On our recent trip to the Monterey Bay, E. and I stopped by the Carmel Mission. A slightly dilapidated charm infused our visit. The building and gardens were genuinely pretty, but the contrast between the sacredness of the space and its shabby chic décor really made it for me.
Inside, the main space was dimly lit by mismatched chandeliers, some verging on gaudy, some plain. One was exactly like what hangs in my parent’s dining room, and another I wanted to steal. A tiny window in a side chapel was my favorite interior moment—brightly colored, hand painted designs on the stucco wall encircled the rather plain window. This seemed to sum up the whole space: it seemed loved, even if there hadn’t ever been enough money to love it properly. (By contrast, our visit to the Hearst Castle showed exactly what can be done with enough money. And it was extraordinary, but just a little less inspiring.) While we were lurking around, some organ boys showed up and started playing. The first one broke the silence with a haunting, murky improvisation, which elevated the mood of our entire visit into something more mysterious and enchanting.
Outside it was spring, and the gardens mixed plants with pavement in an inviting way. I’m often drawn to urban and courtyard gardens because of how lovely everything looks against a backdrop of stone (or in this case stucco). Here’s a cell phone shot:
And two details:
With our admission, we got a Padre trading card! This guy started the Carmel Mission, and he’s memorialized on a collectible card. He’s now my favorite bookmark, and he’s also a reminder of the idiosyncrasy of the Carmel Mission: the kitschy gift shop, the splendid gardens, the do-it-yourself décor, the organ boys showing off to each other, old people praying, cracks in the walls.
