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Modena's
Duomo and the breath of God
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A
foot through the spokes, lions, rats and blasphemy.
Memories blur and blend in Modena's most famous
monument
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 Modena's
Duomo is so much part of its surroundings that I
couldn't tell you whether it's beautiful or not.
To find out what it's like I have to show it to
someone who's not from Modena, but each time I do
that I always feel a bit of an idiot. It's like
going out with someone just because your friends
think she's pretty. No, the Duomo's so much part
of its surroundings that I don't even see it anymore.
Though I've often thought that if it ever does disappear
I'd get such a lump in my throat that I don't think
I'd be able to cry.
I've got lots of hazy memories that I can't really
place of my father sitting me up on one the lions
in front of the doors, as Modenese fathers do, and
my mother, three yards away, laughing and waving.
But my first real memory of the Duomo goes back
to when I was three and in my mind it's linked to
my first memory of pain. My father had brought me
to the square by bike instead of our usual walk.
On the way home he put me into the seat on the back,
and because I liked dangling my legs instead of
sitting them on the foot rests, as we turned into
Via Università my foot got caught in the
spokes making me squeal and shout in pain which
in turn got my father shouting in anger and all
in all worsening the situation, as was his wont,
and as soon as we got to Via Della Cella he perched
me on a low wall, where I sat crying, and told me
that my mother would come and collect me as he had
stuff of his own to do.
 And
there goes my first real memory of the Duomo and
Piazza Grande, a memory which, if I hadn't poked
my foot into the back wheel of the bicycle, I wouldn't
have, since day-to-day happenings are rarely remembered
and anyway, my recollections of the Duomo itself
are still unclear. But I also remember walking around
the Duomo with my mother one day, while we were
out doing shopping in the centre, I must have been
about ten or eleven, when at some stage she said
that the lions around one of the doors, I'm not
sure which, were much nicer than the ones around
the other; all this left me perplexed to say the
least as I still believed every word my mother said,
yet I liked the lions at the other door much better.
Indeed I still remember how perplexed I was, and
I'm only realising now that up until a certain stage
in my life (until I was ten, maybe twelve) there
only were the lions and the rest of the Duomo was
invisible, then the Duomo started to materialise
in my head and the lions slowly faded.
I remember I was still in secondary school and there
was nothing, and I mean nothing, to do during the
winter afternoons and now and again I used to go
to the Duomo with two friends of mine, and we'd
look all around, and one afternoon Gianni Pecchini,
one of the two friends, was standing in front of
the crib enthralled, when he said "It's God awful
gorgeous", and even if his words were entirely in
good faith, for the laugh we said "you can't talk
like that in a church", so he, still in good faith,
replied "Jesus, Mary and Joseph, you're right",
and at that stage we got such a fit of laughing
that the three of us had to run right out of the
Duomo.
I've been in and out of it many times since, I've
strolled around it, on my own or in company, and
at night I've stumbled out of the these side streets
to see its white marble appear before my eyes. It's
always a sight worth seeing.
 I've
never wanted to know anything about the Duomo, just
looking at it, going in every so often, was enough.
Any time I went in, whenever I could, that is if
Mass wasn't on, I always went right around, taking
everything in, even quicky, just to get a feel of
it. I could learn lots of things but I only want
to look. I only found out this year that the scenes
on the facade, which as it happens I'm very fond
of, were taken from Genesis.
Six or seven years ago, towards the end of the summer,
I was out walking with a friend and we ended up
sitting on the steps of the door that looks onto
Piazza Grande. It was very late. Then, despite the
fact there was always someone crossing the square,
we heard a strange rustling. There on the left was
a rat tucking into his dinner, a cockroach perhaps.
I've always liked to look at rats at night and I've
always liked where they hang out. Suddenly they
become full of life and energy, and you can imagine
a complicated system of underground passages and
tunnels, as ancient as Rome. And indeed chances
are the apses hide some poor pigeon thrown into
the throes of death.
Nonetheless, even though it isn't a particularly
big building, even though I don't believe in God,
I've always felt His breath in here.
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| by
UGO
CORNIA |
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July
2001
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THE SURVIVOR'S 
