If I say I never quite pictured him this way, it would be half truth because I don't know that I ever pictured him in any pose whatsoever, save with his foot up on Goliath's severed head--this kid, the youngest of Jesse's band of brothers, a shepherd boy with a harp, a singer and a poet, someone so feminine he seemed to fall in love with a friend of his named Jonathan.
But look at him, at Benini's David, gritting his teeth, his body in a curl of tightly wound muscle, a moment away from hurling one deadly stone to bring that giant to his knees and worse. I never thought of him this way because I didn't think of biblical characters like the shepherd/king as human at all. Mostly they were one-dimensional characters in a divine drama of which I was myself a part. They played roles in my faith journey. Young David, the kid with the slingshot, taught me to look upon every foe as someone capable of falling dead at my feet as long as I knew the Creator of heaven and earth was on my side. David was as much a part of me as a mustard seed.
But Bernini's David isn't a concept and he's not a sermon. Neither is he a kid, really. Look at body.
He may not look like some Grecian god--like Michaelangelo's David--but neither does he appear the weakling I believed him to be, picked on by older brothers, an also-ran, the nominee his own father couldn't believe might be considered some future king of Israel. There's strength in this kid's arms, in his wound torso. He's about to slay a giant, and every last sinew is wound up to deliver the telling blow. You stand anywhere around this guy, and you're simply in the action. You're there.
Listen to the roar. Look again at that face.
He may well be assured that God in his side. He's said as much. But there's not an inch of him that isn't devoted to the act, to killing the giant Goliath. He actually believes he can, but he knows it won't be easy.
I never studied art, never knew what the word baroque actually meant. It took a trip to Italy and a slow walk through the Galleria Borghese (boar-gay'-see) to understand. Here's how I might have pictured David:
Something of a cartoon figure, a kid in leggings on a flannel-graph, an odd-sort of adult-ish kid, totally innocent and under the spell of his own indefatigable faith. He's not at all a joke, but he's very much a symbol of what he can do for me if I but believe myself to be as faith-equipped as he certainly was.
Michaelangelo's David is almost as one-dimensional. This David is, well, perfect. Look at him. He is grace. It's virtually impossible to find a real, live human being as perfectly toned as he is. He is almost something akin to worship. To see him in the buff is to observe the ideal, to see God, in a way.
Bernini's David is more of an action figure. Everything in him aims at bringing down a beast so awesome an entire army was poised to run. Not this kid. He steps up and puts every sinew into bringing down a monster.
Bernini's David isn't just to look at. When you share the room with this guy, you know you're in a battle because Bernini wanted you to feel the story. Renegade Lutherans were giving the church a real run for its money. Something had to be done. You couldn't just observe the Bible's stories anymore. You couldn't just idealize biblical characters. The people had to feel them. Bernini's David defines baroque.
It took me seventy years to understand that, but it's a lesson you can't miss when Bernini's David fills the room and you ready yourself for the bloody demise of a monster.
It won't be long now and that stone in his sling will find its mark.
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