I am thinking of Michelangelo’s La Pieta today, a marble sculpture of the Virgin Mary holding Christ in her lap after the Crucifixion. Yeah, you know, just thinking about some light, happy things.
I remember seeing this sculpture in person when I was about 26 years old—two years older than Michelangelo was when he completed the sculpture. I don’t know about you, but there is absolutely nothing I did in my 24th year of life on this planet that even begins to approach the greatness and genius of this piece of art. In fact, I don’t think there was anything great or genius about my life at 24; imagine The Three Stooges on psychedelic drugs and that should give you a picture of what my life looked like that year.
I wept when I first beheld La Pieta. Not very original, I know, but I think weeping ranks right up there as one of the very few appropriate responses to this piece. I cannot possibly describe the beauty of this hunk of sculpted marble; using words to describe the beauty that is La Pieta would be like lighting a fart to describe the sun. I remember standing in dim light before the sculpture, just aching as my eyes caressed the folds of Mary’s robes, Christ’s limp, thin feet, her smooth cheeks, his tousled hair, their hands. I remember how my eyes gave up their tears, how they fell from my face to my collarbones, wetting my shirt as I listened to the shuffle and echoes of a throng of tourists in the great belly of St. Peter’s.
Now. I am not Catholic or particularly religious at all, for that matter. I’m not even staunchly Christian; I don’t believe Christ was THE only son of God, though I do think he was a very cool dude and undoubtedly the real thing. And at the time, I wasn’t a mother, so I wasn’t exactly grooving on the whole Mary thing. And in terms of the art itself, I’m not at all knowledgeable about art, art history, or anything like that. My point is, I’m not exactly sure why I was crying (which is not really a point at all, I realize this). It’s just that the beauty of the whole thing shook something deep inside me.
Maybe it was the Great Mother archetype (that’s a big word I learned in college that’s kind of like “irony”: I can’t define it, but I know it when I see it.) Or the Hero archetype. You know, maybe something fundamentally human inside me recognized Mary and Jesus (and the Mary and Jesus in all of us), and wept for them. And wept for all of us.
Or maybe it was the moment that the sculpture captured that got to me. The it’s-darkest-just-before-dawn moment: Christ is dead, not yet risen, and his mother—his mother—is holding his dead body. How Mary didn’t just up and die of heartbreak right then and there is a mystery to me.
Speaking of Mary, here’s something interesting. There are many theories about why Mary appears so young in the sculpture—even younger than her son—and why she has such a calm, beatific expression. The theory I find most haunting is that Mary is actually holding her infant son, his destiny hidden from her, and it is only we who can see the destiny, the crucified Christ.
There are times I hold my sons in my arms and think of La Pieta’s Mary, wondering what destinies lay hidden from me as I gaze peacefully at my perfect, fat baby boys.
I know I cannot keep them from all harm, any more than I can take credit for the great things they may do in their lives. And this realization is reborn in me each day. Each day, I watch them go deeper and farther into world; I watch them become more and more of who they are. I love, and let go, and love, and let go. And it is beautiful. And at the same time, it makes me ache.
Ache, strangely, just like that day in St. Peter’s.
I remember seeing this sculpture in person when I was about 26 years old—two years older than Michelangelo was when he completed the sculpture. I don’t know about you, but there is absolutely nothing I did in my 24th year of life on this planet that even begins to approach the greatness and genius of this piece of art. In fact, I don’t think there was anything great or genius about my life at 24; imagine The Three Stooges on psychedelic drugs and that should give you a picture of what my life looked like that year.
I wept when I first beheld La Pieta. Not very original, I know, but I think weeping ranks right up there as one of the very few appropriate responses to this piece. I cannot possibly describe the beauty of this hunk of sculpted marble; using words to describe the beauty that is La Pieta would be like lighting a fart to describe the sun. I remember standing in dim light before the sculpture, just aching as my eyes caressed the folds of Mary’s robes, Christ’s limp, thin feet, her smooth cheeks, his tousled hair, their hands. I remember how my eyes gave up their tears, how they fell from my face to my collarbones, wetting my shirt as I listened to the shuffle and echoes of a throng of tourists in the great belly of St. Peter’s.
Now. I am not Catholic or particularly religious at all, for that matter. I’m not even staunchly Christian; I don’t believe Christ was THE only son of God, though I do think he was a very cool dude and undoubtedly the real thing. And at the time, I wasn’t a mother, so I wasn’t exactly grooving on the whole Mary thing. And in terms of the art itself, I’m not at all knowledgeable about art, art history, or anything like that. My point is, I’m not exactly sure why I was crying (which is not really a point at all, I realize this). It’s just that the beauty of the whole thing shook something deep inside me.
Maybe it was the Great Mother archetype (that’s a big word I learned in college that’s kind of like “irony”: I can’t define it, but I know it when I see it.) Or the Hero archetype. You know, maybe something fundamentally human inside me recognized Mary and Jesus (and the Mary and Jesus in all of us), and wept for them. And wept for all of us.
Or maybe it was the moment that the sculpture captured that got to me. The it’s-darkest-just-before-dawn moment: Christ is dead, not yet risen, and his mother—his mother—is holding his dead body. How Mary didn’t just up and die of heartbreak right then and there is a mystery to me.
Speaking of Mary, here’s something interesting. There are many theories about why Mary appears so young in the sculpture—even younger than her son—and why she has such a calm, beatific expression. The theory I find most haunting is that Mary is actually holding her infant son, his destiny hidden from her, and it is only we who can see the destiny, the crucified Christ.
There are times I hold my sons in my arms and think of La Pieta’s Mary, wondering what destinies lay hidden from me as I gaze peacefully at my perfect, fat baby boys.
I know I cannot keep them from all harm, any more than I can take credit for the great things they may do in their lives. And this realization is reborn in me each day. Each day, I watch them go deeper and farther into world; I watch them become more and more of who they are. I love, and let go, and love, and let go. And it is beautiful. And at the same time, it makes me ache.
Ache, strangely, just like that day in St. Peter’s.
*sigh*...i LOVE this blog...so very much.
ReplyDeleteoh, god, this got me all kinds of choked up. i had the same same same reaction to the Pieta when I was in Italy at age 22. I never linked it to my journey as a mother until now.
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