As I looked at the art surrounding me, I was drawn to one of the numerous statues everywhere in Rome. This one was of a riderless horse and appeared to be part of a narrative connected to a sculpture across the street. Wondering what that story was, I stared, and began to remember another muscular horse in my life.
I was twelve years old in 1959 and a sixth-grader in Mrs. Andrew’s second-floor homeroom class. Although we changed classes during the day, Mrs. Andrews was also my history teacher. We had been studying ancient Rome, and one day, so she could grade papers, she instructed us to draw something about the Roman Empire that had made an impression. She handed out oversized sheets of paper for us to draw on and we all jumped in quickly. In short order, there were drawings of awkward-looking coliseums, rickety bridges flying flags over the Tiber River, and suspicious renderings of the Sistine Chapel ceiling.
I watched my classmates for a while, not wanting to draw what everyone else was drawing. I caught Mrs. Andrews giving me the evil eye because I wasn’t doing anything, so I put my head down and pretended to sketch. Suddenly I envisioned a bold horse, a significant horse. I thought a moment and added a Roman soldier. I quickly sketched the boundaries of the drawing and decided I wouldn’t show the entire horse or the full figure of the soldier. The horse would be fierce and maybe a little mad, with flaring nostrils and mane flowing. The soldier would have a strong hold on the leather reins and look ready for battle. As I started to draw the horse, I exaggerated the entire scene, creating an unusual close-up with extreme angles portraying power and movement.
My drawing was progressing nicely when I noticed Mrs. Andrews walking around the room and looking over shoulders to see the different drawings. She made her way over to me and stopped. She didn’t say anything, which unnerved me. I kept on drawing until she sat down in an empty chair and moved it closer to me, looking over my right shoulder. She still had not said a word. I remember I was afraid to even look at her—was I really off-course with my subject? As I continued, she still didn’t say anything, which worried me even more. Had I had done something so wrong she was speechless? Intrigued, several other kids wandered over and started watching me too.
Suddenly Billy Cuttingham cried out, “Hey, that’s not a building or church. Casper is cheating! Mrs. Andrews, you should give him an F.” My pal Billy, always looking out for me. Mrs. Andrews turned toward him and gave him her Quiet, Billy look.
She looked at the class and said, “I have to say, everyone, all your drawings look very good, but I had to stop at Paul’s. I know some think he’s not doing what he’s supposed to do by drawing something out of the box. Something so different. I know Billy especially thinks this.”
Again, she turned to him, giving him the evil eye. “But I have to say, Paul has stopped me in my tracks. I just never expected anything like this.”
Just then Chrissy Johnston informed those who didn’t know, “Yea, he’s a good artist. Mrs. Hart in art class is always talking about his work and hanging it up.”
Mrs. Andrews watched me for a long while but said no more before she got up to continue with the class. As I walked out, she called me over to her desk. She said she hadn’t wanted to say too much about one person’s work over the others, but now in person, she could. She said I had a special talent. Not only could I draw what I saw; I could see things differently, as an artist would. She was going to hang up some of the drawings in the room, but mine would be hung in the hallway with a sign telling kids they could look at the others when the room was empty. Taking out a box of notepaper, she wrote a quick note to my Mother, saying she believed I had a special talent and hoped that my mother knew this and would nurture it going forward. She put the note in an envelope and said, “Please give that to her tonight.”
I smiled to myself; I hadn’t thought about that moment for quite a while. It gave me confidence at a time when I sorely needed some. Thank you, Mrs. Andrews. I began to sketch again, no horse this time, but a quick study of St. Peter’s in the fading Roman afternoon light.
As the sun set, I remembered yesterday, before we went to the Spanish Steps. I had spent some time on a bridge overlooking the Tiber, the third largest river in Italy that flows through the middle of Rome, on my way to the Coliseum. Once there, I sat for hours imagining the goings-on of over 2000 years ago. I was so moved by being in the actual place and structure where the events I had read about or seen in movies had occurred. These became real in the in the Coliseum, a place alive with the vivid and mysterious spirits of the past.
I finished my sketch and thought that my Mother would love to see it. Suddenly I realized I hadn’t sent any postcards home recently about what I was doing or what my plans were. When I was in Paris, I knew I was going to Istanbul and dropped a postcard to my Mother, Father and younger sister Joyce to let them know. When I decided to go to Athens, I sent another postcard urging everyone to contact me in care of the American Express office in that city. But it had been a month and no word from home. Strange, but I hoped it was par for the course for mail going back and forth at that distance.
When I got back to the apartment, Doug was packing. He had found a hotel, and casually mentioned what it would cost. There was no way; it was too expensive for me and I couldn’t join him. We had been together since we had arrived in Paris, but he understood my situation, wished me luck and walked out the door. Not how I would have liked us to part, but it was inevitable, and I had bigger problems. I needed to out of the girls’ apartment by dark. It looked like I’d be sleeping at the railroad station.
I was ready to say goodbye to the girls when they surrounded me and said, “You’re not going anywhere. We’re going to make it okay for you to stay a while longer. You can believe us or not what we told you guys about the landlord. But what mattered to us was that they needed to go; the vibe wasn’t right. On the other hand, your vibe is wanted around here.”
They took me out to dinner that night and gave me a great briefing on what to see at St. Peter’s the next day. The girls really were angels, smart ones at that. I wondered, were they living Jake Barnes’ life in 1970, expatriates looking for…? Good question; what were they looking for?
Monday morning, I got up early, ready to start my day at St. Peter’s. I was glad I got the lay of the land the other day when I sketched in the square. The exterior was magnificent, and I couldn’t wait to see all the art and history inside. Thirty minutes later I finally entered St. Peter’s Basilica in Vatican City.
I was not disappointed. My first thought was that this glorious structure could have only been conceived and built with the help of God. I was so awestruck, I had to sit down in one of the pews.
A baby was being christened at one of the fonts and across a row of pews, a small choir was rehearsing. The Basilica began to fill with music that made the beauty all around me even more overwhelming. The choir sang in Latin, and I didn’t understand a word, but it remains one of the more perfect experiences of my life. It was literally heavenly.
I sat in my pew and listened until they finished, all the while gazing at every detail of the main portico. The altar was such a surprise, so different than anything I had ever seen in the States. Of course, I reminded myself—Michelangelo designed and managed the construction of this stunning structure.
It is no exaggeration to say I felt the presence of God while I was in St. Peter’s. If God can be found in art and music, I was right. The entire time I sat there, I had goosebumps. Eventually, I rose to walk around the free-standing altar. There were easily 200 other visitors and I wasn’t alone, but the enormity of St. Peter’s made their presence slip away while I walked the exquisite marble floors.
I knew when I began my day that I would not have enough time to see all I wanted to see. The Vatican Museum is attached to St. Peter’s and contains history upon history and some of the greatest art in the world, but I could not go there next. From
