Philadelphia is an historic
American city, full of wonderful old, majestic places. One of these
places is the Cathedral of Saints Peter and Paul, a Renaissance-style
Catholic church that dates back to 1864 (pictured above). It happens to
be located very near Moore College of Art and Design, where I attended
school. One sunny spring day, one of my professors took our drawing
class over to the cathedral, from whom we had received permission to
spend the afternoon drawing the lovely architecture.
Packing our large pads of newsprint, drawing boards, charcoal and other
drawing supplies, we trotted the block and a half or so to the cathedral
and entered. Not being Catholic or a tourist, I had not visited the
cathedral before, and I was impressed by the size and beauty of the
church. Its dark, cool and quiet interior was a sharp contrast to the
bright day and omnipresent traffic noise of downtown Philadelphia.
My classmates and I wandered around, looking at arches and columns and
various other bits of adornment, trying to determine which design
element "sang" to us enough to stake out a spot and start drawing.
Everyone else stayed within the main body of the church, but I
considered myself a maverick and didn't want to run with the crowd, so I
wandered farther afield, finding a smaller chapel to the side.
The chapel was much simpler in style, but a row of windows along a side
wall made it sunny and cheerful, and there was a lovely arrangement of
white lilies up at the altar. Feeling more comfortable in this serene
place than in the dark, cavernous main church, I settled happily into
a pew and began sketching. Every now and then, someone would enter the
chapel, genuflecting at the doorway, and take a seat farther back in the
pews. Most of these people gave me an interested glance when they saw
what I was doing, but no one approached me, and I figured they didn't
want to disturb my work. I expected they'd come to pray or to say some
silent rosaries, which I thought was very devout of them, and I
certainly would not want them to be interrupted, either, so I worked as
quietly as I could.
Quite a few folks had entered by the time I was about halfway through my
three-hour drawing; not nearly enough to actually fill the chapel, of
course, but I was really impressed with how many people came in on a
random afternoon to spend some time in quiet prayer. A nun entered,
genuflected, and sat down in the pew in front of me, giving me a sour
look. Did she think I was desecrating the place by making a drawing
there? I wondered. She couldn't think that, could she? There's such a
long tradition of reverential religious art, I couldn't understand how
anyone could take offense.
Right about now, some of you are feeling that I am frightfully dim.
First of all, I will stipulate to that, but by way of explanation, let
me state a couple of things: I was 18 years old and had never been in a
Catholic church in my life. I was raised Presbyterian, and in our
church, if nobody was getting married, buried, or baptized, you only
went to church on Sunday morning, unless you worked there.
I was also laboring under the impression that Catholic people are quite likely to enter a church
at any given time to sit in a pew and say their devotions, such
impression having been given to me by every movie and TV show I've ever
seen that features a scene set in such a place. There always manages to be a few devout extras sprinkled
throughout any given house of God, praying quietly in the background while the main characters go to
confession, question a priest about a murdered nun, or some such, so please,
people, allow me my naiveté; I come by it honestly, I swear.
It was not until a priest entered, smiled at me, and then another priest
entered and smiled at me that I began to have a clue that MASS WAS
ABOUT TO START. The clue was that they entered
behind the railing, at the
altar! And sure enough, the mass started, and there I sat, drawing
board propped on the back of the pew in front of me; rather good
rendering, if I do say it myself, of lilies at the altar taking shape on
my paper; and an angry nun who turned full around in her pew and
hissed, "This is a mass!"
Yes. Yes, it was. I continued drawing, because, pissed nun aside, I knew that
what I was doing was not wrong or disrespectful because I
meant no harm
or disrespect, and furthermore, that those priests had
smiled at me. I
also was quite sure that getting up and walking
out of a religious
service was howlingly inappropriate, rude, and possibly even
blasphemous, so I stayed put and drew the best, most reverential drawing
I possibly could. In time, the mass ended, the huffy nun cast one more
baleful glare in my direction and flounced from the chapel, and several
people came over to look at my work. No one seemed put out except that
nun, who might have mentioned that a mass was coming in enough time for
me to decamp, by the way. Poorly played, Sister Prevacid! Even the
cheerful priests enjoyed my lily-and-altar drawing, so all's well that
ends well.
And that is how I attended my very first Catholic mass, in the venerable
Cathedral of Saints Peter and Paul in historic Philadelphia, PA. I'm
still frightfully dim, by the way.