When I arrive at work I am greeted by a large black turd waiting at the foot of the steps. I step over it and go inside, where the night crew are laughing about it. It's all they can talk about. One of them has named it Bob. As a metaphor it's irritatingly obvious. Construction has begun and there are a lot of changes in personnel. Things at the museum are becoming increasingly grim.
An enormous banner on the side of the building seems to promise an entire show devoted to the art of Botticelli, best known for one of the most parodied paintings of all time, The Birth of Venus. In reality, there is just a single example of his work inside, hanging by itself in one of the few galleries still open to the public during renovation. The people who make these decisions never have to explain these kinds of things to confused visitors or see the looks of disappointment on their faces.
Madonna of the Magnificat is a small, round painting of the Blessed Virgin with her immaculately conceived son perched on her lap. Before her sits an open book in which she is writing the Magnificat, a New Testament canticle named for its first line, "My soul hath magnified the Lord." I can't help but picture this Lord as a bug being looked at through a magnifying glass. Love or kindness appear nowhere in the hymn; this is a plea for mercy to a fickle deity. Even Mary, blessed though she may be, finds herself groveling and thanking the father of her child for not smiting her.
The infant's chubby little paw rests on his mother's arm as she writes. The idea is that he's guiding her hand, but coupled with the way he's gazing up at her -with the look of a child trying to see how much he can get away with- it seems to me like he's trying to restrain her. His hand resembles a doll's hand that has been sewn to his wrist. His left hand clutches a pomegranate. His head has been deformed in the way that artists sometimes do to their subjects to compensate for the distortion that occurs when a picture is hung high on the wall.
The other figures in the painting are normally proportioned, however. Mary's face is flawlessly executed, and seems appropriately radiant. Three angels stand to her right, their flesh rendered so delicately that all the other paintings in our collection look clumsy in comparison. One angel looks down at the book. Another stares into space, distracted or bored. The third holds the inkwell and looks directly at Mary in a way that seems impudently bold. Mary in turn concentrates on her work, her lips parted, her nib poised on the rim of the inkwell. It's impossible to tell if she's about to dip it, or if she already has. I'm not sure why this detail seems important to me, or why it strikes me as being so sensuous.
Rays of light emanate from the heads of all except the Christ child, and bits of gold float through the air like flakes of glowing ash from a bonfire. In the distance lies a perfunctory landscape, nondescript enough to not distract from the otherworldly creatures in the foreground.
The frame bursts with carved fruits and blossoms the size of gilt walnuts, providing a chunky contrast to the delicate, jewel-like scene it encircles. It's like peering at a sublime world through a kitschy porthole. All in all, it's an exquisite little piece, and when things get too stressful during these difficult days I go upstairs to lap up some of the succor it offers before creeping back down to the garbage-strewn, shit-stained world.
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