Most people call it a bucket list—a defined set of “things”
to do before you, er, kick the bucket.
My bucket list is actually a set of pilgrimages. There are places, as well as landmarks of
human and artistic achievement, that have inspired or driven me since
childhood. Numbering just over a dozen,
these are not simply destinations for me.
I journey as a mission-driven pilgrim to these sites, seeking meaning
and ruminating on the significance of the moment. In practice, I love to build anticipation,
lapping up every relevant fact, myth, and urban legend, and then, after much
anticipation, set out in the early hours to face the object of my
obsession.
Over the years, I have journeyed like this to many places
that have meaning or fascination for me—either for their geographical or
historical importance—knocking off the bulk of my sacred list. My list contains works of art, ancient
wonders, as well as geographical spots.
I do not pay much attention to internal consistency of my list. It becomes a pilgrimage if it speaks to
me. For example, my visit to the Berlin
Wall was fascinating, but not a pilgrimage.
On the other hand, a thrilling moment for me was standing with my husband
and just-turned-one son on the Four Corners, a point where you can stand
simultaneously in Colorado, Utah, Arizona and New Mexico (now how cool is
that?)
My pilgrimages have included seeing the Book of Kells at
Trinity College in Dublin, an illuminated manuscript of the Four Gospels dating
back to 800. I journeyed to the
acropolis to see the Parthenon (twice), but had to add another pilgrimage to
the British Museum to see that same ancient temple’s priceless Elgin Marbles,
stolen by the English for safekeeping. I
derive a particular joy from seeing the enduring qualities of centuries-old
man-made achievements. I love the
persistence of the things themselves, as well as participating in mankind’s
preservation of history and treasure.
It was very moving to be able to stand at the Western Wall,
tucking a private prayer in the crevices among so many others. I also felt a spiritual and intellectual
calling to visit certain monuments of other faiths. Hagia Sofia in Istanbul, as well as Notre
Dame and Chartres in France, were artistic and architectural icons that made
for moving personal pilgrimages.
Today was another of those long-awaited days of
pilgrimage. Although it is hyped beyond
reason in Italy, I have yearned for decades to cast my eyes upon Michelangelo’s
David. Certainly there are enough photos
and websites and reproductions to keep any girl happy, but I needed to feel the
spirit of David up close and personal. In
truth, the city of Florence is an embarrassment of artistic treasures each as
beautiful and significant as Michelangelo’s young hero. But I think of David the way most women my
age think about George Clooney. I am
here in Florence to see him.
David was originally sculpted to stand at the entrance to
the Palazzo Vecchio, where now a superfluous reproduction stands
mockingly. Dozens of tourists snap their
cameras at the faux David; I wonder how many of them think they are seeing the
real thing. The real man is the
showpiece of the Galleria dell’Accademia, a building that was formerly the
workshop of Michelangelo and others.
There, he is displayed upon a high pedestal much as he was intended as
an outside sculpture, but he is protected from the elements as well as the
constant shock of flash bulbs.
I always worry that my quest will end with
disappointment. Some works of art, such
as the Mona Lisa at the Louvre, or American Gothic at the Chicago Art
Institute, end up being much smaller in real life that you imagine when you see
them in books. The sculpture of David is
just the opposite. Mere photographs
cannot do justice to the power of this figure.
Reaching 17 feet high, the larger than life hero seems more like Goliath
than the diminutive boy who felled him with a rock.
David’s physique is not only beautiful (yeah, he’s a hunk!)
it is carved purposely in such fascinating detail. With a 360-degree view, I was able to see for
the first time the story that Michelangelo is telling. David is standing on his right leg, his
slingshot draped over his left shoulder.
He looks to his left, sighting his oversized opponent. The leg that bears his weight ripples with
muscle flexion. The veins in his right
hand dilate as he fingers the fatal stone.
With his left foot, his toes curl to grasp the ground beneath him,
readying himself to transfer his weight from one leg to the other. I can imagine the movement as he follows
through with the attack, hurling the rock and striking the target.
I was elated to circle around and around David, barely able
to believe I was finally standing there.
I tried to imagine the rectangular chunk of marble on which Michelangelo
toiled to liberate this image. In the
pathway leading up to David, there are several unfinished sculptures, those
that Michelangelo abandoned, the promise of an image stillborn in stone.
But the day was bittersweet.
Even as I crossed another pilgrimage off my list, I realized that there
are so few items remaining. It is
another subtle reminder that the years are piling on. Perhaps I should consider it a sign of a life
well-lived and look forward for once—to those items that have been hard to
cross off. The remaining
destinations: Falling Water, the Great
Wall of China, the Pyramids, and a Concentration Camp.
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