In search of tragedy

What is beauty?

We often associate it with the visual arts.

In a rousing speech meant to open the eyes of cynics and objectivists, my high school art teacher once emotively proclaimed that the trash can, with the papers crumpled up in varying degrees of tightness inside of it and the lucidity with which the plastic shone at a certain angle—it too, could become Art. Marcel Duchamps, avant-garde of readymade art, angrily made the point with a urinal, which he surnamed “fountain,” by entering it into an art opening which stirred much controversy.

Were these things beautiful? Devoid of meaning, could ordinary objects attain a status of beauty?

I often find myself enjoying a song until I realize how supremely nauseating the lyrics can be. Conversely, I find the most abstract pieces of art deeply moving once I understand the language of the symbols the painter assigns: the gazing stars in Miro, the ant phobia of Dali, the cigarette butts angrily encrusted in a Jackson Pollock painting… details that cannot go overlooked in their pointed purpose.

Essentially, Beauty is assigned by the viewer, or “in the eye of the beholder,” as the saying goes. I remember meeting a boy whose lips were blue, a birth mark in a most unusual spot, which have captivated me until the mystery of them had dissipated together with my infatuation.

What is Beauty?

My headphones over my ears in the late night, it is the classical guitar playing of my teacher which is the epitome of all things beautiful and true. It drowns out the music from the piazza below us and the cacophonous chattering of the people in cafes, sounds I do welcome at times when I think about how far away I have traveled.

His artistry on the guitar is the sort of beauty that evokes my senses so violently it can shake a few tears out of my perplexed being.

Let me explain before you label me a crybaby.

Perhaps I can appreciate the art better with the understanding of the time and care with which you produce such tone on the classical guitar: the daily sanding of the fingernails with the soft, gray sandpaper flown over from San Francisco, the drawer full of clipped nails to use in the tragic event of a ruptured nail (and the backup ping pong ball shells), the little jar of vitamin E sitting on the edge of the desk to fortify the nails (horse manure apparently works wonders, but I did not press for further details), the precise knowledge of the angle at which to stroke the string—and that is only on the right hand.

The deep calluses on the fingers which have permanently settled on his left hand and the fortified skin that has coated over his muscles over the many hours and decades of practice, the agility with which his big, knuckly fingers would move over the fret board and the surprising gentleness with which they would land on a note and end in a harmonic.

These are details in the back of my mind that I do not need to see in order to hear.

Sometimes, his fingers would lightly graze along the string or an intake of breath would be heard on the recording. Perhaps blinded by my own amore, I believe these little imperfections make the music more alive and thus more beautiful in my mind.

It is this precision, the intimate knowledge of the instrument and the impassioned intentionality of every note that becomes evident with each stroke that constitutes Beauty.

It has become the standard by which I rate all things beautiful: does it make me want to cry?

Although I have tried to analyze the mechanism that goes into the embarrassing end result, I don’t believe that emotions operate so easily on a set recipe.
And so I begin this journey with a list of things that constitute Beauty which have greatly moved me so far and another listing I expect will do the same during my stay. These will not be merely limited to artworks and sculptures one finds plentiful in Italy, but to specific events, sounds, and sights I hope to experience.

Close to tears:

• The way the clouds parted after a torrential rain on our way to Rome
• The bright pink sunset over the city of Florence, also my first sight of the city.
• The isolated church of St. Antimo in the heart of

  

  Tuscany
• The color of the rosy limestone during an afternoon in Assisi
• “The Annunciation” painting
• Seeing the Trajan column the second time around (after Lisa’s helpful explanations)
• The olive trees in the birthplace of Leonardo DaVinci
• Little children gathered around a puppet master in the Piazza Navona
• I must admit-- the exquisite collection of the Valentino designs, the blueprints and the site ambience around the Peace Arch.
• The rendition of an old Argentinean tango by trumpet and bass players in the Campo.

May need tissue:

• The Sistine Chapel
• The Pantheon when it rains (the weather has simply been too sunny and I may find the rain by itself phenomenal)
• Michelangelo’s David
• The various artworks at the Uffizi
• Love graffiti… or the sheer quantity of them sprawled around the city
• Opera, depending on my budget
• The final glance of Italy from the airplane window