Authors: Gregory Earls
So anyway, on the way to Damascus he’s suddenly knocked off his horse, lit the hell up by a blinding light. As he lies on the ground, he hears the voice of Christ say to him, “Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me?”
Saul is blinded for seventy-two hours and the day his sight comes back he converts to Christianity, changes his name to Paul and becomes one of the early leaders of the Christian movement.
This painting makes me laugh for two reasons.
First of all, when I was a kid my Uncle Raymond told me how there’s a little controversy behind how this is story is read. For example, one Sunday you’re in church and you hear the Pastor say,“Saul was on his way to kill Christians when Jesus appeared and knocked this chump off his
ass
before he could get there.”
The second funny thing is how this painting, much like
The Death of a Virgin,
pissed off the church. Those old boys were furious upon seeing this painting, and it also had to do with Saul’s ass, so to speak.
Here’s how the conversation probably went down…
Caravaggio:
“Well. Here’s the painting.”
Bishop:
“Great! Let’s have a look…Um, what the hell is this?”
Caravaggio:
“What?”
Bishop:
“
This!
What the hell is this?”
Caravaggio:
“What? It’s the painting. What’s the matter?”
Bishop:
“Dude, you put the horse in the middle of the painting with its butt aimed at us?”
Caravaggio:
“Yeah, so what’s your problem?”
Bishop:
“What’s
my
problem? I don’t have a problem.
You
have the problem. Your problem is that I’m not paying for a painting of horse ass! How’s that for a problem, you jerk. In fact, where the hell is Paul, anyway? This painting is all horse! Does the horse’s ass represent GOD or something?”
Caravaggio:
“No. It’s just a freakin’ horse. Jeez, why are you busting my balls?”
Bishop:
“Are kidding me? We commission a painting of the blessed Saint Paul and you come back with horse ass. You’re talented as hell, but I swear you’re such a jerk.”
Caravaggio:
“Hey. You know what, I’m starting to get pissed off here.”
Bishop:
“Oh, really? You’re getting pissed?”
Caravaggio:
“Yeah! I’m getting pissed. I busted my hump on this damn painting.”
Bishop:
“Let’s get something straight, you freakin’ hick.
I’m
the one that has to walk into the Vatican and explain to the freakin’ Pope, of all people, why we’re droppin’ 300 scudi to decorate our churches with
ass
paintings!”
Caravaggio:
“Whatever.”
Bishop:
“Oh. Fine. Okay. That’s all you ever have to say about anything these days.
Whatever
. How ‘bout we don’t pay for a painting of horse ass.
Whatever
that, you bum. And by the way, Do you remember that painting of the death of our blessed Virgin Mary we commissioned you to paint a while back?”
Caravaggio:
“Yeah?”
Bishop:
“Tell me something, is it true that you used a dead hooker as the model for Mary?”
Caravaggio:
“What?”
Bishop:
“Yeah. You didn’t think I knew about that, did ya?”
Caravaggio:
“Who told you that? I’d like to know who is saying these things.”
Bishop:
“HEY! Is it true or not?”
Caravaggio:
“Yes.”
Bishop:
“Son of a bitch! Who the hell does something like that?”
Caravaggio:
“See. This is why I didn’t tell you. I knew you’d get all crazy.”
Bishop:
“Oh, I’m sorry. Am I overreacting? Maybe it’s me, but I think parishioners might not want to frequent a church where there’s a painting of the VIRGIN that’s the spitting image of the local whore.”
Caravaggio:
“Excuse me for trying to capture some realism.”
Bishop:
“Hey, smart guy, let’s get something straight. I’m not paying for
realism.
Okay? I’m paying to put asses in the pews. I want spectacle! I want the Virgin flying up to heaven with angels flying out of her ass!
That’s
what I’m paying you for, you freakin’ sick bastard, you. I catch you using a whore or horse butt in the depiction of a holy subject again, and I swear on the bones of Christ I’ll have your nuts cut off. Wise up, for Christ’s sake. We’re the Vatican. Having people killed is an option on our breakfast menu.”
Well, at least that’s the way I like to think it went down.
I look at this painting and decide that I want to break the routine today. I’m going to take the picture
first
and then sketch it. I’m just too damn exited about the possibility of meeting my boy, Paul, or a version thereof. I know this camera’s gonna bring something trippy.
I snatch the Brownie out of my messenger bag, take a picture of
The Conversion of Saint Paul
and then head to the exit.
For once, I’m going to have an encounter in broad daylight where I’m not restrained by the serenity of a church or museum or some shit. If Paul and I want to hit a McDonald’s and chill, there ya go.
I burst through the church doors, leap down the stairs and…
BAM!
I fall on my ass.
What the hell happened?
I lift up my shoe to discover that I had slipped in a huge pile of horse shit.
I look up to see a horse’s ass hovering above me.
It looks too damn familiar.
Is… Is that the horse’s ass from the painting?
Goddamn it.
I look down at my Brownie camera as it sits between my legs, its big eye of a lens mockingly staring at me.
“Are you kidding?” I say at the camera. “Really? This is what you’re giving me today. Well that’s just great!”
A mounted policeman, a
poliziotto
, sits atop the mare. He twists his torso to look down and back at me.
“
Cos'è successo?”
he says with a smirk, asking me what happened.
I lift up my shoe so he can see the shit caked on it.
“
Merda,”
he says.
“
Merda,”
I respond as the cop tries to disguise his grin with an exaggerated frown.
I shift my weight attempting to get up off my ass.
“
Aspetta!”
the poliziotto yells down at me, forcefully motioning to me to stay on the ground. Why the hell won’t he let me get up?
I suddenly begin to hear the buzz of digital cameras firing.
Well, how about that?
I’m the rage of the piazza. Just about every tourist in the vicinity is taking pictures of me, felled by horse shit. The poliziotto poses proudly on his steed as I sit on the ground just below the horse’s flicking tail. It’s only after all the pictures have been snapped the cop finally has mercy on me.
“
Va bene, può alzarsi adesso,”
he says, motioning for me to stand up.
“Oh. Are you sure? Because I really wouldn’t want to deprive anyone from a snapshot of this very special Kodak moment, you cheap Italian Dudley Do-Right knock off,” I mumble as I attempt to scrape the crap off my shoe on the piazza stone.
“You know, I actually understand English quite well,” the cop says in
perfect
English.
So there you go.
“Look, I’m sorry I—”
“Don’t worry,” he interrupts. “I don’t know who this Dudley Do-Right is, but at least I’m not the asshole covered in horse shit.”
I like this guy.
I pull myself up off the ground and end up face-to-ass with the horse. Yep, the brown and white markings are an exact replica of the ass in the painting.
I walk to the front of the horse as the poliziotto struggles not to laugh at me.
“You know,” he says. “It’s odd because I never even patrol in this piazza. For some reason, she really wanted to visit here today.”
“Is that right?” I look at the horse squarely in the eye.
“Yep. And she never craps like this. She knows better than to do her business here in the square. It’s almost like she did it on purpose, just for you,” he finally bursts out with laughter.
The horse returns my stare with an apathetic gaze.
“So do you always go wherever your horse leads you?”
“The journey is always interesting with this one. She’s an old soul.”
“Dude, you have no idea,”
I raise my hand to pet her muzzle, but I think I better ask permission first.
“
Posso?”
I ask the mounted cop.
“
Certo.”
I pet the long gorgeous nose of the mare and it responds affectionately, nuzzling between my neck and shoulder.
“She likes you. So, is this your first time in Italy?” the poliziotto asks me.
“First time across the Atlantic. I started in Paris, now Roma and I finish in Napoli.”
“Napoli. Can I give you some advice? Before you go to Napoli, go visit the Vatican and buy yourself a St. Christopher medal to wear around your neck.”
Before he can finish his sentence, I pull the medal Graziella gave me out from under my shirt and show it to him.
“Good man,” he says.
“Hey, is Napoli as dangerous as everybody says?”
“No. Just don’t wander where you have no business being.
Ha capito?
”
The poliziotto’s radio begins to blare out a garbled transmission and the horse pulls her head away from me. It’s a Pavlovian response. She knows it’s time to go back to work.
“We have to go now,” says the poliziotto as he turns the mare towards the piazza. “Enjoy your time in Rome, but do me a favor. Don’t be in such a rush.
Non ha fretta. Va bene?
”
“
Ho capito.”
***
Long ago, days before Christ was to be crucified, he pulled Peter to the side and told him, “You will be the rock upon which I will build my church.” So after the crucifixion, Peter traveled all around the world spreading the gospel, but he knew that the only way for Christians to truly be able to practice their faith openly was to convert the Roman Emperor himself, Nero, to Christianity.
So Peter strolled into the heart of the Roman Empire, with crazy-ass Nero smokin’ Christians and Jews as if they were packs of Kools, and tried to literally change the world by changing Nero’s pagan belief system.
The guy had massive balls.
However, it didn’t go down the way he had hoped. Peter soon realized that the only way to spark the revolution was to be martyred. Apparently, Peter wasn’t ready to go out like that so he made a mad dash out of town. By the time the Roman cops busted down his door, Pete was already in the wind, high tailing it down the Apian Way
It was on this road that Peter spotted a guy walking towards him from the opposite direction. As the stranger got closer, to his shock, he realized that it was
Jesus
.
Peter asked Jesus, “
Damini! Quo Vadis?
”
Lord! Where are you going?
Jesus basically responded back, “Me? I’m going to Rome to be crucified, again, since you apparently can’t handle the job.”
And that ladies and gentlemen is the greatest guilt trip in the history of man.
I once worked at a video store where it was my job to clean out the popcorn popper. One morning, I entered the shop to find my boss cleaning the thing because I had done such a half-assed job the night before. I felt guilty as hell, and that was just a goddamn popcorn popper. So you could imagine Peter’s guilt at dragging Christ, of all people, back down from paradise to finish his job ‘cause he was full of shit.