Backpacking Europe '94: Seeing Art for the first time...

Jeremy & Joey at the Berlin Wall (1994)

​After graduating high school, spending the summer at Camp Oneida, and just about to turn 19, I flew to Great Britain to begin a three-month trip. With my school chum, Joey, we explored twelve European countries on foot, by bus, train, and boat. This coming Fall will mark the 30th anniversary of that backpacking tour. 

Over the next month or so, I hope to write a blog series highlighting my reflections on my time visiting family, meeting new friends, and seeing the sights. 

For this first post, I want to reflect on the lasting “aesthetic impact” of a few key works of art I encountered on my trip to the Old Counrty. Europe is chock-full of astonishing art and architecture. I saw a lot of art and architecture, from Da Vinci’s “Mona Lisa” to the Colosseum in Rome. I would like to highlight here three specific encounters that left an indelible mark in my heart and mind. 

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The first encounter

The first encounter that rocked my world happened in the relatively remote and somewhat industrial town of Glasgow, Scotland. At Kelvingrove Art Gallery, I saw a Rembrandt painting in person for the first time. The painting was “A Man in Armour” (1655). I recall entering the room and immediately, my eyes were drawn to the painting. The painting stood out from all the surrounding paintings. I was entranced by this portrait of a young man burdened with heavy armour and weapons and preoccupied with deep thoughts, possibly of the battles he must soon face. Rembrandt's use of light and shadow (which I did not understand then) completely captivated me. I stared at it. This may have been my first real aesthetic experience with a work of art. I have never forgotten that moment. ​

"A Man in Armour," 1655 by Rembrandt

​In this digital age, where everything is instantly available, it is easy to think that seeing art in person is an unnecessary and time-consuming extravagance. Not so. To see with your eyes the contours of brushstrokes and the blending of colours, to be physically near a masterpiece, to experience something so beautiful in the company of others... incomparable. Since then, I have been a fan of the work of the Dutch Golden Age painter Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Rijn. I have two small-scale reproductions of his paintings hanging in my study. One is “Aristotle with a Bust of Homer,” highlighting a couple more favourites–a philosopher and a poet.

Aristotle with a Bust of Homer, 1653 by Rembrandt

The second encounter

​Later on in the trip, we saw a concert in Amsterdam, The Netherlands. The historic concert hall––The Concertgebouw––is renowned for its beauty and acoustics. On a Sunday evening in late October, we sat with hundreds of other guests in plush chairs and gazed up at the 17-meter-high ornate ceiling. That evening I heard my first concerto in person. I saw the conductor directing the musicians, I heard the harmonizing of so many complementary instruments, and I felt the music brush against my skin and pierce my soul. I had never "felt" music before. The pieces we heard weren’t particularly remarkable–Johannes Brahms’ “Piano Concerto No. 2, op. 83” and Arnold Schönberg’s “Violin Concerto, op. 36.” What resonated with me was seeing, feeling, and hearing music performed live in a superbly designed acoustic space. I had been to concerts with synthesized instruments, electirc guitars, and amplified music... but this was incarnated beauty, beauty I could touch. This was truly electric. 

The Royal Concertgebouw, Amsterdam, The Netherlands

A third encounter

Lastly, we visited the Vatican––with its treasure trove of art and artifacts. For reasons I can’t recall, we missed seeing Pope John Paul II, who regularly appeared on the balcony above San Pietro Piazza. We managed to see the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, craning our necks to look up and squinting our eyes to see the smaller-than-expected frescoes.

Inside the Sistine Chapel, Vatican City, Rome, Italy

What moved me the most, however, was La Pietà by Michelangelo (1498-1499), the marble sculpture of the lifeless body of Jesus lying across the lap of his earthly mother. Upon entering the nave of St. Peter’s Basilica––the world’s largest church––we took in the astonishing beauty of that sacred space. Then, I was drawn to the right, where I saw the Chapel of the Pieta and the sculpture within.

La Pietà is a marble sculpture of Jesus and Mary at Mount Golgotha by Michelangelo. Saint Peter's Basilica, Vatican City, Rome, Italy

​What Michelangelo achieved with this masterpiece is unparalleled. La Pietà simultaneously conveys natural and realistic beauty, the idealism of classical beauty, and profound theological beauty. I saw a mother and son, I saw a god-like hero broken and in seeming defeat, and I saw the Virgin Mary with the Son of God. I saw the paradox of the crucifixion in that work––profound love and deep sadness, life and death, victory and defeat––all commingling in the tender maternal moment captured with hammer and chisel. I saw artistry that I had never seen before––living marble––breathing, feeling, weeping stone. This was Mary, who pondered in her heart the mysteries of her son, who Simeon told that her child was “appointed for the fall and rising of many in Israel, and for a sign that is opposed (and a sword will pierce through your own soul also), so that thoughts from many hearts may be revealed” (Luke 2:19, 34-35). This was Jesus, God in the flesh.

All of this didn’t hit me at once as a 19-year-old kid wandering around the cobblestone streets of Europe. Thirty years of reflection and contemplation have given me much time to really comprehend what happened to me during these encounters with real art in the real world. Since then, I have learned a lot more about art. I have seen more art, and I have been back a few times to see them again. I spent ten years writing about faith and art, and I wrote a book on the subject. But with these three encounters, a seed was planted, and a fire was kindled. It was an encounter with truth, beauty, and goodness. Like Shakespeare’s Romeo, as he gazed upon the beautiful Juliet for the first time, I, too, declared, “Did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight! For I ne’er saw true beauty till this night.”

All Things New: Essays on Christianity, culture & the arts by Jeremy W. Johnston (Joshua Press, 2018)