The Museum of Madness—sad though compelling mixture of insanity, reality and genius on display in Lucca

My guest blogger is Lucy Spadoni, the Broad herself, who is much more attuned to and appreciative of art than I am.

Did you ever go to a Haunted House at Halloween? Moans and groans. A prostrate body—seemingly dead—who suddenly looks at you? Clawlike hands reaching for you from behind a screen? You scream, you squirm, you laugh and enjoy getting to the end after 15 minutes of madness.

Different scenario. You lived maybe half a century ago. You are depressed, or a wife whose philandering husband wants to rid himself of you. Maybe you hold money or property that another family member wants, or you are genuinely sick with a mental illness like depression, anxiety, bipolarism or schizophrenia. Someone takes you to a building, signs some papers, and you are trapped in a madhouse, maybe for life. You become a number, you have no possessions, maybe even no clothes, with no escape, no laughter, no future.

Lucca had such a manicomio for more than 200 years. Located at Maggiano to the east of the city, it housed as many as 1,400 patients at a time; counting nurses and doctors, the total population approached 2,000. Other insane asylums were scattered throughout Italy before a law was enacted in the late 1900s that eventually led to the disbanding of all but asylums for the criminally insane.

A marriage of art and mental illness is the topic of a popular exhibit in Lucca called the Museo della Follia, or the Museum of Madness. It is the brainchild of Vittorio Sgarbi, a politician, art critic and historian, cultural commentator and television personality. The display runs from Feb. 27 to Aug. 18 in the Ex Cavallerizza in Piazzale San Donato. It is not a haunted house, per se, but its displays of artwork by living and deceased artists depict what it would have been like to have been committed to an asylum. Guests journey through black corridors with lighted exhibits of paintings, murals, photos, sculptures and writings to feel the frightening reality of the people who lived and worked in asylums.

Vittorio Sgarbi, looking at faces of mental hospital
patients.

One senses bleakness, despair and the claustrophobia of souls locked naked and alone in cells the size of walk-in closets “for their own good.” Visitors to the exhibit can read pleading letters that were never sent and see photos of patients’ faces—some with sad and defeated eyes, others with hopeful smiles—and sculptures that depict a feeling of being among the living dead. One patient painted himself with a distorted and indistinct face, expressing the idea that he didn’t know who he was. Forbidden possessions that patients hid under their beds are on display to show that patients wanted something of their own to remind themselves and others who they once were.

The face of a sad, poor girl. The number given a person scratched on walls and possessions to show others that he exists. Electric shock treatments. Pills that numbed patients into insensible zombies. A wooden corkscrew that was used on a patient to force open his mouth to take his medications. A steadily dripping sink with a broken handle so it can never be shut off.

Some patients did get better and were released—oh, the memories they must have had. It was not entirely hopeless. Some therapists, notably Mario Tobino, the head psychiatrist at Maggiana for 40 years, experimented and started giving the patients paper and paint to express themselves. The resulting art is displayed. Some of it is macabre, some startling beautiful, some grotesque in its reality, some genius.

Other works on display are from noted contemporary artists. Some had difficult lives but have used their art to keep themselves sane in their own way. They paint their past or paint self-portraits shown with haunted eyes and a later time with eyes clear. Some sculptures were done alone in caves for the person’s own benefit. Some sculptures were made with natural materials to get across their idea of what’s inside. Much of the art is stunning, and just as impressive is the artistry of this well-crafted exhibition itself.

Outside the museum is a sign that reads “Come in, but don’t look for a path. Bewilderment is the key.” 

Elena explains the symbolism in
one of the central works of art.

A recorded audio guide is included in the price of admission, but we were escorted by one of Lucca’s most knowledgeable tour guides, Elena Benvenuti. She has spent days studying the exhibit and compiling a virtual textbook of notes. She helped turn our bewilderment into understanding. One of my relatives had depression in the 1960s. This person was treated with shock therapy, now known to be horrible but of no benefit. I wish I had understood then what was endured. Mental illness is complex and baffling, but compassion, knowledge and an appreciation for artistic expression make it worth the effort to understand.