1333: Simone Martini's panel for the altar of St. Ansanus in the cathedral of Siena: the Annunciation. From the mouth of the angel, "Ave gratia plena Dominus tecum," the inscription from the best-known prayer to the Virgin, "Ave Maria," lifted from Luke 1:28--"Hail, full of grace, the Lord is with thee"--and instituted by the time of the fourteenth century as part of the daily devotions prayed by both clergy and laity in the Little Office of the Blessed Virgin Mary, during the first hour, Matins, and which is commonly illustrated in Books of Hours by images of the Annunciation. Ann van Dijk suggests that such pervasively inscribed images are meant to compel a "mimetic devotional response": to prompt viewers to complete the prayer, to compel them to adopt the posture (both physically and imaginatively) of the angel who kneels with humility before the Virgin, and to remind them that the prayer originated in the mouth of the angel, from Gods lips to the Virgin's ears.
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The compulsion of sacred art: itself mimetic towards the elicitation of mimesis: and its prolificness: the repetition implicit in mimesis, which is a powerful pull towards the making of likeness, the desire to be like. When I would talk of sympathy--even of love--I would have to remember to talk of likeness and the question, whom would you most want to be like? And why is it so, this almost insuperable need to emulate? Why does it so closely resemble completion? So much so that difference seems a break with unity?
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Best Western morning: distraction, a moment of neglect, and the water from the tub overflowed past the bathroom tiles into the room and soaked several feet of new carpeting. I wrung out towels and entertained lies for an hour before calling the desk to let them know and to ask about damages and billing. No one arrived at the door with help or a clipboard. I felt lousy and stupid and wondered how to best get out of it until my hands were raw with wringing and my back and forearms ached. Then my nervous head gave up working it out, and all of us walked down to the desk where the manager nodded when he saw me and said "maintenance's up there in your room now." Maintenance crossed my path on the stairs as I walked back to the room. He said, "how's your day? okay so far?" I shook my head and said "no, not so far, anyway, but it's my own fault." He said, "oh, you're 122, huh, we'll let's have a look. No need to keep you worrying." He stomped his boots on the rug. Water puddled around his heels. "No," he said, "really, I don't think this is a problem for you to worry about. I'll let them know it's no big deal." I thanked him and tried not to want to hug him (well, he was very attractive too). He smiled and stomped his boots, "yeah, it's no big deal, you're all set. --Oh, and thanks for being honest." I felt myself blink. "Yes, of course," I said. "Of course."
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Bob Hellenga once mentioned that this depiction of the Annunciation delights him most of all. The Virgin keeps her thumb in her book (holding her place in her reading against this irritating disruption), clasps her garments to her neck, turns her shoulders away from the messenger, and casts him a look of disdain. "She reminds me of my wife at her lessons," he jokes. "She looks at me that way sometimes when I interrupt her work. Go away--I'm busy here!"
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