Cari Amici,

I hope this letter finds you well, ideally with a bit of beauty nearby or something lovely to drink.

If not, I’ve brought a little beauty with me from a Sunday spent wandering the Vatican Museums.

I visited on the last Sunday of the month in February—when entry is free, which I only recently learned. It was only my second weekend in Rome so I was excited to finally see it. My alarm went off at 6:30 on a Sunday morning, my usual sleep-in day. It had been over a year since my last visit to Vatican City, and stepping out of Ottaviano metro station, I felt rusty. I wandered a little, unsure which direction to go, but then I saw the people, waiting in a long line, stretching around the corner. I knew I needed to be in line at least an hour before the museum’s 9 am opening for this very reason. I got in around 9:30, and it was already buzzing with people who were also hoping to make the most out of the free entry.

My first impression? Overwhelming. There were hundreds of people and if I’m being brutally honest, the crowded rooms made it challenging to engage with the art but I tried my best to pause and look at the pieces that caught my eye. There it was again, beauty and chaos colliding.

I started in the Pinacoteca. Despite the steady shuffle of feet, there was still a reverence in how the art was presented. The paintings stretched across centuries, oil on canvas, wood panels, and halos. I took my time and examined each painting, letting my eyes adjust from one century to the next. Ever since the beginning, humans attempted to depict what is true, good and beautiful even if their way of expression differed.

One painting held my attention longer than others: Garland of Flowers with the Madonna and Child by Daniel Seghers. What captivated me wasn’t the grandeur but it was the simplicity. It was tiny and easy to miss. I leaned in and took in the delicate brushstrokes that made up the garland of roses, tulips, violets and more. Each one exquisitely and vividly detailed. Who was the artist? Who was Seghers? What were his intentions and inspirations in creating each detail? Was it devotion that inspired him to create this art? Was this painting his own unspoken prayer?

What did he think of the Madonna, did he see her as someone tender and familiar? Did he draw the flowers to symbolize her character? Was this painting a tribute to the Madonna and the child honouring both their glory and suffering, as well as their simplicity? The stillness of the painting inspired me with prompts to meditate on: first, how the Madonna and the child represent calmness and tenderness, and second, how life is surrounded by bloom and colour but more often than not, a dark background also shadows it.

I moved on to the sculpture halls and I saw two artists sketching. They stood with sketchbooks in hand, heads tilted and pencils moving. While others continued from one station to the next, they stayed where they were. They took their time to capture what they were seeing and put it on paper. They slowed down and observed intently. It was refreshing to witness those two artists.

And then there were the ceilings. I kept looking up. Painted heavens, gilded borders, and whole stories revealed themselves above me. Every ceiling was a painted sky inviting me to look upward. I was simultaneously walking and taking in all the intricate drawings and thought about how much care and detail was put into these masterpieces. At one point, I asked a nun if she could take a photo of me because I wanted to preserve the moment.

The walk to the Sistine Chapel, beneath the ceilings, was its own philosophical journey. You walk through these halls looking up at the beauty that is the painted ceilings and you begin to wonder about art and beauty and what is transient. Each hallway felt like a conversation between eras, artists, and those of us passing through.