The Last Supper

MILAN. In an age of over-zealous MTV-style producers, cutting between camera shots at a nauseating pace; an age of carpet-bombing marketing campaigns; an age, in short, of the fetishisation of the image, arguably the greatest challenge for the observer of the work of art (and of historical artifacts) is to be able to still the mind for long enough to actually see the damn thing.

See, that is. Not merely look (at). And in this I’m making a similar distinction to that made in the film White Men Can’t Jump, when Wesley Snipes’ character chides Woody Harrelson’s character for being able only to listen to Jimi Hendrix, but unable to hear him. (I'm aware there is a certain irony here in my reference to a film in this context.)

I tried over the phone to book tickets to see Leonardo da Vinci’s The Last Supper while still in Rome, and was informed that there were no availabilities for at least a week. But by a combination of good fortune and Franca sweet-talking the ticket vendor, we managed to fluke a single ticket not long before closing time on the day I arrived in Milan.

During my time in Italy, a mere four months so far, my understanding of what the German philosopher Walter Benjamin means when he talks about the ‘aura’ of the work of art – that strange cultural membrane through which the viewer must penetrate, as it were, in order to be able to see the painting (or sculpture) – has improved dramatically. (And this in a fraction of the time I spent studying Benjamin at uni.)

So to Leonardo, the blue ninja turtle with the kitana blade, and probably the most famous of all Renaissance men. It could be said that of his peers, he had the most ‘genius’ (if it weren’t anachronistic to apply the Romantic notion of ‘genius’ to an earlier historical period). But the fact is, while Michelangelo, who is lauded as the most sublimely talented sculptor to have ever lived, was also a gun painter and architect, and Raphael no less so on the score of each of the latter, it seems that Leonardo changed the way we understand ourselves and the world in a somewhat more substantial way.

Leo’s mastery of what are now considered distinct disciplines, ranging from anatomy and biomechanics to mechanical engineering, is perhaps his primary achievement. Oh, and the bloke wasn’t too bad with a paintbrush.

But after the prison-like preliminaries involved in entering the church in which The Last Supper is displayed, I imagine that many punters could feel a twinge of disappointment.

The fresco has, famously, gone to the dogs, despite numerous restorations (some of which have actually done more damage than rejuvenation). The giant room is other wise bare, apart from another fresco on the wall at the far end. It is also difficult to find the best vantage point from which to view the work – up close, in the middle of the hall, or from the back.

But the greatest difficulty in appreciating the work is surely the one that involves breaking through the 'aura' of the work, again, that cultural membrane through which one must penetrate just to be able to see the work. Taking the opportunity to briefly observe my fellow observers, I noticed that the vast majority seemed distracted, unable to stay still before the work, glancing for some reason at the blank walls, shrugging their shoulders - I guess I was one of them, distracted enough to look around. Without trying to sound like a snob, I imagine that many of them were the type of travelers who would leave with one thought: ‘Now I’ve done The Last Supper.”

As Benjamin explained, the difficulty of seeing is partly due to our age of mechanical reproduction. What is (ontologically speaking) the difference between the ‘copy’ of the image - on the teatowel, in the postcard or on the television - and the ‘original’? They look the same don’t they? Sure, one guy painted this version and someone else made the copies; but then the copies are the same ‘image’ aren't they. We’ve looked at this image a thousand times… so how can the original live up to the idea that it is something profoundly different?

The way I see it, ‘seeing’ a work like this requires a type of radical ‘forgetting’. Forgetting the aura, forgetting the world outside, forgetting the time that has elapsed into history, the innumerable artistic and cultural developments that have occurred since.

One is only allowed half an hour to view the work – which I found was only just long enough to approach this necessary ‘forgetting.’ It was only in the five or so minutes before I had to leave that I'd finally forgotten enough to remember how to appreciate the work - its narrative, the investment of each participant in the scene, their gestures, expressions and gaze - which are so perfectly rendered that, if we’re lucky, we can recognize in them something intrinsic in ourselves.