Polychrome versus Monochrome: the myth of white marble

The Capitoline Museum, 2000. Planet Earth had averted the Y2K collapse, humming merrily along, and the forum remained standing. La dolce vita: Verdi, Fellini, Ovid, and Caravaggio—what a world we inhabit. The first emperor to adhere to Christianity, Emperor Constantine was colossal in form to distance himself from the ordinary mortal, and link to the divine. He was also vibrantly colorful. We were sold a lie. In Ancient Greece, or Ancient Rome, some pigment remains and is easy to see, tucked between a strand of hair, or the folds of a wing, or robe, painted rich purples, blues, and pinks. The "Gods in Color" tour of 2003 continues today in 2020, and David Batchelor's Chromophobia, 2000, both righting the wrong that the Elgin Marbles fabricated, scrubbed until they were as white as pearls.  And yet, the "polychromy" versus "monochrome myth" is not surrendered easily. Debate began as early as the 18th century. Auguste Rodin is said to have said, while slapping his chest, "I feel it here that they were never colored." When you think of white marble, see the gold leaf on naked limbs, copper on lips and nipples, and red pigment in the harlequin printed pants. In the Mediterranean, flesh appears as warm shades of olive, brown, and black, and white is not white, nor the sky blue. 

How does Roma taste? Of lovers' stolen kisses, oranges, myrtle and rose. My poem titled "Without Doubt" is dedicated with love to my sabbatical in 2000 in Rome.