Her, the Angel

© t.z.dancer

More than a decade ago, I moved to Genoa to teach English as a foreign language. I lived there for two and a half years, and while I wasn’t blown away by the Ligurian capital itself, I absolutely loved the countryside. So many lovely places I used to visit in and around Genoa, but one of my absolute favourites was the Monumental Cemetery of Staglieno. Established in 1851, it is one of the biggest cemeteries in Europe and is home to amazing works of art. Built on the hillside of Genoa, it is one of the most tranquil places I have visited. Nature’s sounds are the only sound one can hear around there, and one feels uncomfortable talking out of respect for the silence and those whose remains rest there. So, even when not visiting alone, we often ended up walking together in silence for the most of the time there, using only gestures to point at whatever caught our eye. The rose-ringed parakeets didn’t quite see it that way, though. When I say ‘sounds of nature’, their calls makes up for about 90 per cent of that. Beautiful – albeit a little loud – birds in a beautiful place.

So, it was during my first walk there that I saw her, and it was pure luck. I visited the place four or five times while I lived in Genoa, and most of the time I struggled to find her. I would get lost in the many corridors, among the thousands of brilliant, life-like statues, the castle-like tombs nestled between enormous, ancient trees. I believe it was after the second time I couldn’t find her that I asked one of the workers there, and he was kind enough to show me the way to her. In fact, the old man told me I was not the first person to come here looking for her, nor was I the first person to find the cemetery more attractive than any other local destination. When we reached her, he said, Eccola, and left.

I remember wanting to touch her, but I don’t remember if I did. Did I touch one of her

arms? She has them wrapped around her body, one of them is placed just above her

chest. The other is holding a long, thin horn that she doesn’t seem interested in ever

blowing (who cares if the end of all days should come upon us: all the same to her). I

know I couldn’t have touched her face, I never could have reached it. But, oh how I

would have loved to! I can’t and I won’t try to describe it with words. I don’t think

anything I could put together would compare to her beauty in person, and attempting

to do so would be more than an offence – it would be blasphemy. But I can tell you how

it bears this look, this sort-of-a-Mona-Lisa effect it has that changes as you walk around

her. From one angle, she looks so innocent, child-like. This is perhaps her main

appearance, the face you would see if you were to only walk past her and look up just as

you are right in front of her. But if you stick around for a bit, you see that from another

angle, she looks sad. And from another, she looks angry, almost scary. From yet another,

she looks like she is looking straight at you; her eyes that of a living person, one that has

so much to say, so much to ask.

Looking at her as a whole, you can see the outline of her body underneath her long,

satin-like dress. You can see the shape of her left knee, the detail in her elbows, her

tummy, even the cavity of her belly button. She looks so real that it made me sad.

I started wondering if she could have been a real person once. Did Monteverde carve her

image entirely out of his imagination, or was she someone he knew? Or maybe someone

he wished he knew? Maybe she was the first girl he fell in love with. Or was she his

friend? A sister, or a daughter? Or maybe Monteverde wasn’t really a brilliant sculptor at

all. He was a wicked sorcerer who petrified his victims into statues, forever bound to

someone’s tomb or grave. Forever nameless, known only as Someone’s. Could there be a

counterspell, a true-love’s-kiss sort of an act that could turn the stone back to skin and

hair? At that moment, I would have killed to know the colour of her eyes.

I stood there, looking at her from every possible angle for the longest time. I realised at

some point, that it might have been an hour… or longer. But I didn’t care. When I finally

did leave, I made sure I paid proper attention to the way I was following back to the exit.

After that time, I memorised the way to the beautiful angel so that I never had to ask

again.

When I got back to the apartment where I was staying, I was still thinking about her. I

wanted to remember her with more than just the few pictures I had taken with my

camera. I knew what I wanted to do but I didn’t know why. Together with my horrible

handwriting, I can’t draw to save my life, both curtesy to my dysgraphia. So, yeah, I

don’t know why, but I wanted to draw a picture of her. It felt like a very intimate act,

and I was beyond excited to do it. For those who haven’t yet had a search for

Monteverde’s Angel on the internet, she looks nothing like the picture I managed to

produce of her. For whatever reason, the angel I drew came out a little wicked-looking

and angry, much angrier than the original can ever look. However, there is something

that does remind me of her when looking at the picture. Maybe it’s the act of doing it at

the time I did it more than the slight resemblance I think it has to the angel.

It’s a little weird, I realise as I’m writing this, the affection I feel for her. I wonder if that’s

what some people feel like when looking at icons. Or maybe it was something far more

elementary, far more mundane, like a crush. Or was it more? Can you fall in love with a

statue? I’m reminded of that story they covered many year ago in Germany. About a

swan who seemed to have fallen in love with one of those paddle boats because it was in

the shape of a swan. It would swim with it for days, stay next to it when it was tied to the

shore. I remember at the time, I felt really sad for the swan, and I still do. But maybe it

knew that wasn’t a real swan, it just made no difference. Or maybe he or she had an eye

for art as well? Some things we will never know.

My picture means many things to me, but for this issue, the angel – my angel –

represents strength, resilience, independence and freedom over oppression. But art is in

the eye of the beholder, as they say. I hope this picture would mean something to you as

well.

This article was first published in Writersque Issue 7, 2024

Author: T.Z. Dancer