In a move that has left the nation of Italy utterly nonplussed, the restoration of a colossal bull mosaic in Milan has been unveiled, and it is a triumph of something. Perhaps confusion. Or maybe just a really, really committed prank. The bull, which for centuries had been a dignified symbol of the city's financial district, now resembles a creature that has been simultaneously electrocuted and drenched in cheap Chianti.
The restoration team, presumably recruited from the same talent pool that brought us the Ecce Homo fiasco, have achieved the impossible: they have made a stone bull look surprised. Its eyes are now set at an angle that suggests it has just witnessed a politician keeping a promise. Its snout, once noble and broad, now points skyward as if it's trying to locate the source of an offensive smell. And the horns, good heavens, the horns appear to be fashioned from the remnants of a sunburnt gnocchi.
Naturally, the Italian public is beside itself. You would think the Sistine Chapel had been repainted as a giant plate of spaghetti carbonara. There are protests, naturally. But this is Italy, where a slight deviation in the shade of a basil leaf on a fresco can trigger a general strike. The Milanese, who pride themselves on their sophistication, are now debating whether the bull looks more like a constipated hippopotamus or a particularly anxious pug.
I telephoned the head restorer, one Signor Alessi Bellini, who refused to be interviewed on the grounds that he was "busy polishing a cherub's arse." Fair enough. But I did manage to catch a glimpse of his notes, which included phrases like "accentuating the inner beast" and "bringing out the soul of the bovine." I would suggest the soul of the bovine is apparently a frantic, bewildered soul that has just been told its appointment with the slaughterhouse has been rescheduled for next week.
This is, of course, all part of a broader trend. The world has gone restoration-mad. We have grown so accustomed to failure that we now celebrate it as 'interpretation'. The bull mosaic is no longer a bull mosaic. It is a conversation piece. A talking point. A warning to future generations that sometimes the best course of action is to leave well enough alone. But no, we must always 'improve'. We must always 'enhance'. And so we end up with a bull that looks like it has been drawn by a child on the tail end of a sugar rush.
The irony is that Milan is a city built on fashion and design. It is the home of Prada, of Armani, of sleek minimalism. And yet its most recent contribution to visual culture is a stone cow that appears to have been sculpted using a chainsaw and a blindfold. The city council, in a statement, said the restoration is "in line with contemporary artistic trends." So is vomiting on a canvas, but that doesn't mean you put it in a museum.
But let us not be too harsh. Perhaps this bull is a metaphor. Perhaps the bewildered expression represents the Italian people gazing upon their own government. The turned-up nose a reflection of the high regard in which they hold the taxman. The wobbly horns a symbol of the shaky foundations of the Eurozone. Or perhaps, and I suspect this is closer to the truth, it is simply a monumental cock-up.
In the end, the bull stands, a monument to something. What that something is, I cannot say. But one thing is certain: it has given the people of Milan something to be bemused about. And in a world of endless tedium, that is no small feat. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must find a gin. A large one. This story has left me parched and disorientated, much like the bull itself.
