The Chapel's cataract

I learnt what a fresco is this week.

I realise this is not groundbreaking information. Most people moved on from Renaissance art history sometime after high school, maybe even before then.

A fresco, for those of you who don’t know, is a painting done on freshly laid wet plaster. Look at how confident I am in explaining this, having only learnt it recently myself. The pigment is applied while the surface is still damp, so as it dries, the colour becomes part of the wall itself. Not layered on top, but embedded within. Which feels poetic in and of itself, even before we get to the interesting part.

The technique flourished during the Renaissance and gave us the Sistine Chapel ceiling painted by Michelangelo, among many others. Millions of people stand beneath it every year, looking up at something that has survived for centuries.

Restoration work is ongoing at the Chapel due to decades of significant tourist activity, resulting in a coating over sections of the artwork. This residue is not caused by soot, candle smoke, or grime. It is actually human sweat.

When thousands of warm bodies move through a confined space every day, moisture and residue slowly settle and harden. Over time, this creates a subtle clouding of the vibrant colours. One restorer described the cleaning process as removing a cataract, which, of course, piqued my interest.

I find this information fascinating for two reasons:

Firstly, I work in healthcare and have worked intimately with many patients in my short career. However, I have never once considered that sweat could accumulate in that way. I have spoken with great confidence in my current work about tear film instability and the formation of cataracts in the human eye, yet perspiration quietly plotting against Renaissance masterpieces never crossed my mind.

Secondly, the metaphor is too good to ignore.

A cataract does not remove what is there. It simply clouds it. The brilliance remains, and the clarity fades.

The very popularity that keeps the chapel relevant is the thing that gradually reduces the awe. Overexposure is quite literally reducing brilliance. In response, stricter visitor restrictions are going to be introduced, particularly during peak periods, in an effort to preserve what is already there.

It makes me wonder how often this principle applies elsewhere.

How often does constant visibility erode depth?
How often does volume compromise value?
How often does something extraordinary become ordinary simply because it is always there?

Think about that for a minute.

The fresco survives because it is embedded in the wall. Yet even what is deeply set can become obscured through accumulation. Sometimes it is not damage that steals brilliance.
It is overexposure.

Occasionally, all that is needed is the careful removal of a film we did not realise had formed.

Even if it is made of sweat.

Euan.

P.S. If you’re into living a more intentional life, it’s about ensuring that everything is aligned. Finances, health, wellness, work, community, and so much more. I have created a YouTube channel, intending to chat about things to give more alignment and to embody the phrase “Esse Quam Videri”, which translates to “To be, rather than to seem.” Have a look at my latest YouTube video based on the psychology of debt, in an ongoing financial literacy theme.

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