by Clay Ferrill
That face in the window. Its vivid clarity has burned into my mind now. It hangs there now even in pleasant rumination, in my mind, right there in the background behind my thoughts. Menacing. Looking at me naked and vulnerable, my disfigured face, a damaged man.
Chapter Ten
Day Five, Friday, November 27, 2020, The Vatican, 05:11 A.M. GMT
The Study of Art
Father Luigi Berlusconi, PhD
I walked quickly down the long corridor lined with ancient frescos in various stages of being restored by my department. I come here very often, usually at least once daily, mostly though, twice or more. I have spent entire days in this corridor in early springtime and have even fallen asleep here in pleasant weather. This single corridor, 200 feet in length and 35 feet high at its apex, is perhaps the oldest that has not yet been completely reconstructed and restored in all of Vatican City. Largely because of these quite fragile old master paintings, part of the physical structure itself, considered by all to be priceless.
If you touch them or attempt to relocate them as they have attempted in the past to great catastrophe, they can simply crumble to dust. They are stunningly detailed and richly colored even still with minimal modern restoration and preservation technique used on them, as yet.
I slow my pace intentionally every time I walk this way, deliberately slowing myself, as I move through the back hallways toward the private apartments, my target before I must turn around and head back walking this same way again. Hoping to run into Father Cole. To find him. There are much faster routes through this old and massive structure, a city within a country within a city. But I have to path myself through this way, always. It pleases me. It feeds my soul more accurately, truth told, to view these works as often as I possibly can so I deliberately and intentionally path my way through here frequently. My co-workers all know this and poke at me endlessly about shaving fifteen minutes off if I just avoid going here all together. No. This is my study. He is my muse, Raphael. My purpose. I will not detour or yield. I usually just tell them to mind their own fucking business and stay out of mine.
Lately though, I must admit that I find it especially pleasing to be thinking of Father Cole as I cast my eyes in this place. The Stallion of God in particular. The morning is very chilly today and this exterior corridor is not heated. I have urged that it is the very reason these works are so remarkably well-preserved and have thwarted many attempts to force-heat the space to allow for our year-round restoration and preservation crews, even in the short time that I’ve been here. I have won those arguments thus far, and now, also at my insistence, the entire corridor has since been encased in a glass vacuum and not heated in any way. When no one is inside, 77% of the atmosphere is removed in vacuum. You can’t die if you’re stuck inside. Not total vacuum because that would be too great a pressure on the surface of the precious walls and ceilings.
We will work in the space almost full-crew during spring, summer and into early autumn before the frosts force us out. The coming and often bitterly-cold winters here in Rome where this north-facing corridor only, remains still and quiet and vacant. Like today. Right now. No one comes here in the winter months except me. If I were to hang out here all day today, I wouldn’t see anyone else. My privacy that assured.
My breath billows into the air in this place, so cold and in shadow this time of year. My damn hair is still wet from the quick shower. Now cold and wet on my scalp. Perfect for catching a cold. I intend to skip breakfast with Master Fellow and crew restoration artists from around the world. Walk the place again. I feel compelled to at least search for him. It’s all I can fucking do. I slow my pace here, though, always, more out of respect and admiration for the vision and talent of the artist, Raphael. I think his soul lives in this room. Here in this place, nothing else matters to me. Usually. Cole.
My favorite of the old-world artists, Raphael, is secretly my muse, my inspiration to do my very best work here in this reverent place, always. Centuries dead now I have studied him extensively. He lived his young adult life with another man whose name in that time was erased from all known record. His existence virtually unknown except for the few clues that lead me to believe, a scholar, that he even existed at all. This timeframe indicates that the two men were homosexual. It marks the start of the religious persecution of homosexuals during Pope Leo X’s time. The less artistically talented of the two and therefore of no value to him, was erased from time itself as punishment for their mutual sin.
I can’t think of any other reason and I have studied this from multiple angles. All probable angles and others only remotely possible. High and fucking low. I have read it all. He was very likely, though, put to death that long ago. Fucking heathens back then. Raphael’s young heart must have been so tortured with grief. If what I think happened is actually true. I keep promising myself to just be damned with protocol and put my facts forth and let those facts be known by all. Raphael was just a man. A child of God. He loved another man. So the fuck what. Deal with it. He was a human man.
The artist of these frescos deserves at the very least, my slowing my life momentarily; demanding of me to cast my eyes and my mind on his many works in this vast and gilded palace of God. His art is everywhere here. The artistry of him, by far the most talented artist of his time and very rarely equaled since he lived, if ever, his contributions here announced the arrival of the High Renaissance period, also my favorite period of study and resulting expertise and my earned PhDs in Art History and Cultural Anthropology. In this one hall, well-preserved by nature, and at great expense as well now, paintings this old need almost constant preservation attention just to survive the ravages of time. But not in here. In here time is standing still. There is no rot that these pieces usually reveal when they crumble. We’ve x-rayed them. Extremely accurate particle sensors - no mold present. Fucking unheard of, actually. And I should know.
The last time in records of any restoration work in this hall was in 1791 when the stained-glass panels were added to fill the giant arched porticos and seal the corridor inside from the weather. I think that is when it arrested any aging rot that you expect from this time period. I will begin work on the large-scale Raphael frescos in here next. Perhaps it will become the rest of my life’s work. In this one room. I would be OK with that.
Little known by the outside world, as most of the more well-known Raphael frescos are located within the areas of the public viewing tours through The Room of the Segnatura. These six remaining wall paintings alone and the three corresponding ceiling paintings terminating at their apex, a heaven so true feeling and looking that you can lose yourself there by lying prone on the floor looking up at it. Magical. The rest of them crumbled away in time, sloughing themselves from the walls and ceilings with only small portions of the original surface, still brightly colored, dotting the walls in patches. The ceilings above them, more beautiful heaven, lost forever now. If these were sold and hyper-preserved chemically, it could generate an extensive and vast wealth to the seller for lifetimes to come. World hunger could be ended forever with that much money.
Why then are they not sold to that charitable purpose? I know the answer, but it changes from Pope to Pope now. In my view, it’s wrong to covet such material wealth as a religious institution, but then I am a scholar and painter, not an accountant or Vatican banker. I am though, a priest first, of course. I don’t care as much where the art is or who claims ownership of it. I can attach to it anywhere. It is, after all, my life’s study.
But I see far more than monetary value here. I absolutely fucking hate the term “priceless” because it’s so overused. Even in highly-educated circles, the term is often misinterpreted to mean “valueless”. It applies here more though. These paintings are almost virtually un-retouched. If there is a patch left in here that has been touched since Raphael painted them himself, I have not been able to find it and I’ve already tested with my arsenal. This fact alone makes them worth far more. This one here, the most captivating
to me, a talented painter in my own right. I will always stop to admire, in great detail, the coloration Raphael used to depict the central character of the scene.
Honestly, I learn more from it every time I look at it. He is a beautiful and tall blonde-haired man in a Cannon-red robe that appears to be lined with a rich blue silk. What I stare at now, I let my eyes soften their focus and I see it. Cole’s face. Perhaps that’s what this attraction and must-find-him-now crap is about. I’m drawing some unhealthy parallels with this painting and Cole. I’m combining the two. I may need to see Ms. Weber sooner than next week. I need to lie down on a couch and talk this shit out.
My eyes drift downward and then shoot up to the ceiling. Raphael’s extreme talent, in my greatly humbled-by-him opinion, is not simply the exquisite scene depicted, but rather the richness of the shadowing and coloring he used to achieve the tremendous beauty it conveys to whomever casts their eyes on it. It is, quite literally speaking, stunning to view. I lower my eyes to it again and stare into the face. It is truly captivating me in every sense of that word. Hours upon hours were spent on shadowing this one red garment alone, I know.
As a Restoration Artist specializing in the egg tempera medium, I am well known for my young age. Partly because of my talent at accurate coloration, aging and preservation techniques, but mostly because of my outspokenness and directness about the subjects of my charge in this house of God. It will be my way. Simple. Don’t fucking argue with me.
The scene of the Segnatura contains only one each of Raphael’s attempts made to please the then-Pontiff Pope Julius II in the first decade of the 1500’s. From archival artists notes, in Raphael’s own hand, orders issued by that unique and fucked up Council that controlled his every brush stroke in the end, Raphael’s charge was to produce three large-scale frescos of each of the Church’s primary virtues; Truth, Good and Beauty. His “situation” is implied in paid servitude terms only. He felt like a slave though, I’m sure of it. All of which, I clearly understood, were then and still are highly subjective subjects. The trio of terms needs to include that - Servitude, as the fourth, at least where Raphael is concerned. He was likely never paid a coin to create these. It is such an incredibly descriptive word. Servitude. The word itself gives, which is exactly what he did.
This must have been torturous to poor Raphael. What the fuck should he paint? Each man viewing his work in a singular, dependable progression, individually or in pairs, viewed them from their own subjective perspectives and then documented those opinions into Vatican records. A dizzying labyrinth of requests and I’ve read them all. They never ceased trying to persuade him, even by Papal order, to alter the images presented in his hours of laborious work. Repainting faces he’d already been inspired to create and labored to paint, then forced to repaint.
He had struggled hard to ultimately please His Holiness Pope Julius II alone, despite the formed Council’s constant contextual interference. An example. One cardinal’s nieces and nephews faces are all of the angels painted in his oil paintings. All of them. Over and over for years of paintings. His frescos, more sets of family members of the cardinals at the time. Requests for their own faces to be present in his paintings, well, fucking endless comes top of my mind as a good descriptor term. On record, Pope Leo X commanded he himself be imaged in his painting in that great hall of Raphael. He had also wanted his face on The Stallion of God but Raphael had refused to paint the character fat and told him so. Naturally Pope Leo found that offensive, but dropped the request for The Stallion of God and likely had the artist beaten, which was common, unfortunately.
His first attempts to paint al fresco line this grand corridor and reflect the purest, uninfluenced intentions and visions of the great artist himself. All documented. He wasn’t painting for anyone but Pope Julius’ approval and admiration. Just the one man. It is stunning. At the time they were originally painted, this hallway was exposed to the outdoor elements and not enclosed. He sought solitude here as well. I’m sure of it. His soul lives here. These fine works are unmatched anywhere else throughout history. Right here. Nowhere else on earth but here. And on posters in the Vatican gift shops, of course. They still earn profits from him for the church coffers and have for over four hundred years now.
The iconographic programme of these frescos here, which Raphael painted between 1508 and 1509 when he was just 29 years old, the subjects of each painting were established by that original council of cannon theologians, intended to represent the artist’s interpretations of the three greatest virtues of the human spirit: Truth, Good and Beauty. Supernatural Truth is illustrated in his fresco that was selected for public display Disputation of the Most Holy Sacrament, summarily moved from this hall over a century ago to its current location at a very great expense, while Rational Truth is illustrated above it in the ceiling fresco School of Athens.
Good was expressed in the magnificent and most iconic of them, Cardinal and Theological Virtues and the Law, long the image of the Italian postage stamp, where it is said the members of the council were imposed into the painting at each one’s insistence. Even then they served only themselves and their overreaching egos, naming the painting by vote despite the name that had inspired the artist to produce such a beautiful work in the first place. They took that privilege from him ruthlessly, and it was charity. He was not paid. There are n records proving him to have been paid. Ever. Beauty is represented in the Parnassus with Apollo and the Muses. The central most muse, was Pope Leo’s daughter. An ugly woman in her other paintings, Raphael had made her appear as beautiful as possible in his painting of her. Kind.
The frescos of the ceiling all connected with the scenes directly below them in here from both viewing perspectives, a shared heaven above them. But this corridor is not in public view. Not part of “the tour” circuit. I have a rotation coming up as tour guide since I’m fluent in English and French as well as Italian. I love doing that with my time. I’m often tempted to bring a few of the more inquisitive and talkative of them here to show them what no one else sees.
The allegorical figures of Theology, Philosophy, Justice and Poetry allude in fact to the faculties of the spirit painted on the corresponding walls in here, so, well, you can see what I mean. The public just would not fucking “get” this place, so I don’t ever consider it past that initial thought. His uninterrupted work, his passion, is displayed here best and I have cast eyes on it and studied these all intensely, as I have all of his known works. A very great artist and so incredibly worthy of my meager effort to learn more to understand him better not just as an artist, but as a man as well. Father Cole.
Studying the image of the central scholar figure in School of Athens, I think of Father Cole again, my worry deepening. I haven’t seen him now in two days and when I’m not working, I am frantically walking through the main areas of the Vatican, avoiding the public places during the open hours so I don’t have to stop to kiss and bless anyone and let them touch me. Remaining in constant motion to cover what I can in the vast spaces every break I get from my work. The hour of my official lunch break is spent walking and eating fruit bread or cheese or cut-up fruit - from my cassock pocket. We’re not allowed to eat in common areas so I have to hide it. It’s considered rude, but I’m fucking hungry!
I end each search for Father Cole in the gardens where we first met and talked, because my impression was that it is maybe a favorite and very familiar place to him. It seemed to me like it was anyway. My rather intense and otherwise inexplicable desire to find him and spend time with him is bordering on obsession, I know. I need some couch time. But it’s like I just fix on him in my mind and my feet just start moving to walk and find him. I would even run full-sprint if that would help find him faster.
I’ve shut up about it now, after having casually asked Master Fellow if he knew of the priest. Master Fellow, the man to whom I report to directly and follow closely all guidance from, because he’s truly fucking brilliant, is Father Adrian Fellow. He mentored me during grad
uate school and was primarily responsible for me being recruited to work here. Master Fellow had no knowledge at all. But I had pressed on since I’m comfortable talking to him. Always have been. I talk with him so comfortably not as a priest, but as a man. We talk about self-doubt, diligence and focus. His eyebrows raising as I described his beauty in terms only artists like us would use to describe one of these priceless works. I should have taken that visual cue, I know. I lamented on like a lovesick fool is what I did, thinking back on it again. Maybe he didn’t sense how I am feeling about the guy, but it could not possibly have been more fucking obvious. Obsession. Plain as the nose on my face. See? I need couch time. Horizontal talking. Get this out of me and have it poked and prodded by her sharp, clever mind. I didn’t intentionally hide anything to have raised his suspicions, but he is just treating me differently now that I asked. That my desire for him is not merely carnal desire to be dismissed as an annoyance of celibacy, I don’t talk about it because it deserves to be private to me alone. I should not have asked him. Not much privacy here in this place, so I now guard my feelings more carefully now. They’re mine.