Florence, Italy
Like most great works of art and architecture in Italy, the entrance is unassuming. It’s just a little concrete bridge over some fallen stones, green grass and a crumbling old wall. It’s not exciting or interesting at all, and it certainly doesn’t seem worth the 10 euros (that would be $15, mind you, with the lovely exchange rate we currently have) you just paid to enter.
But then you walk through a huge stone arch, round, Roman and still perfect after over 2,000 years and emerge from dark and dankness into the bright sunlight of a huge ancient city. There are houses, businesses, markets, an amphitheatre, a stadium, even public baths and a brothel — all looming in the shadow of Mount Vesuvius, the mighty and mysterious volcano. This is Pompeii, that ancient Roman colony that was destroyed by the aforementioned volcano in 79 A.D.
I find the contrast between initial impressions of places (entrances, doors, ticket areas) and then the surprise and beauty of the actual structures to always be an appropriate way to describe the art and architecture in Italy. As much as it has become a trite occurrence in my writing, it is the best way for me to describe the way this country handles and maintains its artistic treasures. Often, you have to turn on the lights in frescoed church chapels, while the modernized or bland exteriors like the unfinished façade of the Medici church of San Lorenzo, designed by Brunelleschi, often lead to spectacular interiors.
Pompeii is certainly no exception; On the way up to the site from the small train station you can find food and souvenir stalls hawking everything from bottled water to faux gladiator figurines — perfect examples of the way tourism has made artistic and historical sites locations for modern commercial behavior — but certainly not what one imagines when thinking of the most important archealogical ruins of the Roman empire.
This contrast between outside and inside became even clearer for me as I explored Pompeii. The houses — or should I say remains of houses — are, for the most part, humble and ordinary on the outside: simple stone, simple Roman design. But when you enter into one of these dwellings, there are often colonnades around inner pools of water in the atrium, bronze statues of ancient deities and beautiful frescoes on the walls — scenes of dancing women in floating ethereal drapery, men blowing lutes and drinking wine, mysterious depictions of ancient Bacchanal rites. Pompeii is unique in its plethora of preserved works of ancient art — the same ash from Vesuvius that descended on the town and suffocated its inhabitants also blanketed it in a protective coating that conserved the art, artifacts and even bodies of the people inside, giving archaeologists, classicists and art historians a perfect example of ancient Roman daily life and society.
Entering these dwellings was an almost supernatural experience. On the one hand, though the houses were merely ruins and people hadn’t inhabited them for centuries, it still felt like I was intruding. It’s hard not to think this when, in dusty glass cases just standing in the middle of rooms, there are small body casts of Pompeii’s victims curled up into fetal positions or in the mid-motion of running away in terror. The spirit of the Romans is palpable, from the brick ovens in their kitchens to the portraits of families on the walls to the casts of their bodies in the house.
As a student of art history, visiting Pompeii and seeing art, architecture and history so seamlessly connected were experiences I will never forget. Pompeii as an architectural and historical entity speaks of itself merely by its presence; there are little, if any, signs to identify the buildings, and one must just explore, taking in the sensations of seeing and touching to give meaning. This unequivocal experience of seeing and walking through the history and art, combined with the juxtaposition of the interior beauty with misleading exteriors, is something I only hope future generations will someday see in the ruins of our own society.
Sarah Mellott is a junior in the College. She can be reached at mellott@thehoya.com. This is the final installment of I Think, Therefore I Art.