Only ever happened once in my life as a painter. Walking through an exhibition at UC Berkeley many, many years ago I saw a Van Gogh self portrait from across the room and was literally overwhelmed. A combination of the painting itself and actually being in the presence of a masterpiece. I've never exerienced that feeling again, but then I've never seen a Lucian Freud in person yet.

I was young, I was confident, I loved Art but didn't know it. I have a memory of being in the Pantheon in Rome, doing the teenaged "boring" cultural week of a two week holiday (ie Not the beach week) and there didn't seem to be much there. Yeah, a hole in the roof ! cool for barbecues but....
...Then I saw a tomb/memorial alongside one wall and it said Raphael.... and I spaced out. He really lived. Not just in a book with pictures. I remember thinking when I came back to earth that he really deserved more than was there. It was a mixture of hero-worship, epiphany and growing-up....all at the same time.
Later found Keats' heart. Life was starting. Chris (aged 17... now 54)

Upon, gazing at the masters paintings in the museum the tears will start to fall and I am overwhelmed with a sense of awe! Its best that I gaze alone, as seems know one understands.

Recently, Painting Canada brought tears to my eyes; standing in the gallery between Jack Pine and West Wind, an entire gallery of JEH MacDonald paintings of Lake O'Hara - almost a dozen, sketches of Algonquin and Algoma. Awestruck was I.

I was shocked to read of the Stendhal effect in this letter, as it apparently happened to me at the Uffitzi in Florence. As I came out of each room viewing this great art, I had to sit on a bench to recover, feeling dizzy and exhausted, at one point thinking I might pass out. I thought it was due to my three weeks of backpacking Europe, not the overwhelming effects of great art.

I was overwhelmed upon seeing Thomas Moran's painting of the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone at the Smithsonian in D.C. It was an amazing work of art. His paintings were instrumental in setting aside parts of America as National Parks.

Everything goes better with Light.

"Recognition" has a lot to do with this condition. We are all, to a degree, impressed with ourselves when we recognize something. It's particularly evident in music when the much-anticipated theme arrives. Audiences applause for this reason. I always remember the self-congratulatory feelings, sometimes to the point of tremors and tears, when I recognized something in the flesh that had only previously existed in the media.

I saw a man collapse in the MOMA. He was attended by his daughter and then a doctor until the paramedics arrived, but it was too late. His daughter said he had a weak heart.

I am happy that you got rid of that pesky super ego and were able to experience beauty unfettered.
Near the top of my list of triggers to the Stendahl Syndrome are, Botticelli's Primavera and Michaelangelo's David, an Andrea del Sarto Madonna and Child, Manet’s "Dead Toreador", the Matisse paintings of a period around 1916-1918, Rembrandt's Woman Bathing, a yellow and orange Rothko, and much of Harold Hodgkin's work...but none compares to what I see today. My cataract surgery gives me a new lens in my left eye and I am able to compare what I see with my, as yet unrepaired, right eye! The whites are luminously pure, the tree trunks have beautiful rosy and blue tones, and the reds are pure crimsons! I compare them to what I see from my as yet unrepaired right eye, where everything is cast in a yellow ochre haze, dull somber tones of green gold, the whites are muddy and have no brilliance. This puts to the test the stories of Monet's pallete going yellow and dark orange in his last years, (before they invented cataract surgery)! Today, I am in a full blown case of the Stendhal Syndrome! What good timing.

Okay, I think I know what the problem is. All of these museums that people are mentioning are world-class and they have thousands of years worth of art to choose from to hang on their walls. So obviously they are hanging only the very best that humankind has to offer. So it can be quite overwhelming to view a Rembrandt, then a Monet and then a Van Gogh, all in the same time and space.

The answer? They need to hang some of my art in there, interspersed with all these masters, just to give people a break from all that greatness. Not to mention giving people a chance to laugh and say, "what the hell is that?" I am willing to help out with this problem in any way I can.

I was in Notre Dame cathedral in Paris in December about 6 years ago. It was high mass in the late afternoon. Great beams of warm sunlight streamed through the west rose window and bathed the altar in an etherial multi-coloured light. Incense smoke wafted slowly upward through the light beams, upward into the dark recesses of the great vaulted ceiling. A lone priest stood before the altar. He wore a white alb that, bathed in the sun beams, glowed radiant against the dark shadows of the gothic interior. He sang the mass in french with a beautiful voice that resonated hauntingly throughout the enormous interior space. I am not a religious person, but standing there and being witness to that simple spectacle of light, incense and sound inside of that dramatic gothic church was as near to a religious experience as I have ever had.

Paul Paquette.

I haven't experienced the symptoms described; my reactions to extreme beauty in both art and nature are to either go into a trance (it it's static) or run back and forth excitedly trying to take it all in, if it's transient. It's no wonder I have a bit of a reputation for being a tad daft!

My best trance-like experiences have been visits to great cathedrals - both Notre Dame and the Duomo in Milan will stay with me forever. Sagrada Familia in Barcelona is on my bucket list. I'm also not religious. It's the skill of man in creating these huge works of art that entrances me.

But for running-back-and-forth excitement (probably including the racing heart, though I didn't notice at the time!), hard to beat is a train journey up the Jungfraujoch in 1988. I didn't sit down until we reached the tunnel - I bobbed from window to window, trying to see it all.

There were the emerald green grass, the flowers, the sound of cowbells, the fir trees, the snow-covered mountains above and a gloriously blue sky, all as described in the Heidi books I'd devoured as a child.
The idyllic picture of Switzerland I'd had in my head all those years turned out to be incredibly true in every detail.
I've been back once since, in 2000, and it was just as wonderful.

Oh yeah...Florence did that to me...I found myself in tears often at the sheer beauty of the place. After the trip I did not paint for about a year...my cup was too full!

Most recent episode of that experience took place at the Beaverbrook Gallery in Fredericton, New Brunswick Canada when I stood 2 feet away from a Claude Monet painting. Caught my breath, tears rolled down my cheeks and my heart pounded in my chest as I stood this distance away thinking of Monet himself standing the same distance to look while he was painting. Work like this does not come to New Brunswick often. As a person of little financial means these days, I do not get to travel to exotic places. I grew up partially just outside London, England where as a blase teenager I visited The National Portrait Gallery and other such noteable places. I remember once putting my hand on a sculpture which moved me to tears, and other classmates laughed at me..

Relieved to learn I'm not the only "crazy person" who experiences such a range of emotions from art.

I've been a dinosaur lover all my life, truly since maybe age 4, and particularly dinosaur movies. Museums were wonderful, but bones were never enough. I wanted to see them moving around.

For most of my life, stop motion was as good as it got, and while I always enjoyed it, there was a stylized aspect to it; you'd never confuse it with real life. Until "Jurassic Park," that is. The first encounter with the brachiosaur was overwhelming. He looked completely real, alive, an animal rather than a special effect.

But it was when they cut to the lake, and the herd of parasaurolophuses drinking, lifting their heads and looking around, that I was truly gobsmacked. One caught my eye, and when his head moved, tiny in the shot though he was, it moved with the weight and mass of a horse's head. It bounded over my disbelief and, for that moment, convinced me I was seeing a living dino.

I very nearly passed out. Thought I would. It was a case of being blown away by both the artistry of the moment, and (because he was so far away) the direct participation of my mind in creating the shot. I think it qualifies as a Stendhal moment, though the poor fellow will never make the inside of the Louvre.

Leave it to a psychiatrist to turn an aesthetic experience of lifetime delight into a mental illness. I personally don't feel that labeling and quantifying my experiences has made me a better artist. Surely there is much more enjoyment and benefit to have freedom of expression and using those emotions experienced to further artistic goals.

I experienced a similar sensation when I saw Van Gogh's sunflowers for the first time. Now I know that I'm not crazy, only overwhelmed.

As I started reading this piece, I immediately thought of my feelings when I was at l'Orangerie this year. I kept telling my husband that I really could not understand how I was going to be able to leave. Eventually we left and I had to beg him to go back in and we viewed them all again. I will never ever forget my joy trying to come through my sick overwhelming awestruck body reaction to such beauty. Just had to write. It is so real. And then later I read that that was your moment as well. Aaah...

I had a similar experience to yours, but until now I never knew what to call it. Back in 1989 my wife and I were in Paris and naturally the first thing on the sightseeing list was a visit to the Louvre. My excitement was building before we even walked through the doors. The entire experience was overwhelming, but the gut-wrencher was when I found myself standing in front of the Mona Lisa. I was so overcome, I could not look at it for more than a few seconds at a time and was literally unable to speak for 2 hours afterwards. I still have the image of watching a group of Japanese tourists, laughing and talking and shooting flash pictures (which, in the days before the new glass enclosure, were strictly forbidden), completely oblivious to the power and meaning of the incredible beauty and history that had me viscerally incapacitated.
The second, albeit less powerful incident occurred a couple of hours later as I stood and ran my fingers over the cold, exquisite form of the Venus De Milo. The coldness of the marble was almost shocking given the supple fluidity of the figure. I still get an emotional reaction that is almost physical every time I see a beautiful piece of art. Thank you for the insight of kindred spirits.

I lived for five years on Piazza S. Croce while I was studying art at Angel Academy of Art in Florence. I prayed that some of the earthly molecules of Michelangelo, Galileo, et al. still wafted around the piazza as I breathed deeply in hopes of capturing some minute speck of their genius. Alas, the molecules were too few....

The one and only time this happened to me I was a teenager living in San Francisco. On a visit to The Palace of the Legion of Honor I walked into a room that had a large piece by Renoir. I was transfixed, could not move and stood before it in awe. To this day I have never felt as I did that day about seeing a masters work, close but never that huge rush of being in a room with such beauty. It was long ago but a vivid memory.

While in Italy last year, I looked up a Bernini sculpture, The Agony and Ecstasy of St Theresa in a small chapel in Rome. Standing in front of this dimly lit piece, I was almost disappointed. So what's the big deal with "the exact moment when the angel of love's arrow pierces the heart of St Theresa"?
Somebody else inside the church came across and fed a coin into the slot that I had not seen. Suddenly, lights came on, flooding with light the most incredible piece of art I have ever laid my eyes on. The folds in the white marble; the golden rays shining down from above the scene, St Theresa's half open mouth . . . sensual. I felt her intense pain and I felt her personal ecstasy. There was an arrow in my heart, I could not move. I stood frozen and mulled over the description, over and over, while trying to suck up every single exquisite detail of this piece.
I don't know how long I had stood like this, but a some point the lights went out and I came to my senses again. I left the chapel in a daze and could not relate to my family who were waiting at a gelatti shop near by for quite some time. I can only describe this as a deeply moving spiritual experience; much like an instant trance. For some moments I was shepherded to a higher level of being; a better place.

Thank you!! Thank you!!! Thank YOU!!! For years I have realized that I get an ache in my chest often when I am able to really study amazing paintings. Nearly every time I visit the Chicago Art Institute, I come out with a pounding headache. But I had never realized until reading your letter, that this phenomena that you referred to, might just be what happened to me when I was age 21 and in Paris. It was the final day of a European trip that I had been on for over 3 weeks. Between the travel, work and sight seeing we had been doing, no one in our group had gotten their normal sleep. But we were young, so none of us cared. Then on the day that I was totally excited about; the day we finally got to see the Louvre, after only spending about half of our allotted time, I ended up feeling dizzy and downright sick to the point that I had to leave the museum. I know at least a few of my companions came with me so that has only added to my regret over having not spent every minute possible viewing those masterpieces that I or they may never get to see again! So for over 30 years I have been mentally kicking myself for leaving early, when maybe I was just responding in a visceral way to all that I had been taking in! I am going to tell myself that anyway, because it feels much more noble than simply being a wimp!

A slug of Limoncello cured my episode after a terrifying 20 minute climb up into the roof of the Duomo di Firenze and down again. I'm claustrophobic you see... so you might understand my reticence. About half way up [inside the Duomo itself] runs a narrow caged-in shelf high above the cathedral floor which offers a birds eye view of the Last Judgment frescoes painted on the ceiling.
Clinging tightly with my back to the wall I inched around the Duomo's inside walls... quickly past those pitchfork prodding figures littering the lower levels... and tried to keep my eyes focussed skyward on the more heavenly bodies above. The shelf then led back into the narrow circular stairwell and continued to climb up into the roof.
I was fine actually until the man ahead of me began contemplating aloud what might happen should someone decide to have a heart attack in that dark dingy space. But... we made it out alive... and the view from the top was spectacular!
The experience was an eye opener for sure... but was it Stendahl syndrome? No I don't think so. Just a frightful combination of vertigo claustrophobia and sheer and utter terror at the prospect of having to face those pitchfork prodding demons again on the way back down.
In hindsight I think perhaps I might have needed something a tad stronger than Limoncello back on terra firma. A gelato maybe? Or three? Or a helicopter perhaps [in hindsight] to get me off the roof? LOL

i myself am often struck with the Stendhal Syndrome even when just picking up a mere feather in my own home, as i have several parrots or looking at the patterning on one of my cats' coats. God is the greatest artist of all, obviously, because he's made each bird feather (no matter what kind of bird) show humans at least four colors on each one, and for the birds themselves, since they see two-dimensionally, far more colors that we can't even imagine. Because of this, as i am also the babysitter of a friend who has two parrots, i was able to recognize the same syndrome specifically in one of her birds (a Senegal) over one of her personal paintings. It is a seascape in several different shades of blue, from the deepest cobalt blue levels to cerulean blue, windsor blues, indanthrene blues, and prussian blue with at least 3 levels of whites in it as well. i thought it was great since i love oil paintings but this male Senegal will spend hours just perching and gazing at it with adoration.

Senegal's are originally from Africa and this one was bred in the midwest, thus never having seen the ocean or any great body of water. He is mainly green in color with reds and a slight amount of blue. The other parrot companion in the same room as he is yellow with some orange. Her furnishings are red and gold. The only reason i can possibly imagine is that it has been done with enough different hues of color, that he loves it, not just that she is the one who painted it (since he loves her dearly). It's made me realize that we should be painting not only for ourselves and other humans but our pets as well, ensuring even more colors and layers of color are put into each painting when we work/play with our art. It is not at all anthripimorphism to do so (since it is obvious animals can't see as we do and haven't seen as much in the world as we have) but a way to make our work better by realizing how many layers there are possible to each piece. This is surely the case with everything from oils, acrylics, and watercolor to the furniture and walls in our homes and studios.

You only applied this effect to artists. What about just the collectors? I know of several who are sometimes overwhelmed by the art they are looking at and simply have to buy it….myself included!

I had been looking forward to seeing some of the great art that was featured at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, John Singer Sargent in particular. As I wandered in and out of the rooms I remember having this silly grin on my face I was so pleased with seeing some familiar pieces. Then I turned the corner into the gallery of Sargent paintings and I was completely overcome with emotion. I wept like a baby. The drawing, the subtlety of the shading, and the exquisite color just knocked me out.
I couldn't breathe as I stared at these masterpieces. I was embarrassed by my tears but I recognized that this was an exceptional experience and I just gave in to the feeling of wonder and gratitude. It's a memory I treasure to this day.

Yes, I’ve experienced this feeling often. Now I have a correct name for it instead of “scenic overkill”.

Seeing Henri Matisse's Jeanette heads unexepectedly brought me to tears when I saw them in Washington, D. C. (I believe at the Hirschhorn Museum).
As a younger artist, I thought that they were the pants! Seeing them face to face was an overwhelming emotional thrill and I suppose I'd have to give credit to Henri for the fact that I'm still a working sculptor.

Turner at the Tate when I was twenty. His Romantic view of the world had me going back weekly.

About the same time I discovered Jussi Bjorling's voice – I choked up big time when I first heard his Nessum Dorma – still the best recording ever of this now overworked piece. It can be found on You Tube.
Sadly those times have passed for me and its now more or a twinge in front of Francis Bacon at the Tate, or a slab of bacon by Soutine, or a simple shape by Hepworth. Even a Lucian Freud portrait. The Stendahl's visceral jolt is now telegraphed in the work, rather than from within myself.
How do we make Stendhal's Syndrome a seriously contagious condition so the impact of the beauty experience becomes common and mankind becomes more obsessed with the spontaneously beautiful and less with guns, Semtex and horror?

I saw my first Guiseppe Pino original while in Santa Fe, NM!
Alas, he recently died and I felt a deep, personal loss!
I have remarked to my husband that I had never felt such a deep intimacy with a person I had never met!

There is also a wonderful play called "The Stendal Syndrome" by Terrence McNally. Comprised of two one-acts, "Full Frontal Nudity" and "Prelude and Liebestod", it deals with this overwhelming and intense physical reaction to art. The first specifically deals with American tourists reactions to Michelangelo's David. I saw it years ago and was quite moved.

The California Condor had been reintroduced into the Grand Canyon the previous year. It was noted a nesting pair had taken up residence. We were at one scenic overlook and observed these magnificent birds soaring. Their cries could be heard clearly. I was spellbound as were the dozen or so people at the precipice. The silence of the place is absolute and I heard one young man behind me almost whisper in reverence, “Your tax dollars at work.” We were witnesses to the grand success of recovering these majestic birds from near extinction.

Sometimes artwork moves me, sometimes not. The Mona Lisa is on everyone’s “to do” list in Paris and of course, I expected to appreciate it. I made my way from one hall and gallery to the next and saw a crowd of probably sixty tourists pointing and talking. It was obvious they were looking at the celebrated prize of the Louvre. This one great icon of art familiar to all was before me. I wasn’t prepared for how magnificent the painting was. I stared at it unable to move … most people looked for a few minutes and moved on. Some lingered. One man looked and shrugged. He said, “That’s it?” I truly pitied the man.

I was on a sailboat anchored on the blue water side of Ship Island off Gulfport, MS during a lunar eclipse. It was late August, clear, calm wind, and no lights were visible … perfect star gazing weather. The moon was between red and peach and so distinct the craters could be seen. Pure awe.

I had the Stendhal effect in the Phillips Collection.

I get a version of it each new quarter when I walk into the classroom with a row of drop dead lovely Kazakh young ladies. At my age I should be past both instances but I am not. Prague.

I recall my personal 'Stendhal Syndrome' moment viewing an Edward Hopper painting ...titled "Sunday-1926" in a gallery one rainy afternoon. The illusion of sunny dry heat on the store front, lonely man sitting on the curb and sunlit dusty street was surreal and mind etching. Penticton, B.C.

I had the feeling when I heard Brian Barlow (music composer and drummer who contrives the Prince Edward County Jazz Festival for last 10 years) His version of "Take the A Train" with 18 pc band is to die for.
I went to Deer Park Church in Toronto to a "Vespers" jazz concert and got there too early. The band was running thru "Take" to get used to their parts and warm up. Half hour later the concert began and they did "Take" again for real. I thought I had died and gone to heaven!!!! Had close experiences like that over art but never quite as strong.
Saw Picasso's "Girl Reflected in a Mirror" in Life magazine when I was 10 and it had almost the same effect. Thanks for the memories.

On vacation in Hawaii in the early 1990's I went into a gallery that was filled with beautiful images in strong, clear colours. I remember feeling I was drinking it it, and felt a bit dizzy, not quite myself. That night, when I was going to sleep, every time I closed my eyes I "saw" things - a field of blue flowers, a single chair near a window, a ceramic vase, a tree with leaves of deep blue. It was like a slide show. Each time, I'd open my eyes, close them again, to see another image. I was so concerned I told the person I was with because I thought something was wrong or at least weird. I wasn't frightened, though. I was just swamped with the feeling that I wanted to try to paint. And here I am today. I have often told the story of when I got the urge to try to create art of my own, I just never had an explanation for that strange and wonderful day.

Once again, an eye-opener from you! I've had that experience several times, the most severe occurring also in the Monet exhibit of water lily paintings (MFA, Boston). Luckily, the center of the room was lined with soft benches, and I wondered even then if buckled knees, shortness of breath, and heart palpitations were common reactions.

The beauty of nature has the power of luring us into potentially dangerous situations. While sitting nearby a hardwood forest ablaze with fall colours, a voice from within called and told me to disappear within its beauty forever. "You won't be missed, and you can enjoy this spectacular place forever." Mesmerized, I placed my hand on the door handle of the car , ready to leave. Fortunately, our son had come back to see what was taking me so long, and asked if I was alright. Since then, I have often wondered about others who have gone missing while on hikes, gazing at rushing waters near waterfalls, or even a certain canoeist who was found with rope tied around his ankles and drowned in an indigo white-capped lake.

It happens to me with art but also when I play the piano...sometimes just a few notes from Phantom of the Opera make me want to cry they are so beautiful. I sit and just play the notes so slowly as to really hear their beauty.

But, I am a sucker for nature also - a shell, a pinecone, wood, branch from a tree with acorns still attached. I have to be careful not to bring too much 'of this beauty' into the house!

I am going to print this 'beautiful group of words' and put on wall in my studio:
Life is a passage through a museum of beauty.

I am a victim of Stendahl syndrome. It happened when I decided to use up an old tube of Prussian Blue oil paint that has been hiding for 30 years or so. Maybe I have never used it before, whatever, when I was spreading it over my huge canvas and saw it's iridescence, I was amazed. It was so unexpected. I was ecstatic!. I wanted to run out and find someone to share it with. I was doing a night pine tree, lake, scene, etc. Then I added a touch of Naples yellow to form a moon and saw that it's halo was also iridescent, I was in heaven. A little bit of yellow also made some nice dark iridescent greens. I couldn't wait to talk to other artists and see if they had discovered this fabulous phenomenon. I could not find anyone that had used it. That did not get me down--I want to experience that fun again!

We were in Chinatown, NYC. I found myself at the confluence of simultaneous events that produced such an otherworldly feeling that I could hardly move. It had been a warm day, and at the beginning of evening, the air had that silky softness that sort of cradles you. A few blocks ahead of us, there was an open, two story structure and lots of quiet activity. As we approached we could hear the strains of the Chinese Opera, to my ear, more unusual then lyric. We discovered we had come across a small park and the two-story building was actually an open pavilion. The second floor was like a theatrical stage, overlooking the park. There were people in that pavilion who, because of the time of day, were totally in silhouette, practicing some sort of marshal art. Two at a time they would move toward each other in slow motion, arms rising as if to strike, and then falling with fingers arched and hands meeting and curling away. As the music sing songed on, and these silhouettes kept up their ballet, I found my fingers wanting to copy the butterfly movements of those hands. I could not move, I was enchanted, and wanted to stand just as I was forever. My husband, however, wanted to move on, and I was pulled away before I was ready to go. I could barely walk, and had to hold my husbands arm to keep from falling. I’m glad I can finally put a name to what happened to me that day.

After reading your letter today I am pleased to be adding The Stendhal Syndrome to my list of personal syndromes. Like you, I thought that this reaction I had to so many beautiful things in the world was due to my sensitivities/sensitiveness until a discussion with my husband. A vintage car aficionado, he revealed that 'Car' guys feel the exact same way when they were anywhere near the car of their dreams or the car of their glory days. He did not use same eloquence and sophistication as in your definition, but I concluded the feeling is the same.

More often these days I feel the Stendhal Syndrome whenever I am with my first and only grandson, born eighteen months ago. I have stared at him for great lengths of time with pure awe and love washing all over me!

I believe that being deeply touched and moved by art is a common phanomena. Actually this is the thrill that we search for and experience in an art form. Lately, listening to the singing of Julio Iglesias on U tube, for instance, made me feel a very strong sense of longing with no aim. I felt it in my whole body; Every time I read a poem by Mary Oliver, I feel a shock, almost as strong as an electric current, only rather pleasant. There are other sensations, not as strong as that when I enjoy art. These shock like sensations do not happen all the time. In most cases there is just a feeling of well being, interest, curiosity, intrigue and such.

I think there must also be a syndrome akin to "withdrawal." That is, when it has been too long since one has seen anything beautiful. There were times in North Central Texas when it was just weeds, dust and more weeds, when I might have killed for one nice art print.

I had the pleasure of this experience recently while watching the film version of Life of Pi. The cinematography is literally out of this world. The aerial views of the tiny boat, the exuberant flying fish, the imaginative underwater aquatic life were all breathtaking. Thank you Ang Lee for your artistry. Euphoria it seems can be computer generated much like flight simulation, or might it be a touch of sea-sickness? Either way I'm in favor.

Oh my goodness Herb. Never ever destroy such beauty as you have created here. Your gift is a blessing to be admire whether here in this lifetime or the next. Best to you always
Namaste

I can think of two vivid instances; one on holiday in Scotland years ago with my exciteable small children who were desperate to get to grips with the Adventure Playground at Drumlanrig Castle in Dumfriesshire. In the house (house first, playground after - possibly it should have been the other way round)they scooted from room to room. I was following, went through a door by a staircase and found myself face to face with Rembrandt's Old Woman Reading. Rembrandt! Heart pounded, eyes filled; I could have gazed all day. My husband came back to see where I'd got to, and found me transfixed! Last year on a trip to Barcelona, I rather reluctantly stepped through the doors of the Sagrada Familia - extraordinary enough on the outside - and burst into tears; again, heart pounding and breath draining. An astonishing, soaring stone forest, filled with light. I had to pretend I had something in my eye, as the crowds coming in jostled behind me.

Robert, As often happens, I find, your letter has timely relevance in my life. At the age of 71 and the loss of my husband and many life changes, I need to re-organise my Will and what to do with my vast "artist's" collection after....Your advice really helped. I just have to find the right people. But in the meantime, the 3rd bedroom (unnecessary to normal life) storage will be sorted. Once again I am so glad to receive your letters.

I have had a few extremely touching & euphoric experiences and. two of them were on the same trip to in 1978 to Amsterdam, Madrid & Paris. I didn't know how overwhelming a painting could be till I saw El Greco's painting of St Peter in Toledo Spain...It was a day I will never forget!. I was unabashedly crying and taken aback as I had not been a particular fan of El Greco's ..it somehow touched my heart like nothing had ever done before! The 2nd time was after leaving the Jeu de pomme in Paris after having spent several hours looking at my favorite impressionist paintings! It was a beautiful sunny day and May 1st in Paris and as I walked out into the gardens I suddenly realized I was looking at the same scenes I had just seen in the paintings...sunlight dappling through the trees, people walking together through the gardens or sitting reading..even the chairs were the same! ...the whole impressionistic scene was on display in front of me...the only difference was the costume! What joy happiness and wonder! I felt I was there seeing through the eyes of those same artists whose work I loved. Such a wonderful feeling of euphoria!

Thanks Aili, for introducing the Stendahl syndrome, I hadn't heard of it before; but have definately experienced it. After reading a book about Artemesia Gentileschi, i came upon one of her paintings at the Carvaggio exhibit at the national gallery...it moved me to tears, and left me internally shaken.

I am just going to add to the many anecdotes here about being overwhelmed in museums. I have been in Florence, in Paris, and so forth... teary eyed at seeing a painting or paintings that I had only ever seen in books. I guess one of the most powerful experiences was in Rockport, Maine, when I went to the museum there and looked at the Andrew Wyeths. I had loved his work since I was a teen seeing an article about him in Time Magazine, the new realism, etc. I don't paint like that, and couldn't but I loved his work. My mother ordered me a set of prints of his work and I still have them. I stood in this gallery and felt my mother there with me as I looked at the wonderful paintings, many of which I was already familiar with...... my eyes welled up, too. An unforgettable experience. I followed it up with going to the Olsen house and walking through it with Andrew's brother in law who gave a few of us visitors a tour. It was back in the late nineties, but it is still vivid.

Concerning the Stendhal Syndrome--golly, that's what that was when the Monet exhibition was presented at the North Carolina Museum of Art a few years ago. I kept bursting into tears, too, and felt quite silly. Bless my sister's heart, she showed much better self control, but she was also in the grip of the syndrome! Thank you for explaining what it is!

I met a woman who said she absolutely avoids art museums. When I asked her why she said, "I'm too sensitive. All that beauty on all those walls. It's like the paintings are screaming at me." I guess that's the Stendahl syndrome to the tenth power! It was only after I had my own Stendahl experience in front of a van Gogh that her words seemed plausible to me.

My Stendhal moment was the first time I viewed a mountain range from a distance. I was 14 years old. (Having grown up in Florida, I had only seen them in photos and books.) My jaw dropped and my knees collapsed. It was as if I had stepped into "beauty", itself with my immediate surroundings lost from view. I was in a state of fixation that took my senses awhile to recover.

Yesterday, I painted a portrait for some friends of their beautiful 4-year old son. 'Alexandre' is a joyous little boy of Congolese/Spanish blood with ridiculously expressive eyes and a beaming smile. It was no chore to get a nice photo and pull together the painting. What puzzles me was the fact that I couldn't stop crying while drawing his face! Of course, portrait work forces you to pore over every line and nuance in order to put the paint down, but I just found myself overwhelmed by the combination of innocence and fragile beauty of this precocious little boy. But, being brought to tears? Not sure if it was the thought of what he faces in a future with so many questions and global issues. But, when you wrote of this syndrome, it certainly struck a chord!

Robert, Thank you. I, too, have had this experience. The first time was in the Sistine Chapel. I started to tremble and tears rolled down my face. I was shocked at the colors, esp. the orange. I didn't want to leave. Finally, the tour guide told me it was time to go. I have no idea how long I stood in that one place experiencing that amazing ceiling. The only other time I have been affected that way is in the Cowboy Museum in Oklahoma City. There were five murals in one of the special event rooms painted by Wilson Hurley. Their placement on the huge walls and the exacting placement of his horizons just blew my mind. I immediately regretted that I had never made the extra effort to meet him as he lived so close to where I do. I felt as if I were in those paintings and they were the most wonderful places I had ever been.
It's good to know I'm not the only person (artist) who experiences beauty like this.

The phenomenon of being overwhelmed by beauty occurred when I was 18 years old at the Glenbow Museum in Calgary where they had a show of paintings dealing with reflections on water by Joseph Raffael. They were huge murals of oscillating colours and I was so mesmerized I felt dizzy and had to sit down. My heart was pounding and I was short of breath. I went back to that show eight more times before it moved on and even made a special art pilgrimage to the Nancy Hoffman Gallery in New York to see more of his work. He continues to be a prime influence in my own work of what I want to accomplish.

I rounded the corner in the Thompson Gallery, Toronto a few years ago to find myself face to face with one of Emily Carr's as large as life forest paintings. Breathless I fell to my knees in awe. Once I returned to my body I was shocked to find that I was still standing. Must have been my energy (kinesthetic) body that had given homage. Wee humans are something, what!?

Self-congratulation and recognition causing this state doesn't sound convincing to me. When I was only seven, my parents took me to Prague. Somehow the only art museum we found accessible that day was dedicated to paintings with images of the crucifixion. I have never had any religious or art related education prior to that. I felt such awe that I got physically sick. The same happened to my mother. The pressure of the sheer weight of art being created through centuries is what I recall. Also something like a duty and desire to absorb all that and make a space for it in my heart.

I first experienced the Stendhal syndrome while in the Louvre, standing and looking at the painting of St. John the Baptist, which was adjacent to the Mona Lisa. I thought I might pass out.

I have also experienced similar feelings while in university and having certain poetry read aloud. I recall having to grasp the arms of my desk to stop the dizzy feeling. I believe it was Blake that was being read.

10 years ago I visited a sister who was then living in Toronto. She played tour-guide during my visit, and we got to spend a few hours in Kleinberg, about 40 minutes from Toronto, seeing the McMichael Canadian Art Collection. Standing 10 feet away from these original paintings by my art heroes (Tom Thomson, Harris, Carmichael, A.Y. Jackson, Lismer, and all the rest just about put my ticker into overdrive...I forgot to breathe! At the time, Eaton's Centre also was showing several dozen more paintings by the Group of Seven borrowed from private collections; still goes down as the best experience of my life as an artist!

I recently saw the Denver Art Museum's exhibit, "Becoming Van Gogh." It was an outstanding exhibit that I saw twice and I wish I could go again! The first time I saw it, I went with an art buddy of mine. She brought along a lady who is an art historian named Rachel. She had seen the exhibit once before we saw it all together. After visiting several rooms in the exhibit, the Rachel asked for my friend and I to be ready to talk about our favorite piece in the exhibit. I began paying even more attention than I already had been. As we were nearing the end of the exhibit, I thought I finally had my favorite picked. Then, we all turned a corner together, and each started looking at a different painting. I was looking at a landscape that had huge billowing clouds in it.

All of a sudden, I softly gasped, but it was enough to garner their attention, and apparently they started looking at me. The longer I looked at the painting, the more of an effect it had on me, and tears started rolling down my cheeks. Rachel asked me if I knew anything about that particular piece. I told her no, that I hadn't even read the plaque that accompanied it yet. She told me it was one that Van Gogh had painted while he was in his cell at the asylum. Wow. The only reason I could think of that would have caused such a reaction from myself was that somehow the emotion of what he was feeling as he painted really came through to me. I finally "got a grip" and was able to see the rest of the exhibit without any further emotional displays.

I bought the book about the exhibit and was hoping that a reproduction of the painting that had illicited the response from me would be included. It was, and when I saw the reproduction, once again I welled up with emotion. I am a 55 year-old woman who has loved art all my life. I started drawing when I was a child of about 8, and I started learning to paint when I was in high school. I've seen a LOT of art, and I've never had an experience like this before.

The second time I went to the exhibit, I was very curious about how I would react when I saw the painting in person again. At first, I thought I would be fine. Then, the longer I took it in, I actually started to feel slightly faint, so I quickly averted my attention elsewhere. I've never fainted before, and I didn't want to faint in the Denver Art Museum. I don't know why this particular painting has such an effect on me. The name of the piece is Landscape from Saint-Remy, 1889. It wasn't even my favorite Van Gogh piece from the exhibit!

So, dear art author, I am happy to know that I am not the only person to be affected by art in strange ways. Thank you for putting a name to my experience.

Margaret Bobb
www.m-bobb,artistwebsites.com

I took my first trip to France last May. I have always loved Monet and too saw his water lilies at Musée de l'Orangerie in Paris. Monet is such a brilliant artist because he painted up close, stroke by stroke, what is to be enjoyed from a distance. It amazes me how he did that. When I looked at his work up close, I was disappointed. It was quite ordinary. His colors weren’t pretty. He had a lot of brush strokes I would have considered a mistake. However, when I stepped back and turned, the Stendahl Condition set in.

I’ve never been a Van Gogh fan just seeing his work in print. However, I had the pleasure in Paris of seeing his last works. All of his works were amazing! Starry Night. I can’t explain it. Stendahl Condition set in. I wanted to cry.

France is such a beautiful place to paint. The ochre hills at Roussillon are only equaled by the architecture in Paris.
San Angelo, Texas

I took my first trip to France last May. I have always loved Monet and too saw his water lilies at Musée de l'Orangerie in Paris. Monet is such a brilliant artist because he painted up close, stroke by stroke, what is to be enjoyed from a distance. It amazes me how he did that. When I looked at his work up close, I was disappointed. It was quite ordinary. His colors weren’t pretty. He had a lot of brush strokes I would have considered a mistake. However, when I stepped back and turned, the Stendahl Condition set in.

I’ve never been a Van Gogh fan just seeing his work in print. However, I had the pleasure in Paris of seeing his last works. All of his works were amazing! Starry Night. I can’t explain it. Stendahl Condition set in. I wanted to cry.

France is such a beautiful place to paint. The ochre hills at Roussillon are only equaled by the architecture in Paris.