The assurance of things not seen

Just imagine. This photo, used by the NY Times to feature an article on the madness swirling daily at the Louve, must have literally millions of copies; none are exactly the same, but not one of them is distinguishable from any others. Millions of visitors, most of them foreign--will put up with this madness just to see the painting this year, any year for that matter. And most of these people carry a cell phone. Figure on close to ten million pictures just like this. 

Because you can't just wander in and wander by.  If you visit the Louve and you want to see the lady, the scene above is what you'll find in the room where she's imprisoned. (That's her on the far away wall.) You'll not get closer than twelve feet, but to get to the front of line (your exact viewing time is printed on your ticket) you'll snake through a single-file processional that makes the most dutiful medieval pilgrimage seem like a walk in the park.

A year ago we were in Rome, a tourist adventure deliberately planned for fall to avoid what many claim to be all-day masses of summer sight-seers. It was, often, difficult for me to believe that more people could crowd any number of famous sites. The Vatican Museums were so crowded that if you wanted to stop and look at something on a wall, you'd couldn't because the heavy flow of tourists couldn't tolerate a traffic jam. A year ago I was right there in the Michelangelo's world-famous Sistine Chapel, where I couldn't help thinking that this



is somehow vastly overrated, much--much!--smaller than I imagined it would be, sort of poster-size at the center of the famous ceiling. The truth? you can see the painting better right here than you can when you stand down on the floor beneath it. 

Once upon a time, after something that resembled a stroke, I had an MRI. I got stuck in a tube that made more clanking noise than anyone should have to hear, all for a look at my insides, I guess. I was warned ahead of time that if I was in the least claustrophobic, that tube could pose real trouble. 

No problem. Wasn't pleasant, but I didn't suffer. 

However, being in the Sistine chapel that day a year ago just about turned me inside out. For the first time in my life, I was, as the Dutch would say, benauwd. There were so many people around me, such a mass, that the only relief you could find, even for a minute, was to find a space on a cement bench around the sides of the room. If you could sit, you could breathe. 

So was the Sistine Chapel beautiful? I guess so. But what I will always remember more than anything about that place was the massive crowd.

You want to see the Mona Lisa? Here she is. Avoid the lines. No waiting. Getting a selfie may be a problem, but you can work on it.

So that's her. Why the fuss? Good question. Is it simple celebrity? She's the Beyonce of the Renaissance maybe? 

Little is known about her. She's blessed with a long, Roman nose, but that round face isn't necessarily stunning. But she's looking right at you, you say? Give me a break. So do ten thousand other portraits. Why do ten million people a year snake though unending TSA lines in order to inch their way to a space 12 feet away from a painting behind the most expensive plexi-glass in the world? That is a good question.

Are we nuts? Maybe.

But I'm no judge. After all, last week I went all the way to Jefferson, SD, on Saturday morning, just to find a few grasshopper crosses  most locals don't even notice (they could use a coat of paint). Here on the desk beside me is a newsletter from a museum in Eldora (east a couple of hours), where German POWs carved a nearly life-size nativity in their spare time (of which they a lot). I'm going to Eldora to see it one of these days, not because Google won't find me a picture of said carving--it will; I'm going because, well, I've got to see it for myself, I guess. 

Ten million people believe there's something they have to see on the other side of one particular room at the Louve. Ten million believe some touch of human spirit still resides in brush strokes on the canvas of the world's most famous painting, and they've got to get up close to see it. There's likely ten million pictures just like the one at the top of the page because ten million believers pilgrimage right there in the most famous museum in the world. 

Lots of people like to say that somehow faith is dead or dying, but it seems to me that the belief in something more, something bigger than we are, certainly isn't dead. 

Misplaced, maybe--but not at all dead.