No one has a halo
anymore. The Impressionists
and the Realists
saw to that.
You find them
in paintings of old,
wrapped around the head
of Jesus,
both before
and after the thorns ;
the Virgin Mary
seated
in the clouds,
the communion of saints
& martyrs
bowed about her ;
and you wonder
if each nimbus
had reflected in a
mirror, if anyone
else could see them,
the others in
the artwork, for example,
that it should have been
enough to vindicate—
surely in the case
of Christ—dragged away
by soldiers in the
Garden, kissed by
Giotto's Judas,
all of whom
passed it off
as an illusion, a twisted
trick of the moon,
a hat or helmet
of sorts, able to glow-in-the-
dark,
the wiles of
a sorcerer, always
on the cusp
of deception,
or one of those
sundogs in the sky
they’d seen before,
able to bounce its
glow
upon anything
beneath—
even an ostrich, for instance,
one that doesn’t belong
in the solemn scene,
despite the circle
of admirers
around it :
the hippos
and chimpanzees,
even the lion
with its mane
who gave a curtsy,
that every time
an artist tried to
paint it,
its head would quickly
plunge into the sand,
as it does
to this very day,
unable to handle the
two-edged sword of fame,
its flip-side notoriety,
which holiness often bestows
whenever the light
comes to rest
above your shoulders.
Andreas Gripp
November 17, 2024
Giotto di Bondone, The Kiss of Judas, circa 1305
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