On a gray January day, the Cloisters, in northern Manhattan, provides a moody respite: the chilly stone walls and massive unicorn tapestries with their arcane iconogrophy and bloodlust, the imposing candelabras lurking in the corners, the pots of narcissus sprinkled about, infusing the mineral air with a floral funk, auguring a still-distant spring.
In the reconstructed twelfth-century cloister from the French monastery of St.-Guilhem-le-Désert, illuminated by a new glass skylight, there is a marble fountain surrounded by a host of plants. The fountain emits a low burble, and people seated on benches around it are silent, rapt, caught up in the heady combination of scent and stillness, silence and sound; of cold and warmth, shadows and light. You feel you are both indoors and outdoors in this space.
In Kevin Dann’s book The Road to Walden: Twelve Life Lessons from a Sojourn to Thoreau’s Cabin, he describes his pilgrimmage to the Cloisters, and stumbling upon a remarkable sound effect in this courtyard: “Though many of the columns appeared to be concrete reproductions, at least half a dozen seemed original, consisting of a pair of sinuous limestone zigzags or waves—living, organic forms.” As I wended my way through the Cloisters’ many courtyards, I quickly assessed each column, until I homed in on a pair matching his description: the limestone was carved into undulating waves, like tumbling tresses, beneath an ornate cornice unlike any other.
Dann continues: “Atop the courtyard’s northwest corner column, over a band of decorative acanthus leaves, a pair of lions flanked a seated man.” I consulted my compass. The pillars—which did indeed feature a man and lions—were actually in the northeast corner, but I figured this must be the spot. “Mustached and goateed, the figure was dressed in a cloak held closed by a large clasp at the left shoulder. His nose seemed to be cut off. The lions’ fur looked like a miniature version of the wavy columns, and their tails coiled as if they were independent living creatures.” Indeed, this man was missing his nose, and his cloak was pinned to his left shoulder. He stared out at the courtyard with hollow eyes, whereas the lion beside him had a protective, predatory expression. In reading a scholarly article about this particular column by Daniel Kletke, from 1995, I learned that the figure in this pilaster has been interpreted variously as a depiction of Daniel in the lions’ den; a high-ranking artisocrat; or, in Kletke’s opinion, Saint William, or Saint Guilhem d’Aquitaine, the founder and donor of the abbey, due to various aspects of iconography: his full-frontal position, his scepter, and his cloak.
“The column seemed to radiate waves of subtle energy,” Dann writes; “the whole room seemed to be breathing. Something profound was echoing in here. I felt as if I had awakened the stone, as surely as the stone was awakening something in me. Feeling the resonance of the room, I decided to test it, and began to hum, then shaped the hum into a full-chested tone.… The thick limestone walls were buzzing.” Glancing around to see if anyone was paying attention, I nestled my face into the corner, and, aware of a nearby guard, was careful not to touch the limestone, which was nevertheless warmed by my breath as I began to hum softly.
At first I heard only my voice, separate from the architecture. But as I increased my volume, my voice seemed to enter the limestone, and the limestone to enter my voice. They began to exchange energy and create a new sound of their own, such that when I ceased my humming, the sound continued, as Dann also observed, and seemed to emanate not only from the corner where I stood, but from the surrounding four walls. Unlike the famous “Whispering Gallery” at Grand Central Terminal, this corner didn’t transmit sound secretly from one corner of the space to another, but broadcast it outward, and retained it.
When the sound faded, I approached the corner and hummed again, louder this time. After a few moments of give-and-take, the sound resolved into its own being and resonated, quavering in and out of my ears in waves not unlike those carved into the column. I looked up at the skylight over the space and did detect a distant mechanical drone, as if from HVAC machinery, but my humming was superimposed on it—a living resonance from ancient stone and human voice playing off each other.
Reverberating over the heady fragrance of the paperwhites and mingling with the bubbling fountain, the buzz seemed to elevate the space into the transcendental. Oddly, none of the other courtyard occupants seemed to notice either my curious cuddling up to the column or the sound. The only ones watching were the ancient lion and the cloaked man—prophet, aristocrat, or saint—vigilant, yet unsurprised by my discovery.
Quotes from The Road to Walden are used with the permission of Kevin Dann. A copy of his book can be ordered here.
Sense & the City is a monthly blog exploring the hidden corners of New York City. Each month’s post is devoted to one of the five senses. Receive daily sensory impressions via Instagram @senseandthecity.
