Inside the dramatic Duomo di Siena, with its black and white marble columns, and the intricate pulpit carved by Nicola Pisano at left
All photos by Alya B. Honasan
“Doctor of the Church” is a title bestowed by the Catholic Church on intellectual giants of the faith—saints who have authored groundbreaking, exemplary works that have inspired the faithful. It didn’t have to be complex or lofty; St. Thérèse of Lisieux’s Story of a Soul, the book her Mother Superior ordered her to write and which was published in 1898, is as pure and straightforward an autobiography as you will ever read, written by a woman whose “Little Way” revolutionized the faith after her very brief life (she died at age 24).
More interesting is that, of the 37 Doctors of the Church, only four are women—yet more proof of how the Church remains stubbornly patriarchal, but let’s not go there. Aside from St. Thérèse, who was declared as such by Pope John Paul II in 1997, there are also St. Teresa of Avila, the very first woman to be declared a Doctor in 1970; the not-so-well-known St. Hildegard of Bingen, appropriately recognized by the scholarly Pope Benedict XVI; and, declared the same year as St. Teresa, probably the most kick-ass of them all, St. Catherine of Siena.
Catherine, born Caterina di Jacopo di Benincasa (1347–29 April 1380), joined the Dominican order at age 16, as a mantellate or lay sister not confined to a convent, and as such, was a medieval version of the political lobbyist/influencer, a vocation she began when she was only 20. She was actively involved in papal processes and even Italian politics, prodigiously writing letters for her causes and being tapped as an emissary between the papacy and political leaders.
At age 28, she was sent on a peacemaking journey by both the Pope and the government magistrates of Florence, and was instrumental in bringing the seat of the papacy and Pope Gregory XI back to Rome from Avignon, France, where it had relocated during political turmoil in the Italian city—a development that has been called one of the most remarkable diplomatic initiatives in 14th-century Europe. It was recounted, in fact, that Catherine minced no words in writing to the Pope: “Do not delay your arrival…be a virile man and not fearful.” Like we said, kick-ass!
While on this journey, in Pisa, Catherine received the stigmata, which she actually prayed to God to be kept invisible so it would not distract from her mission. She died at age 33 in Rome where she is buried, was canonized in 1461, and joined her male colleagues in the pantheon of the Church: with Saints Peter and Paul, she is a patron saint of Rome; in 1939, she was declared the patron saint of Italy alongside St. Francis of Assisi; and in 1999, Pope John Paul II made her the Patron Saint of Europe.
Catherine received the stigmata, which she actually prayed to God to be kept invisible so it would not distract from her mission. She died at age 33 in Rome where she is buried, and was canonized in 1461
And so it was in late autumn last year that, in my quest to visit the birthplaces of these four remarkable women (Lisieux and Avila, check), I found myself in Siena, Italy, in central Tuscany, an absolutely gorgeous medieval city with a grand, huge square (the Piazza del Campo), cobblestone streets bathed in golden sunlight, and tall cypresses looming over the ancient roofs. The train station is across the street from a small mall, where a 10-minute escalator ascent brings you to the outskirts of the old city, a short walk away.
In the Fontebranda district is the Sanctuary House of St. Catherine, a three-level structure once rented to Catherine’s father as a home and factory in the 14th century; he dyed fabrics for a living. After she was canonized, Siena turned it into a shrine. A lovely well in the garden dates back to the end of the 15th century.
The wooden crucifix that gave St. Catherine her stigmata, inside the Church of the Crucifix at her home sanctuary
The portrait by Sebastiano Conca of ‘Saint Catherine in front of Pope Gregory XI at Avignon’ (18th century), inside the Church of the Crucifix
Entering the building (admission is free), you face a view of Siena from a balcony, with a welcoming 1974 stucco sculpture of the saint by Bruno Buracchini. To the left is the Kitchen Oratory, where the family kitchen was once located, now chock-full of paintings showing episodes in the saint’s life. On the right is a small church, the Church of the Crucifix, built between 1614 and 1624 in what was the Benincasa family kitchen garden. It’s also adorned with massive, dramatic paintings, including one by Sebastiano Conca, showing Saint Catherine in front of Pope Gregory XI at Avignon (18th century), the leader she brought home, and The Miraculous Communion of St. Catherine by Crisoforo Roncalli (1582).
Most significantly, at the altar is a special icon: the painted cross from which Catherine received the stigmata in Pisa, which was brought to Siena in 1623. As there was no Mass when I visited, the church was dark, and the crucifix, kept in what looks like an open, lighted cabinet, glowed with almost otherworldly holiness. After all, the story goes, this crucifix beamed shafts of red light at the saint when she received the stigmata; when she immediately prayed that they don’t become a spectacle, the light turned transparent and golden.
The repository of Catherine’s famous (albeit morbidly visible) remains is the Catherinian Basilica of St. Dominic, constructed by the Dominicans between 1226 and 1265. It’s a large, simple space also full of artworks, and no photography is allowed, but the presence of the saint’s head and thumb won’t really make you want to point your iPhone, I promise (I’m not a big fan of such relics). The people of Siena wanted their saint home, however, so her spiritual director separated the head and finger (for good measure?) from the rest of the body. Her head now sits facing the faithful from behind grating in a glittering reliquary flanked by exquisite angels. To assure skeptics, a sign has been placed near the relic: “This is the REAL head of St. Catherine.” Next to that reliquary, and remarkably preserved, is her thumb—yes, complete with what looks like an intact fingernail.
To assure skeptics, a sign has been placed near the relic: ‘This is the REAL head of St. Catherine’
Andrea Vanni’s portrait of ‘Saint Catherine and a Devotee’ (photo from Wikimedia Commons) at the Catherinian Basilica of St. Dominic
Important, I believe, is what is widely considered the most famous portrait of Catherine, Saint Catherine and a Devotee, by Andrea Vanni (circa 1330–1414), who painted the saint while she was still alive, having been a follower of hers. Thus, you can gaze upon a presumably accurate likeness, with a gentle face, compassionate eyes—and yes, mere dots for stigmata. God indeed granted her request to stay low-key on that front.
Saints and gargoyles adorn the outside of the Duomo.
Finally, though it has little to do with Catherine, there’s no skipping the Duomo di Siena, the beautiful Siena Cathedral, dedicated to the Assumption of the Virgin Mary and one of the most beautiful churches I have ever laid eyes on. It’s a model of Romanesque and Gothic architecture, believed to have been constructed between 1215 and 1263, with renowned artists contributing to its design, most notably the father-and-son team of Nicola and Giovanni Pisano; Pisano pere carved the eye-popping pulpit that displays scenes from the Bible.
‘Grafitto’ artwork on the floor of the Duomo
Many features are decorated in what appear like stripes of black (actually greenish-black) and white marble for a distinct look. The place is such a jewel box, even the floors are covered in priceless art, marble mosaics and graffito, from an Italian art technique of scratching through a layer of material to expose a contrasting layer underneath. The results are mesmerizing, with intricate Biblical scenes and images of sybils, mythical prophetesses of Greek literature, depicted in detail. While there are cordons today protecting the images from wear and tear, it’s almost unimaginable that these floors were once actually stepped on.
The Three Graces stand in the middle, against the awesome frescoes of the Piccolomini Library inside the Duomo.
Speaking of jewel boxes, to the side of the cathedral is the famed, incredible Piccolomini Library, which then Cardinal Francesco Todeschini Piccolomini, Archbishop of Siena (and later Pope Pius III), commissioned in 1492 to hold the collection of books of his esteemed uncle, Aeneas Silvius Piccolomini, himself Pope Pius II. It’s a small room, a sparkling vault of treasures crammed with colorful frescoes painted by artist Pinturicchio and his workshop between 1503 and 1508. A marble sculpture of the Three Graces stands in the middle, and the frescoes show scenes from the life of the elder Piccolomini as well as from classic mythology. Also on display are several magnificent illuminated manuscripts by the likes of Girolamo da Cremona and Liberale da Varona, illustrators of the late 1460s famous for their fine work—and it’s infinitely obvious why.
A remarkably preserved illuminated manuscript, ‘Deus in loco santo suo, Cristo guarisce il sordomuto (God in his holy place, Christ heals the deaf-mute)’ by Liberale da Verona, 1573, inside the Piccolomini Library
One can stand in the library for hours and admire every inch covered in art, and understand once more the close connection between wealth, political power, and the Church through the ages, for better or worse. At the very least, the relationship has left our generation with things of incomparable beauty such as these.
