Peace Demo: On a Wing and a Prayer

The basilica of St. Francis in Assisi has survived the Black Death, endless squabbles with the Perugians down the road, and an earthquake in 1997. It's a sacred spot, and thus it's a bit disconcerting to see a sculpture of a dove the size of a dinosaur perched just outside its main entrance. The bird stares at visitors with a single eye; its other appears to have been torn out, just as one foot is mangled. In the courtyard in front of the church are dozens more bird sculptures, life-size this time and each mounted on a pole. A group of bushes amid them spells out the word pax.

This is but one small part of an art exhibition showing continuously this summer here in Assisi; in Pietrasanta, Italy; Monaco; Menton, France; and, uh, Mobile, Alabama. And it doesn't stop with the birds. In the basilica's lower courtyard, 52 photomontages and paintings fill the porticoes. These icons mostly depict [an error occurred while processing this directive] undisputed plagues of the human condition: slavery, genocide, chemical spills; more confounding are panels such as the ones devoted to outsourcing — showing people grinding up parts of their bodies — and women's rights, in which lipsticks recall the World Trade Center's Twin Towers.

The various installations, called "Violata Pax" (Wounded Peace), are the brainchild of Nall, a 58-year-old artist born in Troy, Alabama. Nall, whose real name is Fred Hollis, insists that mankind is "in a state of wounded peace," and that his art is a message of peace he hopes will fly back to the U.S. If the symbolism of the wounded dove seems stunningly literal-minded, that's because it is. Obviousness, however, is not exactly unknown in religious art. A quick peek inside the basilica serves as a reminder that St. Francis himself preached to the birds — inspiration enough for the great fresco painter Giotto, so why deny the subject to Nall?

But the bigger question is: How did an outlandish Alabamian who studied with Salvador Dalí — and who's not even Catholic! — manage to get his works displayed in some of the most venerated venues in Italy, where art is religion and vice versa? Part of the answer is Nall himself; he is tireless and oh-so-eager-to-please. His southern twang and oversize hospitality work in the Old World as well as the New, and his wife, Tuscia, could charm the sandals off a monk. They've cultivated powerful people in Monaco, where they live part of the year — including Prince Albert — and in the Italian art world.

Another part of the answer — as hinted by some in the Nall entourage — may be in the politics of the Roman Catholic Church. Father Vincenzo Coli, the custodian of the basilica, says he was attracted to Nall's work because it depicts "the limits, the faults of mankind ... Upon looking one feels shame." But Coli may have reason to use art to push a political message. The Franciscans have a long-standing tradition of left-wing activism, which does not sit well with conservative Pope Benedict. Indeed, in November, Benedict published a decree that put the Franciscans under the direction of bishops and a papal overseer, removing an autonomy they had enjoyed since 1969. Art, in this line of argument, becomes a relatively unimpeachable weapon aimed at the Vatican.

One flaw with that theory is that much of Nall's art isn't easily construed as political. The icons contain so many symbols — cockroaches, flowers, pomegranates, skulls — that they could mean just about anything. For the most part, they amount to critical depictions of human behavior that the Vatican would likely criticize too — particularly the ones devoted to birth control and abortion. Nall insists that he's not holier than us; the icons are "postcards from my past," he explains. "Everything in those works is something from my own life, or the stories of the friends I've painted." Art snobs may find it vulgar, but the Christian message is supposed to be universal; who cares if this time the vernacular is borrowed from a 12-step program?

Maybe the truth is that the Mediterranean mind-set is not so far from Alabama as one might think. After all, as Nall points out, the original European settlers of America's southeast were French and Spanish. The line between European sacred art and Bible-belt kitsch is a fine one — Nall's unique accomplishment may be that he's erased it.