At school, we used to draw Yahweh with a triangle in the middle and a big eye. Jesus was the ideal child in the manger, crowned with thorns and crucified or resurrected triumphantly and dazzlingly, who soon ascended to heaven in a blinding halo of light, and the Holy Spirit was the dove despite my excess. The girl’s rationalism had difficulty adapting to the fiery tongues that descended on the apostles on the day of Pentecost. Between the tongue of fire and the dove, he preferred the first, long before he knew it was also a symbol of peace or, according to Alberti, he was constantly mistaken. But God the Father, who saw and knew all, forgave Isaac at the last moment, but did not forgive his beloved son precisely because he loved the world so much, could not represent himself – he was too small and knew nothing about Sistine. The chapel and Michelangelo are unlike anything new high schoolers would know – so the image that comes to mind today is that eye in the triangle. All the power is to fly above everything without clinging to anything, to know everything, to see everything, including myself.
