On Second Thoughts from Soft Benches, by Shelley Russell

View of Toledo, by El Greco (Spain. b. Crete) c. 1600

On Second Thoughts from Soft Benches

These were the wrong shoes to wear. I realize that now. But my first thought this morning, the one made in haste as we scrambled to the station, was that we’d be on a train for some time (incorrect), and it would likely deposit us near our intended target (wildly incorrect). But alas, it was a pilgrimage, and everyone knows suffering is baked into the meaning of those. So I lean, blister-footed, brave pilgrim, in that cool stone alcove of the El Greco museum, studying my guidebook with the same furtive focus as scripture. My raw heels howl in protest, and I feel Achilles smirk in bitter recognition of my plight. 

The early train from Madrid was punctual and swift, delivering us to this tiny town before the crowds have descended. It is a slog up the hill, and I dig deep to share my guidebook’s joy touting Toledo’s glorious high position as medieval fort. Invaders opted for practical footwear, I grumble. The village holds a peaceful, cobble-streeted charm that has wooed legions. We, too, are wooed. We get lost on the curving streets that split and spoke, forged by long-ago donkeys managing steep inclines, none of them with an eye for city planning or tourist traffic, it seems. Laughing at our inept navigation, we double back more than once. Finally, our destination comes into view.

We wander curved halls and uneven walkways of the artist’s home, a modest place now converted to a shrine of his genius. Our eyes travel to placards in search of words in English to unlock the mystery of each exhibit. We absorb, marvel, and render our opinions in alternating affirmation or dissent. There is joy. There are blisters.

Then hark! In that final stretch around the corner, in the dim lighting of a tiny, high window, the benevolent gaze of a graceful carved Mary directs our attention downward, and her upturned, half-open palm offers us what we need. It is a bench, that holy grail of gifts at the tail end of any exhaustive museum journey. And not just any bench: the perfect, cushioned, backed affair, removed from foot traffic, positioned directly in front of a lovely El Greco piece in that wee chapel space. We knew, with sacred certainty, that Mary had smiled on us, and instantly canonize her: Blessed Mary, Patron Saint of Museum Benches. 

We genuflect in gratitude, descend into its plush goodness, and rest, while contemplating the El Greco that we now more fully appreciate. For we have learned of his suffering, that mental turmoil that pairs so often with creative flair. He was tolerated by this little adopted town, but never paid well, and he often felt slighted and under-appreciated. His critics were harsh, felt his renderings too unrealistic and elongated and odd. They called him “a foolish foreigner”, even “ridiculous”, which struck me as unnecessarily cruel. He tangled in legal disputes for payment of his work. He died, and with no disciples, was largely forgotten. And yet, society’s fickle heart took a turn later. Centuries later. They had another look, a broader perspective, perhaps, and deemed his worth after all.

The narrative is rewritten, and now: look at the genius he showed in this depiction! What a genre-evolving pioneer! Now all of his works are gathered and pored over with reverent awe. We stand in front of them, read from the guidebook of the bravery, the symbolism, the GREATNESS. And we look up from the page and say Ah, yes. I see it. Indeed! Now the town stamps versions of his art on top of anything sellable: magnets, scarves, spoon rests and mint tins. He was ours in this tiny town! Buy these things to show you, too, see his value!

It troubles my soul, this rewriting of history. This man struggled, in real time, as he created, and now others profit. Perhaps the town of Toledo is as guilty as their chosen son: have they, like him, warped reality into elongated, odd shapes that only marginally resemble truth? I stare at my museum ticket stub, wonder whose mouth my euros feed.

 From my bench, I study the elderly docent, a gravity-sieged question mark of a man, gently guiding guests to the gift shop. Dare I judge him for the sins of his ancestors? Surely my own family tree harbors those who nodded when the Emperor claimed Mozart’s music had too many notes, or who snidely deemed Picasso’s work satanic. And today’s genius might be revised tomorrow as derivative hack. It is all just…opinion.

These things percolate in my head as we sit on that soft bench, munching granola, savoring the cool respite. This posthumous honour did not exactly help poor Dominick Theotopolis. Bless him, no one even remembers his actual name, just where he came from: “The Greek.” They couldn’t even be troubled to learn to pronounce that slippery name. And yet, now we make the pilgrimage here to honour him, to say: thanks for doing what you did. I’m sorry it comes a bit late.  

Here is one inarguable truth: none of us will paint the narrative when we’re gone. Time shifts everything, from tectonic plates to world perspectives. It is a humbling, grounding, dare I say: liberating fact. The fickle winds of validation turn without warning: perhaps finding joy in creation may be the actual point, untethered from outside noise. This lesson lands deeply. I return my ticket stub to my pocket, deem it money well spent. 

Later, when I reach into my purse for a tiny mint, its lid will give me a moment of pause. Thank you, Dominick. For your work, and how it provides: our eyes feast on the colours and shapes you claimed, and its joy fills the bellies of families who live here now. I am grateful for them, too. For they, with Mary’s grace, have granted me this bench to rest my sore feet and think of you.

Shelley Russell

Shelley Russell is a practicing physician in Central Arkansas. She thwarts melanoma as her day job, but her writing has been featured in the New York Times, Literary Mama, Kelly Corrigan’s podcast, and an upcoming BBC podcast. 

Author photo of The Burial of Count of Orgaz, by El Greco 1588.