This is an unpublished, original beat story written for the Covering Religion class of Columbia University’s Graduate School of Journalism.
Echoes of applause from the rousing conclusion of a concert of Mannerist music still lingered on the vaulted ceilings of the chapel as twelve visitors from different places entered the room together to see a piece of art barely discernable from its doorway.
“See that fresco, way in the back?” asked the group’s tour guide, Claudia Nahson.
Twelve necks crane and 24 eyes squint to see the faded wall painting in the shadows, set deep in the apse of Fuentidueña Chapel. Mary the Virgin and a Baby Jesus dominate the scene in the center, flanked by the winged Michael and Gabriel on each side. Beside them stand the Three Magi, bearing gifts.
“This is the typical use of pagan iconography in Christian themes,” Nahson said.
The group of tourists gaze, mouths shut, with blank looks on their faces. They seem to be waiting for an explanation.
“See how they’re dressed?” Nahson asks the group, right arm extended toward the fresco. “See the colors of their skin? This was really used as a type of propaganda.
“This type of theme was used to bring pagans into the church.”
On the left side of the group, a middle-aged man lets out an audible “hmm” through pursed lips. An elderly woman to his right involuntarily releases an “ohhhh,” her mouth slacked as she stares above.
It’s as if someone has pulled back the curtains and let in the light in this dark chapel in Upper Manhattan.
It’s easy to forget about the pagans here in this room of The Cloisters museum. Crosses, reliquaries and nativity scenes line the ancient walls of this place. Jesus feels omniscient, because he is portrayed every room. Shielding visitors from the gale winds recklessly blowing snow around outside in Fort Tryon Park, The Cloisters feel like the sanctuary they were intended to be. Nature is only accessible beyond three feet of solid stone, carved in Gothic and Romanesque excess. The archway above the door marks the end of the outside and the beginning of the inside.
With only a few words, it’s as if Nahson suddenly threw the wooden door wide open.
“The Three Magi represent the three parts of the world known at the time,” Nahson said. “Look at the way they are dressed. They’re pagan. It’s a theme that connects to paganism.”
The group stayed quiet, peering at the fading kings on the stone wall. The depiction marks a turning point in the Middle Ages when Christianity took over paganism as the reigning European faith, but the pagan influence still shows in the Christian fresco.
“This is a late example from 12th century Spain, so it’s almost irrelevant at this point,” she said. “[But] the earlier you go, the more they look like pagans.”
The wind howled against the glass panes in the tiny windows in the walls of the chapel. Bits of snow smacked against the clear barrier. Some members of the group shifted their weight from one foot to the other as they stood on the stone floor, thinking.
Nahson looked down at the watch on her wrist.
“Any questions?”
Almost in unison, twelve heads returned to level. Nahson stepped in between the group to lead them out of the chapel and into another room – one draped in textiles depicting scenes from the hunt of a unicorn. It was almost four o’clock, and Nahson wanted to fit in one more stop on the tour before the museum closed for the day. Twenty-four shoes shuffled on the stones behind her.
The wind howled outside, but it seemed distant.