On September 14, 1991, Italian artist Piero Cannata smuggled a hammer into the Florence Galleria dell’Accademia, the home of Michelangelo’s David, leapt from the crowd and destroyed the second toe on David’s left foot. Quickly subdued by the crowd of onlookers, Cannata claimed that a model for Venetian artist Paolo Veronese, a contemporary of Michelangelo, told him to do this.

Recently, I stood in the Galleria at the base of the 13 foot David. In spite of the fact that I was being jostled by a throng of other eager onlookers, I could not help but be moved by the way the shadows defined muscles and features, the mass of marble curls that framed a wary face, the sheer stature of a block of Carrara that had come to life after two other sculptors had tried, failed, and left it untouched for forty years. Until Michelangelo. Until David.

Giorgio Vasari, a sixteenth century Italian architect and painter, wrote, “Whoever has seen this work need not trouble to see any other work executed in sculpture, either in our own or in other times.” Although I can’t claim to have seen many other famous sculptures other than in photos, I have stood in the presence of David and would stake my life on Vasari’s claim.

So what would provoke another artist to want to smash such art? What would drive a man to destruction–a man who, too, had transformed nothings into somethings?

Standing in the Galleria dell’Accademia, moving involuntarily in the crush of people who strained to get close enough to David to get the best photo, everything about this seemed wrong. As it did when I stood, a single sardine packed tightly into a sweaty, human tin, gazing up at Michelangelo’s painting on the Sistine Chapel. Ordered by Vatican guards to respect the sanctuary with silence, men and women talked openly around me, their voices loud and impertinent. Children cried and pleaded to leave. In the midst of great art, people shoved their cameras in front of me, complained of the heat, and largely ignored others who stood sorely amazed. Yes, everything about this seemed wrong.

I had imagined the sanctuary of art to be a place of reverence in which we would lay our wonder at the feet of color and line and shape. Yes, I wanted to believe that in the sanctuary of art, we would speak with hushed words, our hands folded and eyes transfixed by magnificence. And I would be right some of the time.

And other times? Historically, David has been a political symbol, as well as an artistic one. Having been exiled in 1494, the powerful Medici family threatened to return to Florence, making the struggle between the city and these banking giants feel much like the biblical contest between David and Goliath. In these early days, protesters threw stones at David, and during a riot opposing the Medicis, they broke David’s left arm into three pieces. At times, the sanctuary of art is explosive under which the banners of political, social, and moral statements fly defiantly.

Moving through Milan to take in the art and architecture, I was taken aback when our motorized rickshaw driver turned into the Piazza Affari, the headquarters of the Italian stock exchange. There, a single erect finger extends into the Italian sky, joyously flipping off the bankers, businessmen, and other assorted members of the establishment.

Clearly, this is art which incites a response. Ironically, this is the only piece of art I saw in Italy or France around which there weren’t hoards of tourists clamoring to take selfies. Even the selfie crowd has more classic taste, I guess.

Leonardo da Vinci wrote that a painter should begin every canvas with a wash of black, because all things in nature are dark except where exposed by the light. I suppose that even the artist of the infamous finger believed that his work–and his statement–would be exposed by the light. 

And what of the light? Even a block of the finest Carrara marble or the magnificent expanse of a chapel ceiling seems black and blank in its shapelessness. Until a mere 24-year-old brings them to life, exposing the splendor of humanity in a light which will last for all time.

Da Vinci claimed that the painter has the Universe in his mind and hands. In the sanctuary of art, it is all too tempting to fall prostate at the feet of the Universe before us. For here, we see what sacred minds and hands–those created lovingly in God’s image–have offered. What offerings these are, indeed. As Thomas Merton writes, they enable us to find ourselves and lose ourselves at the same time. They wash away from the soul the dust of everyday life [Pablo Picasso]. I may have felt the hot and harried breath of countless tourists on the back of my neck as I stood straining to truly see the art before me, but I also felt the dust of everyday life wash away in the presence of perfection.

I grew up in a home whose walls were decked with poetry, calligraphy, paintings, and photos. My mom was the consummate “make-doer”, putting up–for precious years–with gaudy floral drapes she inherited with the house and furniture pieces that lived long past their shelf-lives. But she had art. Glorious art art that transformed a modest home into a galleria extraordinaire!

And so, unconsciously at first and later very consciously, I have moved through my life hoping to capture what I have seen, heard, smelled, tasted, and touched through words, images, colors, shapes, and perspectives. As I walked through the streets of Florence or traveled the canals of Venice, I found myself storing words in my mind that I would later write into my notebook, positioning my camera in such a way to frame my photos in hopes of capturing the essence of what was before me, juxtapositioning the ordinary with the extraordinary, shadow with light, near with far. Instinctively, my mind, my eyes, my very fingers became extensions of visions that were yet to be revealed.

Let me be clear: I am no Michelangelo. In truth, although I wanted to teach art until I was 18 years old (and discovered I had no feel for three-dimensional art), I have had no formal art training since an introductory course in college. Like many, though, I know what I like, what moves me to joy and to sorrow, what sticks with me long after the experience. And wanting to emulate this–through words and images–is the highest form of flattery, I suppose. Without doubt, it has certainly enriched my life.

I cannot say it any better than Dutch post-impressionist painter Vincent van Gogh who wrote I have nature and art and poetry, and if that is not enough, what is enough? I may not have the opportunity to return to Italy to see the architectural and artistic masterpieces I saw on my recent trip, but regardless of where I am and what lies before me, I have nature and art and poetry in my life, and that is more than enough.