As a child I had my holy places where it was quiet and filled with meaning: the church on McKean Street, the Capuchin monastery not far from town . . . It was the feeling of being enveloped in a mysterious, meaningful space.
I was not aware that Art Deco was so prevalent in New York. Everywhere! Of course, the Chrysler Building. But in so many other public buildings, private dwellings, in decorations. While walking down 5th Avenue I happened upon The French Building and stepped inside to find this magnificent entryway and hall.
We passed up going into the Colosseum, instead went to the Baths of Caracalla on a beautiful Saturday morning, sat on a bench silently looking out at the colossal ruins and the umbrella pines and our imagination ran wild in the ancient past.
Entering in on this space literally took my breath away. Utterly amazed at the magnitude of the proportions, the lavish extravagance of this church. It is the work of men's hands: a Michelangelo, a Raphael, a Bernini, a Bramante. The overwhelming power of their art shook me as I stood there, just another spectator, on a small square of marble.
It was evening and dark when we walked through this field of granite slabs. Eventually we were submerged and could not see out over. It seemed as if there was only one orientation to get my bearings from: Auschwitz.
Next morning Mechtild and I headed for the National Gallery. We stood there looking at the sculptures outside around this building, especially this Henry Moore piece, for at least half an hour. Mechtild is a sculptress herself and it was wonderful to exchange views with her. Going inside, looking intently, we managed only four or five works, all sculptures.
Over coffee I leaned over, looked Mechtild in the eye told her how she could run rings around me as a teacher. What a smile she gave me!
Would the great medieval cathedrals ever have been built if the builders were not absolutely convinced of the Eucharistic presence of the Person that the structure was to house?