Arguing With the Pope

Rome, Lateran Basilica

The presence of my symptoms of Stendhal's Syndrome existed in me in a state of incubation for some time, and would only surface when I had been looking at art for too long -- for example, after spending an entire day at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. One day, toward closing time in a museum, I don't recall which one, I found myself stopping exactly half- way between the paintings which were hung on a long expanse of gray velvet-covered wall. I would look at a small section of the velvet, skip past the next painting, and then proceed to another section of velvet between two other paintings. The paintings were those huge black ones in which all you can see is darkness, glare from the lights, and occasionally an elbow or knee emerging from shadows.

After looking at so many large black paintings, even the frames of which were hard work to look at, it was kind of a pleasure to look at the gray velvet. This kind of viewing was upsetting, however, to the guards who immediately became suspicious and asked politely if they could "help" me. When I replied that I didn't need any help, they would continue to eye me strangely and were only happy when I went on to another room.

At another time I could not tear myself away from watching a safe being moved by a tall crane when I was supposed to be going to the Museum of Modern Art to see an important exhibition everyone was talking about. By the time the safe was securely in place and all the people watching had satisfied themselves about which building it was intended for, the museum was closed and I was forced to return home without seeing the show.

I do not think, however, that this illness is at all unique to me. Who, for example can remember the scenes from movies we saw as children? On the contrary we remember the theatre very well but the movies hardly at all. I can't even remember the movies or the theaters. Instead I remember the sensation of emerging from the theatre and finding out that it was already completely dark outside where as when I went in it was still bright day. I would be disconcerted by the darkness. Walking home, I would be upset by disquieting thoughts. What might have happened out here during the day while I was beguiled and in a trance? Perhaps while I was watching some actor being stabbed on the screen, someone I knew and loved was dying in real life. And I would practically run home to assure myself that nothing had changed, that everything was all right.

When I arrived in Rome everything was already so strange. They have phones, but they are a different shape and color. There are taxis, subways, streetlights, and sidewalks, but all configured in such a different manner that everything seemed to be rushing toward me with a strange intensity. In many instances, I was unable to enter churches and museums because what was transpiring in front of these establishments was just too arresting. In short, there were simply too many safes being moved from one place to another for me to bring myself to enter. For example, I came across an especially large and impressive church, the Lateran Basilica, and on the steps was a person addressing a throng of people. He was talking about how the foundations of that church dated from Roman times and that it had been continuously revised and rebuilt. He explained in detail how a certain architect was asked to submit plans to the Pope for a reconstruction and that his plans were rejected. But the architect was undaunted; he so believed in his plans that he argued with the Pope. He had the audacity to argue with the Pope! He won the argument and the Pope accepted his plans.

How marvellous. I was transfixed listening to the story. I understood something important. We must all go and argue with the Pope, and we must win our argument!

I could not bring myself to enter the church; I didn't want to disturb that feeling. I walked away saying to myself, "I want to have an argument with the Pope, right away."