The Prado, Bosch, and the Art of Getting Lost (or Overwhelmed) in Museums

Visiting a museum is a unique and deeply personal experience. There is a strange magic in these places: you can return to the very same museum at different moments in life and discover that the sensations of the first time never replicate themselves. We change, our gaze changes, and above all, thanks to the immense grandeur that characterizes these temples of art, there is always a way to be surprised by a masterpiece that had previously escaped our notice.

The need to begin this journey and launch this column was born from a very recent experience. I was at the Museo del Prado in Madrid—a place I always visit with immense pleasure and that I am fortunate enough to have close by, living here in Spain.

Every time I walk through these galleries, I feel the urge to return and greet certain masterpieces I never tire of seeing. Among the many, I can never miss the chance to find my fellow countryman, Antonello da Messina, with his Dead Christ Supported by an Angel (1475-1476)—which the Prado recently moved to a different room, making me wander a bit before finding it again—or Dürer's Adam and Eve (1507). I will stop listing works here, because the list would be far too long, and I wouldn't want to do an injustice to any of the wonders sheltered in this place.

The Onset of Disaster (and a Dark Pool of Water)

And yet, my latest visit turned into a disastrous contemplative experience. To be honest, I think it depended partly on my frame of mind and the level of intolerance I managed to escalate in a very short time.

That day, I had a specific mission: I wanted to take a close look at a detail that I have even highlighted in one of my Obljewellery pieces. It is a detail found in the lower-left panel of Hieronymus Bosch's famous The Garden of Earthly Delights: a dark, murky pool of water, teeming with all sorts of strange creatures, right there in the Garden of Eden panel. My curiosity demanded a presence-based vision; I just wanted to linger on that detail which evokes evil hidden within purity. Just to admire that detail, nothing else.

Unfortunately for me, my visit coincided with the arrival of a rather large tour group, spearheaded by a guide who was, to say the least, logorrheic.

A Scene Out of a Comedy Film

At first, I told myself: "Never mind, I'll take a loop and come back later." But when I returned, they were all still there. I thought: "Alright, I'll take another loop..." And then another, and another.

By that point, the situation became almost cinematic. Even the group seemed to have given up on listening to their own guide: every time I returned to the room, hoping for a gap, I saw the participants hiding behind one another, chatting among themselves, and totally blocking the view of the painting. An insurmountable human wall.

In the end, I had to give up and look on the bright side: it means I will have to go back soon. But next time, I will choose a much more strategic day and hour.

It is precisely from this contrast, from this moment of interrupted beauty, that I realized how art today constantly oscillates between two extremes. And so, this travelogue is born: a personal chronicle through museums, where masterpieces sink into the chaos of the crowd or, in luckier moments, surrender themselves to the privilege of silence.

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