The gravity of time.

November 13, 2010

I’m rudely becoming more aware of how time is slipping away from me.  Four more weeks and I will once again be surrounded by an English speaking culture, a dash of my previous permanence, the once familiar sights becoming, once again, familiar. 

This past weekend, I embarked on a rather idiotic endeavor to explore Florence as the common tourist, focusing on the museums and cathedrals that I walk past on a daily basis.  How odd it is that we can live in a city and use our stamp of residency as an excuse from seeing “home” in a new light?  I’ve been to numerous cities here in Italy, yet, before this past Saturday, had never set foot in Florence’s Accademia, the home of Michelangelo’s David. 

On the way to Uffizi, our first stop and one of the most impressive and comprehensive art galleries in Italy, I encountered the tone of the day, relinquishing myself to the humbling truth: this was the territory of visitors and I had been transformed.

Walking along the Arno, in the direction of the Uffizi, I found myself lost in my thoughts.  It’s times like these when my surroundings become a blur, and I do not even realize that I am impolitely riding on the feet of a stranger.

A woman, immediately aware of my presence, kindly stepped to the side, and called for husband to do the same.

“Howard.  Howard, dear.  This lady wants to get by.”

“Oh, yes.  Please.  PER FAVORE.”  Howard moved to edge of the sidewalk to let me pass, his hand raised in invitation for me to continue forward.  I paused, caught up in the ridiculous nature of the exchange, and for a minute, walked, suspended, alongside him.

He pronounced every word with severe American intonation, speaking loudly and slowly in my direction.

“COMPRENDE?  Excuse me, COMPRENDE?”  He hesitated, bent slightly at the wait, his ear turned to me, unsure that I had understood.  I, caught off guard by his attempts to communicate, said nothing. 

Howard called back to his wife in confusion, his shoulders raised in a shrug.  “Jean, I don’t think she speaks English,” he announced with certainty.  At this point, I couldn’t help but smile at the direction things were taking and, without a word, picked up my pace to continue my walk in peace.

Undaunted, however, Howard fell in step beside me, intent on striking up a conversation with whom he believed to be pure “Italian” blood.

“We’re going to the art museum.  Where are you going?”

“Si, the Uffizi,” I replied.  Howard’s face contorted with concentration as he tried to digest this new word, and it dawned on me: he doesn’t know that the art museum is the Uffizi.  Unconcerned though, he continues. 

“My wife and I.  We’re from TEXAS.”  He slowly enunciated the words, immediately giving recognition to his Texas drawl and continued confusion over my mother language.

I replied, quite simply, “I’m from Seattle, Washington.”

And then the unveiling.  “Oh my god, so you do speak English!”  Howard is shell-shocked, and all at once, the two are talking to me in full force, divulging in detail their travels throughout Italy.

As we reach the Uffizi, I turned, heading down the covered loggia towards the entrance of the museum.  Howard and Jean stopped suddenly on the sidewalk behind me.

“Is this the way to the museum?” they inquired.  I nodded, and they followed me to the entrance.  Welcome to the Uffizi. 

I could speak forever of the collection of sculptures and canvases that line the three corridors of the Uffizi.  But I will limit myself to one: Botticelli’s “Allegory of Spring.”

Botticelli's "Birth of Venus"

Botticelli's "Allegory of Spring"

Said to be sister to Botticelli’s most well-known painting, “The Birth of Venus,” the “Allegory of Spring” is a wedding present commissioned by Lorenzo the Magnificent of the wealthy Medici family for his new bride (meant to be hung above the matrimonial bed).  The picture does not do it justice (the dimensions are 124 x 81 in.); in real life, it is a magnificent depiction of mythology.  In the center, the bride-to-be is depicted as the goddess Venus standing in front of a laurel bush, a symbol of Lorenzo. 

Read from right to left, the painting is meant to both welcome and educate the new bride for her upcoming role in the family and home.  On the far right, the story begins.  The blue figure Zephyr, the god of wind, falls madly in love with Chloris, the pale-skinned nymph beside him, and, driven by impetuous passion, rapes her.  Immediately filled with guilt at his actions, Zephry forces Chloris to marry him.  From their union, Chloris is transformed into Flora, the goddess of Spring, flowers pouring from her mouth to clothe her in blossoms.  This story, the allegory of spring conveys two messages: first, to advise the new bride that even if the marriage was not by choice, a humble acceptance will turn winter into spring, and second, in the same way spring is the birth of new life with the abundance of fruit and flowers, so is the painting a symbol of fertility, that the marriage might bring forth great heirs for the Medici family.

Crossing the scene, three graces dance together, their hands intertwined.  They represent chastity, beauty, and love, a message to the bride, that all three are the foundation of a proper wife.  And to the far left of the scene is the god Mercury, who pushes aside the winter clouds of trouble and hardship so that spring can freely flourish. 

Lastly, above Venus in the center of the canvas is a blindfolded Cupid.  It both represents the romantic ideal that love is blind, that even an arranged marriage can result in happiness, and also that love is dangerous, that we can blindly shoot an arrow in the heart of those we care for with thoughtless actions, drawing us back to Zephyr’s story, the painting a full circle of matrimonial wisdom.

From the Uffizi, we stopped at the Bargello Museum, a collection of sculptures and handcrafted works of art used in daily Florentine life during the Renaissance (jewelry, tapestries, carved combs, etc.).   Within the Bargello Museum is the famous bronze David by the great Donatello.  His second David (the first is also at the Bargello Museum) marks two great advancements in Renaissance art.  It is the first nude sculpture since the Classical era (Renaissance is indeed the “rebirth of antiquity”).  And it is the first “sculpture in the round.”  It was never meant to be attached to a building or a wall, but was completed in its entirety, providing the viewer with a full 360 degree view of the young David, his foot on the slayed head of Goliath. 

Donatello's bronze David

We made an additional stop at Orsanmichele before getting lunch.  A small church, seemingly insignificant to the famous sites of Florence, Orsanmichele is nestled on the streets between the Duomo and Piazza della Signora.  The exterior is decorated with a number of niches, each boasting a carved marble statue pertaining to a specific Florentine Guild.  The cathedral is dark and reverent, candle-lit, nearly empty.  Those who enter are rarely tourists; they purposefully frequent the church to sit on the worn pews and pray.  A spiral staircase leads you to the next level, a free museum with the original statues from the church’s exterior (those in the niches now are only copies).  A rare find in Florence, Orsanmichele’s museum has one more spiral staircase in the corner, which leads the unsuspecting visitor to a breathtaking view of the city.   While not greatly advertised, if you ever make it Florence, stop by Orsanmichele.

The next stop was the Accademia, known by all as the home of the original David by Michelangelo.  Yes, you can see a copy in Piazza della Signora, but it gets lost in the large square amidst a myriad of other famous sculptures (Rape of the Sabine Woman and Perseus Slays Medusa).  The David within the hall of Accademia looks more impressive, the two story room giving the statue a grandiose demeanor.  And in this case, you are able to walk the perimeter of David, noting the sling that runs down his back to rest in his hand.

Michelangelo's David in the Accademia

From there we ventured to San Marco, a monastery and church.  Here you are able to walk through the original cells occupied by Dominican monks, each with a fresco painted by Fra Angelico and a window open to the small cloister courtyard below.  On the second story, in addition to hall of cells, there is the library containing a beautiful collection of original illuminated manuscripts.  The pages are magnificent, the words painstakingly written in calligraphy, the illuminations detailed with gold leaf and blue lapis.

Illuminated manuscripts commissioned by the Medici family and created by the Dominican monks.

Following the hall back to the stairway, I stumbled, literally, upon the famous fresco by Fra Angelico, his interpretation of the “Anunciation.”  Studied incessantly in nearly every art survey class I’ve taken, I was shocked to have it so suddenly appear before me, similar to the angel’s appearance before Mary, as he bestowed to her the startling news: she, a virgin, would bear the son of God.  This instance of Immaculate Conception is simply captured by Fra Angelico’s humble depiction of Mary.  She is not dressed in rich fabrics or brocades, yet her simple robe and accepting gesture, her hands crossed over her abdomen, give a different sense to the piece.  Fra Angelico believed this Mary, unlike most depicted in religious paintings of the Renaissance, was a truer and more accurate portrayal of the mother of Christ.

Fra Angelico's "Anunciation"

Our last stop was at Santa Maria Novella.  The church which bequeaths the train station its familiar name, Santa Maria Novella houses the original Masaccio fresco, “Trinity.”  A revolutionary piece of its time, the Trinity presents the viewer with accurate “created” mathematical space.  The scene gives the illusion of receding into the wall, framing a most dramatic picture of the trinity: Christ on the cross, the Father gently holding his arms, and the Holy Spirit a dove in flight between them.  The three parts of the pyramid in addition to the figures below form the triangular composition, similarly used by Raphael in the "Madonna in the Meadow."  To be removed from the wall would greatly change its impact; this piece was specifically designed for this space, this location.  However, after seeing pictures of this Masaccio fresco, in seemingly perfect condition , I was startled at the lack of care taken in preserving the actual fresco itself.  Nearly every photo representation is an untruthful illustration of its current condition.  The colors in true life are dull, pastelled with time, and the figures are less discernible.  Some of the fresco itself has chipped away since its most recent documentation. 

Masaccio's "Trinity"

As we walked through the San Lorenzo market in the direction of dinner, the late night vendors called out to us: “Hello miss.  Miss.  For twenty-four hours, I would just stare into your eyes.  I love the way your mouth moves when you speak and when you think.”  Carmel and I couldn’t help but laugh.  Always something new.

The day ended with Chinese takeout, a new and inexpensive discovery two bridges down from Ponte Vecchio, and a forty-five minute walk home to our little apartment on Via Fra Giovanne Angelico. 

The group of explorers: Kait, Carmel, Cody, and Megan

My friend Umberto.

November 9, 2010

Every Tuesday afternoon I give tours at Santa Croce.  And upon my arrival, I am greeted by a crew of elderly Italian men, who interrupt their social hour to offer me their seats and to dig in their deep raincoat pockets for hard candies and individually wrapped mints.  They are so sweet, bashfully asking me questions, experimenting with their English, telling me stories of the church and its history, helping me set up my sign advertising “free tours,” and delicately placing the small English flag beside it.

One particular man, Umberto, is especially chatty.  He is the tour guide who trained me, although I think he has forgotten.  Every Tuesday, he shakes my hand deliberately, and with a booming voice, introduces himself.

“I am Umberto!”

“I know.”  I reply with a smile, squeezing his hand in return.

“You know?!” He questions with a sideways grin.  And then, without waiting for an answer, he turns to the man sitting next to me, and I hear the same exchange (in Italian) repeated as he moves down the line of his comrades.

You might find it interesting that I received my training from him, with his memory as such.  But I believe that Santa Croce has become his life.  That it is such a core part of his daily living that he simply cannot forget.  During my training, a tiresome three-hour affair, he relayed to me the most basic information of the church in simple English.

“This is the tomb of great Michelangelo.”  And we moved on.

“And here is Dante.  You know, Divine Comedy?”  Yes, yes I did.  And we were once again, on the move. 

 And thus my training was basically self-taught.  My art history book on the table, the Internet browser open, searching to fill the gaps in my understanding.

I can’t help but wonder if I had spoken Italian, perhaps he could have told me more.  And perhaps even under an hour.  Or maybe I am mistaken, and his memory has left him with only skeletal fragments of the story of Santa Croce. 

But I hold fast to my faith in Umberto.  For, at some moments, he would linger longer, his gaze settling on a distance wall or monument, his brow furrowed, pushing wrinkles against his thinning hairline.  He would search for words in front of the Bardi Chapel, attempting to explain the breakthrough of Giotto in using architecture to create space on a flat surface.  And I would see through the language barrier, to a man whose wisdom was caught in a sea of unfortunate confusion caused merely by the division of tongue. 

Eventually, his face would relax, his shoulders would lift to his ears, and with a shrug and a jolly smile, we would move on.

Now, I am one of them.  Sitting in a row along the wall, my English flag in front of me, waiting.  Waiting to pass on what I have learned.

To a group of sixty Italian students with an English translator.

To a Canadian couple and their unending questions.  “What was Michelangelo’s love life like?”  “Why are the stained glass windows so dull—when was the last time they were cleaned?”

To two elderly ladies from California who tipped me five euros for my “passion and enthusiasm for everything art history.”

And I love it all. 

To see the rounded eyes when I tell them that the 1966 flood washed the bodies from the crypt below, leaving all 276 tombs empty. 

To witness the raised eyebrows when I inform them of the feud between the Pazzi and the Medici—how Lorenzo the Magnificent killed the entire Pazzi family and hung their naked bodies in the streets of Florence. 

To watch the visitors raise their camers when we pause by the tombs of Galileo and Michelangelo and Machiavelli and Rossini.

To observe the strained necks when I describe the beauty of the painted wood ceiling and how it captures the Franciscan element of poverty and simplicity. 

And now, after spending so many hours within its walls, Santa Croce has become for me the heart of history here in Florence.  I love my Tuesday afternoons.

6.

It’s a record.

Three I killed a little after midnight (I couldn’t sleep unless).

Another died in the morning, buried on the bathroom floor.

And the fourth lost his life to the end of my Sharpie during Italian tutoring (perfect aim and a priceless look on my tutor’s face—I caught him midsentence; some things just can’t wait).

And then the last two joined their comrades during Italian class.  A couple fists to the table, and when my prof raised her head, I was sitting peacefully in my chair, the intended dead on the table, and my classmates laughing silently into their books.

With mosquitoes, I don’t mess around.

This morning was relaxed, at first.  I left for class with plenty of time.  Picked out a calm soundtrack for the walk, aimed in the direction of Neptune’s Fountain.  I was the third to arrive.  And then it dawned on me.  I forgot my to pick up my museum card.  So I took off running, music ignored, racing down cobblestone, jaywalking across streets, cutting off scooters.  All in the name of ART and HISTORY. 

I took the stairs two at a time up to the front desk of Magliabechi, puffing out the words “museum pass” to the bewildered receptionist.  Her face an emotionless mask, she pointed out the door.  “Corso dei Tintori.”  Oh no.  Wrong building.  Wrong front desk.

Once I retrieved the small precious problem (which gets you into every state museum and garden in Florence for free…and also allows you to cut to the front of lines), I began my fast clip back to our meeting spot.  Four minutes to spare.  I probably could have walked. 

And then we waited around for forty-five minutes.  Apparently I wasn’t the only absentminded student of the day.  At this point, I could have crawled. 

The Ufflizi was magnificient.  The two-hour lecture was bound to three rooms.  My prof, the microphone at her throat, spoke in great detail as the tourists cycled around us.  For the first time, pictures from a textbook came alive, details revealed, gold leaf and gilding sparkled, the intricacy of faces and hands were inspiring.

Did you know that Masaccio is a nickname for Tommaso (Thomas in English)?  The beginning part of his name “Masa” is derived from “Tommaso.”  And “Accio” comes from “Ragazzaccio” which means “bad/dirty boy.”  However, the nickname, along with his paintings, became famous.  And so, we call the great artist Dirty Thomas today.

Eventually I will return to the Uffizi on my own.  To venture beyond those three rooms, my nose perhaps glued to a museum guide, hoping not to miss a single piece. 

The rest of the day seemed to return to that precious pace: relaxed.  I returned home and started studying for my Italian “quiz.”  And then mid-studying, I decided I needed chocolate.  Every since I arrived in Italia, it’s been chocolate cake this and chocolate pudding that (and I’m not even a big fan of pudding).  So Megan and I ventured across the street to the Tabacchi. 

I took five euros.  She took two.  And we grabbed a working key this time (we had learned our lesson).  It was supposed to be a really quick trip and then back to the books. 

On the return, as I neared the front door to our apartment, Megan close behind me, I laughed, and jokingly commented, “Just watch; the door won’t open or something.” 

Or something.  I heard a slight jingle of metal.  And then silence.  There was no return laugh to my joke.  I almost turned around to berate her, encourage her to lighten up.

And she was just standing there, frozen, pale face, eyes wide in horror, gaze flickering down to the curb.  “They fell.”

And then I was laughing uncontrollably.  I didn’t know how else to react.  I collapsed against the side of the building and looked back.  “Tell me that did not just happen.  Please, Megan.”

She was sputtering.  “They just fell.  Slipped from my hand.  Didn’t even hit the side.  Just fell directly down into the rain gutter.  And it’s so small.  I don’t understand how that happened.” 

We crouched there, numb, peering into the gutter.  Megan rolled up her sleeve, and, with a slight grimace, reached her hand down.  “I can feel something.  I just can’t get past my elbow.”

She pulled out her arm.  It was caked with black.  I wrinkled my nose and left her fishing at the side of the road in search of another solution.

There is an auto repair shop across the street.  Unfortunately my Italian vocabulary doesn’t yet cover “keys” and “locked out” and “gutter.”  I knew the word for light (luce), and thought a flashlight might help, so I began to convey my request.  And the game of charades began.  I turned my hand, like opening a door with a key.  Then pointed to the ground as my face displayed the remnants of our initial horror.  I spread my arms wide and demonstrated using a long object to fish forth our keys.  And finally, moved my finger up and down, repeating luce, hoping that the idea of a flashlight was breaking through the language barrier.  And lastly, I pointed to Megan, who from the shop window could be seen bent of the side of the road as the gutter consumed her arm along with our keys.

They handed me a flashlight (success) and followed me out.  And then, with pliers, the nice mechanic man began to loosen the cover of the gutter.  And within a minute, our key was rescued.

An easy solution to a complicated problem.  All in the name of chocolate.

And unfortunately, lesson learned, I’m still craving chocolate cake.

Ponte Vecchio at night.

Our walk along the Arno River to Ponte Vecchio gave us a spectacular view of the sunset.  Blues, purples, and pinks outlined the cityscape and mixed with the city lights.  Ponte Vecchio (Ponte meaning bridge) is the oldest Florentine bridge of the eight spanning the Arno River.  Ponte Vecchio is an ancient structure, reconstructed from its own salvaged parts after the Nazis destroyed it in 1944.  It’s original structure, however, was built in 1220 by the Romans, part of the ancient road, Via Cassia, which led to Rome.  During the Middle Ages, it housed the center for leather goods as well as fresh fish and meat.   However, due to the horrible stench, fishmongers and butchers were evicted from the bridge by Ferdinand de’ Medici and replaced with a more refined market, jewelry, in his efforts to promote the important of artisans and their trades throughout Florence.  Crossing this bridge enters a visitor into another world—the Hollywood of Firenze.  High-class wine bars, specialty stores, and restaurants with beautiful views of the city line the streets.  

Il Duomo.

09.02.2010 in the afternoon and evening.

The Duomo is breathtaking, even though its base is crowded with throngs of tourists and peddlers. The white, pink, and green marble is streaked with years of wear and dirt. Scaffolding obstructs part of the view, Florence’s efforts to preserve its beauty, cleaning the marble sections at a time. Rose windows speckle the structure, boasting of its “Florentine Gothic” style and construction in 1296.

The highlight of the Duomo is Brunelleschi’s dome, the first free standing dome, constructed without supports. Brunelleschi, an amazing architect, was publicly criticized for his original plans for Il Duomo. At a meeting, pursuing the commission for the cathedral’s finish, Brunelleschi challenged the other architects to make an egg stand on one end. After much difficulty on their part, he cracked the tip of the egg on the table, balancing it perfectly upright. With this, he won the commission for this spectacular engineering and architectural feat, building the Duomo in the same manner.

Across from the Duomo is the Baptistery. The oldest structure in Florence, it was built in the 11^th and 12^th century Romanesque era of art, matching the style of the Duomo. Lorenzo Ghiberti pursued and won the commission of the Baptistery’s three sets of bronze doors, competing against Donatello and Brunelleschi. His opponents, upon seeing his work, which incorporated detailed scenes from the New Testament in each panel, willingly conceded the commission to Ghiberti out of respect. Even Michelangelo noted Ghiberti’s skill, exclaiming that the doors were fit to stand at the entrance to the Gates of Paradise. Ghiberti, after receiving so much attention and compliments for his work, claimed to have personally planned and solely created the Renaissance era (ha!).

Copies have replaced these “Gates of Paradise” (which were been placed in a museum to protect them from the elements).