It was after midnight, but people were out and about. He figured the rules of survival were the same in any big city. Keep your eyes and ears open. Know what’s going on around you. Just as he had in San Francisco and Los Angeles, Roman moved in the shadows, where he felt most at home.
Roman found his way to an inexpensive guesthouse not far from the Pantheon and near a bridge that crossed the Tiber. Vatican City was only blocks away. He paid for a full week and slept for a few hours before going out to explore the maze of cobbled streets. He wove his way through groups of young and old, hearing Italian, French, English, German. Tourist groups were everywhere. He watched the locals. He ate and drank what they did while he hung out in piazzas sketching buildings, fountains, and girls in short black skirts and high-heeled black boots. The city was a visual feast by day, a hive of activity at night.
He spent a day wandering the Roman Forum and the Colosseum, another sitting on the Spanish Steps and drawing the Trevi Fountain. He bought a ticket to the Vatican and gawked at art-glutted halls, lingering in a corner of the Sistine Chapel, studying Michelangelo’s masterpiece until his neck cramped. Rubbing it, he watched groups of tourists with their guides driving them like cattle. He followed along. Every wall, ceiling, and floor was a work of art. Priceless treasures were everywhere: jeweled crowns, gold-covered statues, diamond rings and pendants; masterworks by da Vinci, Raphael, Titian, Caravaggio; tapestries that had taken dozens of artisans decades to weave; mosaic marble floors.
Within minutes of entering the vast complex, his awe transformed into disquiet. By the time he stood in Saint Peter’s Basilica before Michelangelo’s Pietà, encased in bulletproof glass, he wondered whether the vast collections of priceless treasures, the massive acquisition of wealth through the ages, was really for God or merely a show of power. Where had all the money come from to build this monument to religion? From conquest and the conquered? Did the devout fork over offerings?
Hundreds of visitors streamed through, jamming the basilica. Hundreds more walked the halls, and more lined up outside, all eager to pay the hefty admission prices. How much money did it take to get into heaven, anyway? Was there a heaven? Or hell? Did God even exist? Roman had never lived with anyone who thought God was real, let alone necessary. “Live and let live” was religion enough for him.
The crucifix bothered him. Why would anyone worship a man who claimed to be God and yet died on a cross? He thought of a sign in the Tenderloin, right across the street from the flat where he and his mother lived: Jesus Saves. Saves from what? Jesus couldn’t save Himself. How could He save others?
Two old women in black dresses and shawls stood nearby, tears running down their faces. When they walked away, he followed, curious. They went into an alcove and knelt on a low wooden bench. They held strings of beads and murmured prayers. Roman stood by the wall and sketched them. They stayed for an hour, rose, moved to the aisle, knelt, and touched their forehead, heart, and each shoulder before they rose and quietly left. The tears had dried, and they looked peaceful. He stared up at the statue of Jesus, hands and feet nailed to the cross, body emaciated and twisted, face contorted in agony.
Anger filled Roman. He didn’t know where it came from or why. He left the basilica and walked the streets surrounding the Vatican. He saw plenty of graffiti, but none he’d be proud to leave behind. A group of avant-garde youths were hanging around San Lorenzo in Roma Centro. He moved among them, listening and watching until an English girl stopped him and started up a conversation. An Italian girl joined them and said they were all going to Trastevere. Roman spent the evening drinking and asking where he could buy art supplies.
Returning to his lodgings, he sketched a cassocked priest, fingers encrusted with rings, an elaborate crucifix hanging from his neck. He wore pirate boots and had one foot on top of a treasure chest while nearby a skeletal peasant woman cowered with her hand outstretched. He crumpled the drawing and tossed it across the room.
Roman slept fitfully and dreamed about his mother.
Next morning, exhausted and in a foul mood, he found his way to Ditta G. Poggi and bought another sketch pad and more charcoal pencils. He loved the smell of the store and lingered as patrons came and went. A buzz spread when one man entered. He bought tubes of oil paint and expensive brushes, then placed an order for cochineal insects he could grind into powder to produce a specific shade of carmine.
Roman asked for Belton Molotow and Spanish Montana spray paint. The weight of the cans in his pack gave him a sense of purpose. He returned to his rented room and practiced drawing the scene etched in his mind. He simplified it. Fewer lines, more contrasts. He’d have to work fast, and that meant every line and curve had to express something important, something that created an impression. Black, white, red, and gold—four colors, more than enough to make his statement.