“Awake, dear heart, awake. Thou has slept well. Awake.”
William Shakespeare, The Tempest. Act I. Scene II.
Three Gothic cathedrals. Three countries, and three different interpretations.
Notre-Dame de Paris was the first Gothic cathedral I visited in person. As I walked closer to it, I became more attuned to my senses. I saw clearer. The voices from the surrounding crowd became muffled. I felt the wind softly brush against my cheek. And I felt this flutter in my stomach. I was overcome with this thrilling feeling. To paraphrase The Tempest from above, something inside my heart woke up that day.
I stood in front of the cathedral for a good thirty minutes, not moving, just taking in every detail. I followed the vertical lines as they soared skyward. I followed every arch, every column, every statue. I sat in the back and saw the flying buttresses that surrounded the apse. I saw the way the trees that surround the property accentuated the design. Buildings are not built like this anymore. I am not so sure they will ever be built this way again. We spend more money destroying our world than we do improving it. We’ve replaced monumentality with convenience. Materials that used to be central to these designs are now used as accent pieces. We’ve relegated them to secondary status. And with that relegation, we’ve disconnected ourselves from our built environment. We no longer share with our fellow citizens. Our experiences are now individualized.
Luckily, we have a few examples left of these monuments to what the human spirit can achieve. Maybe in that regard they still serve some purpose. They are reminders of what we can build when we work together. They are goals that we can aspire towards. All we have to do is wake up and see it.
And in closing, Prospero’s speech from Act 4 of the The Tempest strikes a somber, yet inspirational tone:
Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air;
And like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.
William Shakespeare, The Tempest. Act IV. Scene I.
A Walk Through The City 