Photo by Kit Clemente
Kit Clemente
Opinions Editor
“Do you ever get tired of this view?” I inquire, while gazing at the glorious Duomo of Florence, situated just outside my Aunt Letizia’s apartment window. Glancing fleetingly at the same scene I rejoice and she answers, “Eh, I guess I’ve gotten used to it. I just don’t even really notice anymore.”
And so, as I spent my summer, not as a lifeguard, not as a camp counselor, but as both a tour guide and a tourist, I began taking note of some interactions with art.
Later in the week, I set out to the Accademia Museum, exhilarated for the free tour and night viewing I scheduled. Upon arriving, I begin my tour, but suddenly become distracted, as I notice that young men dressed in track uniforms keep sprinting through the galleries. As I ask what these young men are doing, my tour guide guffaws, as she had nearly forgotten to explain it was part of the new modern art exhibition. It turns out, the runners served as a metaphor for preoccupied tourists and viewers who simply “come, see, and conquer” masterpieces of art just so they can cross it off their lists, rather than admire the ethereal beauty and expertise found within each piece.
After returning from my work abroad, a familiar image in my kitchen caught my eye: a napkin, with the David imprinted upon it, and the words: to support himself through college, Dave held a series of degrading jobs. Exotic dancer was by far the worst. Repulsed by this degradation of a true inspiration, I realize the ubiquity of this image. It is everywhere: napkins, postcards, t-shirts, boxers, pencils, canvas bags, and more. It is so omnipresent that in many cases people no longer think of it as something extraordinary, something to contemplate, as I certainly did, but as a hackneyed icon.
“Michelangelo, Michelangelo, Michelangelo?” was a hurried question I learned to get used to. Or rather, “What’s famous in here, just tell me what’s famous?” These people not only seemed insolent, but their vulgar questions perturbed me. I would often think to myself, we are in one of the most iconic cathedrals in Florence, Santa Maria del Fiore, hell, every piece is famous. But these people did not concern themselves with these bothersome facts, and many, once realizing ‘Michelangelo’ was nowhere to be found, would cursorily glance, perhaps consider Brunelleschi’s dome and Vasari and Zuccari’s fresco, only to exit and find much more pleasure in an oversized gelato.
This recurring scene became a nightmare to me, as the Italian culture, being such an intrinsic part of my own, was something I wanted all to appreciate, and recognize the emotions behind. I didn’t know who to blame: the tourists or the media. Perhaps in many ways, tourists already had an experience with the art they visited, thanks to how widespread art has become, and so felt as if it was something ordinary. But I despise this thought; art is never common; its enduring context will continue transforming thoughts forever, its questions still mused. And so I swore to myself no matter how many “experiences” I had with art, I would never forget the ways in which it invigorates the mind and soul, and truly give myself time to consider its grandeur, significance, and meaning.
