The Sistine Chapel

There are certain things that are impossible to understand unless one experiences them firsthand. Growing up, my parents had a full-sized print of The Last Judgment hanging in their bedroom. I used to spend hours gazing upon it, in awe of the details; it was mesmerizing. The images here function in a similar fashion. They depict what is obviously incredible art, pieces that may be worth pausing on, pieces worthy of your admiration. But similar to the bedroom art belonging to my parents, they’re duplicates. Standing beneath the original, I realized the painting back home might as well have been an echo. With these words, I hope to bridge the gap for you. Not by describing the images; you can do that well enough yourself through these pictures. Rather, by explaining what it is actually like to stand there. Because until you’ve been there yourself, no imitation will come close.

You’ve spent the last three hours walking through the Vatican in a scorching August heat wave. There is no air conditioning. You’ve been drinking water from the bathroom sinks and pulling your shirt overtop of the rotating fans in futile attempts to cool down. You are exhausted, sweaty, and your feet are sorer than they’ve ever been. You’d like nothing more than to return to your hostel and take a nap. A sign directs you and the other museum patrons towards the Sistine Chapel, after which the exit follows. There’s a buzz of anticipation at finally seeing the Crown Jewel, but you’re about ready to be finished. You climb the stairs and turn the corner,

And there it is.

You are, quite literally, stopped in your tracks. Your feet remain glued to the floor of the entrance as you try and find words to articulate what you’re beholding. It stretches out across the ceiling like the stars across the canvas of the night sky. The aura it emits is tangible, and it demands something of you. You sense it’s different than the brutish violence and crude demeanour of the Colosseum. It seems to possess a graceful elegance that asks you to slow down. You turn towards the centrepiece. You find yourself shocked by a sensation of nakedness and vulnerability as you examine just how close Adam’s finger is from that of God. You notice a part of you is angry, crying out in frustration and willing him to move closer, if only he would extend his finger and grasp the hand of his Saviour. The other part of you smirks knowingly at the relaxed, cavalier demeanour and wry expression he adopts as he gazes at the outstretched arm of God. It is a sentiment you find yourself all too familiar with.

Your eyes lower from the ceiling to the Altar Wall, landing upon The Last Judgment. The figure of Christ, situated at the centre of the narrative in His eternal power and glory, commands your attention. Punished souls begin the descent to hell on His right, while those of the blessed ascend to heaven, shepherded by angels, on His left. You notice how everything seems to flow outward from Him.

You find yourself on a bench leaning with your back up against the wall, disconcerted by the sea of emotion within you. All around you, Italian voices, heavily-accented, shout “No picture!” at regular intervals. People are wandering into each other, necks craned, gazing skywards. Tourists cast furtive glances around the room before hastily snapping pictures, trying to be as discreet as possible so as to avoid a scolding from museum security.

You sit for what you think is a half hour. You’re not sure; you’ve completely lost track of time. Your eyes cannot seem to figure out where to focus; they hungrily drink in the ceiling and wall. There’s more detail than you could hope to absorb even if you spent a week looking straight up. Beneath the sense of awe and wonder, an anxiety surfaces, the result of the realization that you soon have to depart this place. You stand up to leave, and walk backwards out of the Chapel.

So while it’s considerably cheaper to look from your phone, if you ever get the opportunity, please go. Go and experience what it’s like to have your breath taken from you. To see yourself immortalized in the paint on a ceiling half a millennia before you were born. To experience that which millions of eyes have gazed upon, yet that which seems to speak directly to you, telling you its story. Telling you your story.