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by Rebecca Weiner
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Learning about art often means sitting in a dark room with sleep-inducing blue lights, looking at old slides of paintings. Or it means looking at works of art on the walls of famous museums. It’s pretentious. It makes art into high culture, exclusive to those who can "understand". I can’t remember the last time I heard a work of art described in an art history class as "beautiful". In fact, as a student of art history, I’d suppressed the drive to look freshly at it with a sense of inquisitiveness and imagination. I revived that drive on a class trip to Sicily. Traveling with student journalists (rather than students in art history), I regained my love of art. Being with non-experts in the field of ancient art was quite refreshing to me. It excited me to see Byzantine cathedrals and Greek and Roman temples at their origin. This was the real thing, right where it was built and largely untouched since.
In Sicily, beauty occurs naturally. Spectacular imagery abounds: the deep blue of the Mediterranean, waves of hills washed in golden wildflowers, rocky cliffs that rise up out of the sea, and fields of orange and lemon trees. Even the smaller details of the island are beautiful. Bright hand-painted ceramics, a Sicilian specialty, line the shop windows. Even the food is art to Sicilians–just observe the intricacy of the pastries. Still not convinced? Then taste them and you’ll know! Even the people testify to the uniqueness of their island–if you ask them, "Are you Italian?" they will correct you by replying, "No, I’m Sicilian." No wonder then that the art and architecture, too, are stunning: glorious cathedrals and temples of ancient civilizations fit into a beautiful landscape.
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In Palermo, I was awe struck by the interior of the Cathedral of Monreale. Covered in mosaic from floor to the ceiling, it shimmers in the dim light. I had to sit down for a long time and just look before I could take pictures or even hear our guide describe it. Filling its apse is the most striking mosaic--that of the "Christ Pantocrator", an image intended to show Christ as the Almighty. Gold light illuminates the space, making it impossible to not find this place spiritual, even for a non-religious person like myself. Though this cathedral seems like something that should be closed off for visitors only, people still use the church for worship. It is a natural part of the Sicilians’ lives and open for everyone.
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In Sicily, things that were most captivating often seemed least expected. Stopping at the small fishing village of Porticello one afternoon, the strong odor of fish made me want to run right back into the bus. But as I ventured into the town, fishermen were selling their fresh catches of the day, yelling excitedly to the crowds. Seeing our cameras, they put on a show for us of their slimy octopi, prickly sea urchins, and slippery silver fish. It was as unexpected a joy as the Greek ruins of Segesta.
At Segesta, our group waited for a bus to take us to the top of a hill where we would see a Greek amphitheater. "Why on earth would the Greeks want to build their theatre on top of a mountain?" I wondered. The answer took my breath away.
The theatre overlooks a valley, richly green and hazy in the afternoon light. Despite a few roads and telephone wires below us, it was easy to imagine how it looked to the Greeks thousands of years ago. Sitting there on the cool stone benches, the sun setting over the valley, I imagined the theatre full of spectators, watching the tragedies of playwrights still known to us today. As it turned out, all Greek theatres were built facing either an ocean or a valley so there would always be a beautiful backdrop and a cool breeze.
The
next night, driving to Agrigento, we passed through The Valley of the Temples,
where we could see three Greek temples, all illuminated by a soft, yellow light.
On a hill above the road, the golden temples appeared to float out of the darkness,
rising toward the heavens in silence. So still in the blackness, I knew that
I was looking at something ancient, from another world. It was so quiet when
we got off of the bus to look. We were alone walking by them.
Towering over me, they seemed more isolated and ancient than they did from the road. By day, the temples had a completely different feel. Filled with tourists, the temples are not less amazing, only less personal.
Later that day I had some time to myself to reflect on what I’d seen. After eating lunch at a seaside restaurant, I went out to the beach, kicked off my sandals, rolled up my jeans, and stepped into the Mediterranean. The sand was smooth and the water was comfortably cool. I collected some rocks and shells to later remember this moment.
Then I stood still, the water washing away the sand as I sank into it. My classmates were small figures, far away down on the other end of the beach. In the silence and solitude I thought of these waters touching civilization after civilization--the shores of worlds physically dead, but rich in art and treasures for me to see thousands of years later.
At that moment I felt peace. There may be no better place than Sicily.
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