioning finger at himself, as if to say, Homer Simpson style,
You want who to go where to do the which now?

Sketching this painting is a bitch. Attempting to organize all of these figures in one space is a mathematical world of crap. The characters’ proportions
and
their relation to each other
and
to the table is almost impossible for me. For my sketch to actually work in real life, the table has to be three different heights at the same time. The painting is kicking my ass.

Pwned
.

My drawing is a piece of shit, and it’s time to move on to
The Martyrdom of Saint Matthew,
which by my count, has a cast of thirteen characters.

Out of the frying pan…

Moving from the first painting to the second is a massive jump in time for Matthew. In
The Calling
,Matthew had just been called to save souls. In
Martyrdom,
we witness his murder.

Caravaggio chose to set Matthew’s assassination in a dark baptismal chapel. Matthew’s killer, in pure Godfather style, has disguised himself as a worshiper ready to be baptized. However, instead of a baptism, he decides to buy a ticket on the express rocket ship to hell, and stabs one of Jesus’ ace boon coons in the chest.

Tsk. Tsk. Tsk.

This drawing goes much easier than the first one, especially after I edit out ten of the thirteen characters.

My vacation. My rules. Screw you.

Plus, the assassin is almost naked, and nude bodies are much easier to draw than clothed. All those drooping tunics, puffed clothes and plumed hats are a pain in my natural ass to sketch. Case in point, the centerpiece of this altar,
The Inspiration of Saint Matthew.

On first blush it seems like it would be the easiest of the three paintings to sketch. After all, it only consists of two figures.

While Matthew is in the midst of a massive brain fart of faith, a spiritual writer’s block, if you will, an Angel enveloped within a flowing white gown appears floating above Matthew’s head and comes to his aid. The Angel counts out “one” on his finger as if to say, “Okay, dude, Act I, introduce your protagonist. He’s Jesus Christ. He’s the Messiah. His father is God. Then establish his obstacle.”

Matthew probably asked, “Well, what
is
his obstacle?”

And the Angel replied, “He’s Jesus Christ. He’s the Messiah. His father is God.”

Instead of sitting majestically at his desk, Matthew desperately kneels on a bench, which is teetering and close to falling out of the painting. He looks over his shoulder, up at the angel with an expression of shock, like a child who was caught reading a comic book in class.

The theater of this painting kind of tickles me, but the sketching of it makes me want to punch somebody in the face. The flowing clothes are murdering me. Making cloth look loose and fluid is just art all unto itself. I’m just too damn ham-fisted of an artist to pull that off.

A priest approaches me with an “I’m sorry” look plastered on his puss. I already know where this is going. I’m about to get kicked the hell out.

“
Mi scusi, Signore, ma la chiesa—
”

“
Sì. Lo so. Lo so,
” I interrupt, telling him I understand.

I raise my Brownie to take a picture before leaving.

“No pictures,” he says sternly in English, picking up on my accent.

“I don’t use a flash. It’ll only take a second.”

“Sorry. No exceptions I’m afraid.”

I’m afraid you can kiss my ass.
I don’t know when I’ll ever be back here and I’m not leaving before I get my shot.

“Uffa,” sighs the Father as a boisterous group of tourists enter the church.

While he’s distracted trying to get these fools’ attention, I wrench my arm away from his grip, aim the Brownie and fire!

FLASH!

Damn it. I forgot my glasses.

I’m blinded.

The Father snags me by the ear and drags me back to the exit.

“Son. You don’t have to go home but you have to get the hell up out of here.”

Kicked out of another church, once again. I need to get my soul right with God ‘cause he’s keeps givin’ me the bum’s rush out of his cribs.

Well, if the church isn’t interested in my company, maybe it’s time I visit the one piazza in Rome where the church doesn’t exist. It’s a piazza with a rich history of blood and murder. What or whomever is going to visit me after this last snap shot will have to catch up with me there.

It’s time I visit of the Piazza of The Dark Lord of the Sith.

Cue Vader Theme
.

***

I dash out of the Metro, satisfied that I didn’t forget my ticket this time, and head in the direction of an ill-famed neighborhood of Rome known as
Il Campo de’ Fiori
. As I enter the piazza, in my head, I hear the dark strains of John William’s Imperial March theme from
Star Wars
. It’s only in this piazza where one would expect to find a platoon of Storm Troopers stationed here to keep the Emperor’s foot firmly atop the neck of the Roman citizenry. In the center of the piazza is a menacing statue of what seems to be the Dark Lord and Emperor of the Galactic Empire, Darth Sidious, shrouded in a dark hooded cloak.

This piazza is
dope.

Il Campo de’ Fiori
means, “The Field of Flowers.” On first blush, the piazza is a quaint little square where one can buy fresh fruit and flowers, and then dine at a charming outdoor cafe. However, underneath the happy facade is a bloodline of death and violence.

In the beginning, this location was nothing more than a tranquil meadow, thus its name. But over time the field of flowers morphed into a public square and became the location of countless grisly public executions. It’s one of the only piazzas in Italy without a church. And where most piazzas have fountains or obelisks at its heart, here there is only a statue of what seems to be the cloaked dark angel of death.

The statue is not of Darth Sidious, of course. It is the image of
Giordano Bruno
, philospher/mathematician/astronomer/occultist who was burned at this very spot for heresy. He had reached the conclusion that philosophy and magic were superior to religion.

It was also in this piazza where my friend Caravaggio liked to enjoy a friendly game of tennis every now and then. That seems to be innocuous enough, huh? Oh. Did I mention that Caravaggio murdered his tennis opponent in a blood rage here, and then took it on the lamb to Napoli?

Field of Flowers, indeed.

I purchase a bright, delicious looking apple from one of the street vendors and take a seat under the long, gloomy shadow of Giordano Bruno. I like this place. Nobody’s kicking me out of here, like at the church. Nobody is charging me to admire Bruno’s statue. I’ll just chill here and wait for my next magic camera encounter to show. I take a huge chunky bite out of the apple, the juice running down my chin. I’m chillin’ in the shadow of
Sidious
and I feel fine.

Rain begins to fall on the Piazza, and my encounter is a no show. Maybe my aim was off with the Brownie, and I ended up taking a shot of the window instead of the painting. God only knows. Anyway, I’ve got massive time to kill so I’m going to haul my heathen ass to the Vatican and snag a sketch of the last painting on my list for Rome,
The Entombment of Christ.

I make my way to the subway huddled under a black umbrella. There’s nothing but grey clouds and rain this morning, and I couldn’t be happier. I find the bare sun to be oppressive, especially lately. It’s only when it’s heavily filtered through thick, dark clouds that I feel free. Not to mention the fact that rain is to tourists what swimming pools are to cats. The two just don’t go together. I should have the Vatican to my greedy self.

I slap cash down on the barrel head and purchase my subway ticket, slide it into the machine and bound down the stairs to the lower depths of Rome to the train.

Shit!

I forgot my ticket in the turnstile machine. Again!

Are you kidding me?

Normally it wouldn’t be a big deal, but today the Metro security has decided to post a platoon of wannabe cops on the track platform to catch cheats sneaking onto the train. I spot them as I reach the bottom of the stairs, and I freeze. What’s my move? If I make a dash back up the stairs to get my ticket, I’ll draw attention to myself and get caught. To hell with it. I’ll just be honest with them. Hey. I’m not their target. They want habitual cheats, not tourists. Tourism is what puts food on the table here. What am I worried about?

“
Il biglietto per favore,
” a young Metro cop says, politely asking for my ticket.

I tell him in Italian that I left my ticket in the machine, “
Mi scusi ma l’ho laciato nella macchina.
”

“You are American?” he asks in English.

“Yes, I am.” Cool. Maybe if this guy speaks the language he’s sympathetic to the cause.

“Okay. I need to see your ticket, or I’ll have to fine you,” he says as his smile disappears.

“Look. I bought a ticket. I just left it in the machine. It’s probably still there.”

“I don’t have time to search for your ticket.”

“Okay. Well, we can talk to the woman I purchased the ticket from. She’ll vouch for me.”

“
Signore
, do you know how many people she sees in a single morning?”

“How many black Americans has she seen this morning wearing a distinctive yellow jacket such as this?” I try to say with a touch of humor.

“Yes. Your jacket does stink, but your bad taste is not an issue here.”

“What? No.
Distinctive
not
stink
-tive,” I correct him with a smile.