Return to Rome

SFO Airport

What is this strange mixture of anticipation and trepidation that I always feel at the start of every trip? Perhaps it’s not so odd after all, as every journey, even to the familiar, is also a launch into the unknown. Part of the feeling has to do with the suddenness with which all my trips seem to commence. No matter for how long I’ve planned and how well I’m prepared, the actual moment of leaving always takes me by surprise: how and when did this happen? All of this is by way of introduction to say that I’m on the move once more—Romeing again, to be exact. Now you know what my wish was when I finally threw my coin into the Trevi Fountain in March—but I never thought it would happen so soon. Simply, I didn’t get enough of Rome then, so I’m heading back to scratch the itch, for nine nights this time. This visit, I hope, will be more of a soaking in than my usual go, go, go type of vacation. At least that’s the plan; we’ll see if I can stick to it. So welcome aboard; the nice thing is you can disembark at any time—I’m here for the long haul.

London, Heathrow

I begin this trip with something of a handicap—I am a bit of a traveling freak show. For the previous couple of weeks, I’ve been experiencing some not-so-hot flashes in an eye I injured a few months back. The hole in the retina that was repaired is holding up well, but the eye doc discovered two more. I had laser surgery two days before I left, and my left eye is, quite literally, a bloody socket. If you saw the first Terminator, you may remember the scene where Arnold repairs his eye; that will give you the idea. A livid bruise which now embraces the whole eye further compounds the problem: the doc says it should all clear up in a decade or two. To combat the ugly American look, I wear sunglasses everywhere, which in dark places tends to make me grope. The shades have to fit over my rather large regular glasses, so I have the goggled look of a WWI aviator.

Rome

My hotel is just a few blocks from the Via Veneto where many of the five star hotels are located—it is, however, not one of them. It belongs to that class which is usually called tourist—which can also be spelled c-h-e-a-p. My room is not that bad; it has four walls, a floor, and a ceiling—if it had a door, it would be perfect. Actually, it has AC (which keeps the temp in the low nineties), a TV, a bath with a bidet, a toilet, and a hand held shower in the tub. It is quite small; though there is one place where I can turn around if I’m careful. It’s the only closet I’ve ever seen with its own closet. Well, it’s 11 p.m., nine hours ahead of many of you. I’ve been up about thirty-two hours and traveling for about twenty-four, so I’m going to try for some real sleep instead of the dozes.

Hunger Strike

A slow day as I was getting acclimated: I was up at 7:30 and took a couple of long walks, one in the morn and another in the eve. The immediate area around my hotel is flat, but sooner or later every direction tends downward; maybe I’m on one of Rome’s seven. It’s hard to tell though, as by California standards some of Rome’s hills are more like mounds—or speed bumps.

My a.m. walk was to familiar haunts: the Spanish Steps, Trevi Fountain, the Pantheon, and Navona Square; they’re still there, left over from March, so maybe Rome is the Eternal City. I taxied back to the hotel and took a nap, which somehow turned into a five-hour siesta—I guess things finally caught up with me.

The evening walk was into new haunts for me around Popolo Square, an upscale shopping area punctuated by churches; which, if they’re open, I always go into. None were spectacular, but they’re all unique and usually have something of interest. About 7:30 sudden exhaustion hit, and I found I had done it again—forgotten to eat that is. I had had a croissant and a bottle of juice in the morning, but nothing after that. I don’t know what it is about travel, but often I don’t get hungry. Without a regular routine to remind me, I either put mealtimes off or just plain forget. For me constant travel would probably be the perfect diet.

Speaking of food, it has occurred to me that the last time around I barely sampled the famous Italian cuisine. I thought that this time I should indulge a little. I made a stab at it Saturday night at a sidewalk café just down the street from my hotel. I had brochette (paper thin beef and parmesan with some kind of vegetable, maybe spinach, all marinated in oil and vinegar). Eaten with dry Italian bread, it is quite good. For the main course I had pasta with salmon—well, the flavor of the sauce was salmon; the fish itself had mostly gone missing. Apparently it just swam through the sauce without unduly lingering. Perhaps I’m being uncharitable; maybe the poor thing was on its way to spawn and couldn’t spare the time. The pasta itself was al dente (in which I’m a firm believer); however, I’m not so sure that it should shatter like glass when impacted by a fork. I usually drink bottled water, which like the meal comes with or without gas; but, at least, you get to choose. Will I eat there again? Probably, it wasn’t that bad.

Tonight, in the middle of my inadvertent hunger strike, I was hustled by a street-corner tout who led me down an alley to another sidewalk café. It turned out to be a serendipitous choice as the food was excellent—a salad, grilled filet mignon, and ice cream and strawberries to die for—which I almost did when I got the bill: forty euros including tip. The euro has moved ahead of the dollar, and European Union countries are certainly no bargain for U.S. tourists. At the end of the meal, the tout tried to entice me to an around-the-corner piano bar; when I refused, I thought he was going to cry—I guess the Italians are an emotional people.

I got back to the hotel at 10:00 p.m., and I’m off to bed to see what my decadent nap did to my already naughty sleeping habits. I’ve developed an extremely sore spot on my right heel, so will see what the morrow brings. I must remember not to step out too boldly into the street, as after a relatively quiet Sunday, Roman traffic will once again be humming.
Foot Joins the Eye Curse

Well, the foot is not doing much better; no blister, but it is quite sore. I did around five or six miles Sunday, which I thought was reasonable, but apparently my feet were of a different opinion. About 8 a.m. I limped down to a Pharmacia and bought some heel pads. Sitting on the curb, I bandaged up, then gimped back to the hotel and a long siesta. I could get used to this routine—very civilized. I understand there is some recent research recommending a daily nap. It would certainly stretch out the work and school day…but would anybody in America take advantage of it?

In the late evening I strolled around my neighborhood, which has the odd shop here and there but is mostly made up of restaurants (does nobody in Rome eat at home?) and banks. I have never seen so many banks, not just in my neighborhood, but everywhere. Take away the churches and banks and Rome would shrink by half. Maybe the city does represent the world and what it aspires to: a complete union of the church and mammon. Depending on your proclivities, there is no lack of places in which to worship.

Baths, Roads, and Such

The following morning the foot was still sore, but time was wasting and I set off around 9:00 a.m. My first stop was at the Baths of Diocletian, by far the most extensive of Rome’s many baths. They covered twenty-seven acres and accommodated 3000 bathers at a time—which, depending on your personality, may be about 2,999 too many. Of course, the baths were also fitness clubs, shopping malls, eating establishments, and social and business centers. According to the cinema I’ve seen, if any Roman plots were hatching, they always started in a steamy atmosphere.

There’s really very little left of this once mighty complex, a few walls and some rooms. A Michelangelo designed church sits where the main bathhouse used to be. The interior is quite vast and grand, retaining, so the guidebook says, much of the flavor of the original. Eight huge pillars (also original) help hold up the center nave. It’s no St. Peters (what is, the Grand Canyon, maybe?), but it is still quite impressive. Down the street is a well-preserved section including the Octagonal Room; it contains a dozen or more statues. One, a nude Aphrodite, teeters between the erotic and the comedic. A little more than life size, she is headless but holds in both hands at shoulder height large tresses of her hair—for all the world as if she were thinking: “Now where in the world am I going to put these darn things?”

In the middle of the room the restorers left a circular glass-covered hole, which is designed to show that the original floor was twenty-eight feet lower than the present one. With typical Italian efficiency the lighting has been arranged so that from any angle the visitor sees only a reflection of the ceiling. The barbarians cut off the aqueducts in the 500’s, and the A.D.’s turned to the B.O.’s. Actually, the ancient Romans never did discover soap (although their emperors were constant living soap operas); they used sticks instead, which seems a little weird to me.

On down the road (by this time you might think that I would be getting to know my way around Rome a bit, but no; outside my Navona Square/Trevi Fountain route—and that gets problematical any time I vary it slightly—I still depend on the map and the kindness of strangers. There are only six streets in all of Rome that run in the same direction as any other; plus there is a law that every street has to change its name within three blocks. Trevi Fountain, which is named for three converging roads—tre vi—actually has five exits and entrances)…now where was I? Oh, heading for the church of Santa Maria Maggorie. The church is old (5th century) but extremely well preserved. It’s as ornate as any—a gold encrusted ceiling among other bric-a-brac—but it has a simple, open feel. The thing that brought me here is the altar, under which is a glass case containing some fragments of Christ’s crib. I’m fascinated, not by these relics themselves, but by the faith—or the complete suspension of reason—that it takes to believe in them. One has only to observe for a few minutes to see that there are people who do believe. Bernini, the “if it ain’t Baroque, then fix it” sculptor, is buried here—more on him tomorrow.

Next, I strolled to the Coliseum but decided to skip another tour of that vast, overcrowded place. I did wander through one of my favorite places, the Forum, then struggled up the Capitoline Hill, sat in the shade, and finally taxied back to the hotel for my now customary siesta.

One of the things that has curtailed my peregrinations somewhat has been the heat. It has hovered around 90 plus degrees each day, plus it’s quite muggy; even at night it only cools down to 70 or so. Tomorrow I’m off to the Villa Borghese and a Bernini fest.

Villa Borghese

There are, if I may say so, some ferociously ugly cars in Europe, none more so than a moving violation of good taste called the Smart—I simply will not comment on the name. Visualize a typical minivan, downsize it by about forty-five per cent, move the rear wheels forward, and then abruptly chop the body off right behind the front side windows. One could get the same effect by enclosing two wheelchairs side-by-side. And yet, they’re everywhere, as ubiquitous as Honda Civics in California; and driven, as far as I can tell, without shame or remorse. Returning to my hotel last night, I got my comeuppance from one. A dirty gray version was parked (well, “situated”; cars in Rome are not parked; they are situated wherever there is some figment of an open space) in the general vicinity of the curb. On the side in large letters, I read my name: _____ _____. There were other words I couldn’t translate—probably a foot and eye curse.

Speaking of my eye, it’s about the same, still as bruised and bloodshot as ever. I tend to forget about it until I see people staring, and then averting their gaze when I make eye contact. This must be the way lepers used to feel. It makes me wish I had a glass eye: I would love to take it out, toss it in the air, catch in my mouth, and pretend to swallow. I prefer the direct approach of the waiter who looked at me, giggled, pointed, and said, “Your wife?” I smiled and gently replied, “No, yours; after I broke off our affair.” No, no, of course, I didn’t say that—I don’t know enough Italian.

As long as I’m harping, let’s get into one of everybody’s favorite subjects: menus. In Rome they can be somewhat approximate. Finding something that is actually being served is more a matter of elimination than of selection. I am waiting to discover a restaurant in which nothing on the menu is actually on the premises—I would pay to eat there.

The foregoing is—don’t ask me how—an introduction to my Borghese Gallery visit. I walked there around 10 a.m.; it’s situated (though not like the cars) in a large park about a half-mile from my hotel. The park is a welcome spot of green in a mostly concrete and stone city. I was expecting to have to make reservations for a day or two ahead; but, much to my surprise, they had an opening in fifteen minutes. Every two hours they let in 360 visitors for a strictly regulated two hour visit. It’s an art museum in the original villa the Borgheses built to house their extensive and expensive collection, so it’s all of a piece. The villa, with its large gardens, is itself a work of art.

The first floor has some paintings but is mostly devoted to sculpture from the ancient Greeks to the early 1800’s. The first thing that really caught my eye was Pauline, Napoleon’s sister who married a Borghese. Half nude (this is her statue, you understand) she half reclines on a divan; and while I can’t claim she’s smirking, she is totally unembarrassed. Canova was the sculptor. When the statue was first made public, it caused something of a scandal. Asked how she could pose is such a way, Pauline replied, “Easy, the room wasn’t cold.” Good answer. This is a work of art that cries out to be touched—no, no, wipe that smirk off your face and elevate your mind: it’s the mattress—no way it’s marble. It’s indented by her body, wrinkled from her weight, and even has a stain at the foot—though I’m not sure that’s intentional. The urge to touch the mattress to see if it’s real is almost irresistible.

Bernini is the real star of the Gallery. He lived throughout most of the 1600’s and redid much of Rome in the Baroque, an ornate style which, depending on your taste, borders on excess. Like Michelangelo and Leonardo he was an all-a-rounder who sculpted, painted, designed, and engineered. Among other projects in Rome and around the world, he designed St. Peter’s Square. Three of his large sculptures were on display in the Gallery: David in the act of slinging the stone at Goliath—you tend to flinch when you first walk in the room and face him; Apollo and Daphne just as he grabs her and just as she starts to turn into a tree (you’ve gotta read the legend); and the Rape of Proserpine, as Pluto carries her off accompanied by his three headed dog Cerberus.

All of these are realistic studies in action, and rather violent action at that; these statues almost move. They’re beautiful and volatile. Still I prefer the restraint that Michelangelo shows; there’s not much character development in these Bernini’s. I had never appreciated the possibilities of stone though, until I examined the works of these two sculptors—the very stones can cry out.

Upstairs it’s mostly paintings: Rubens, Botticelli, Caravaggio, Raphael, and Titian to drop a few names I know, and there is a host of others I don’t know. My argument with painting in general is that while I could probably tell a Titian from a Turner, I doubt I could tell a Titian from a Raphael unless I already knew the painting—and there’s usually too many of the dang things. I’m thinking that museums should probably insist that anyone but art experts look at two or three paintings for an hour or so each and then go home—maybe then people would have some idea of what they had seen.
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Tomorrow I plan to say “hello” to Moses.

Mad Moses

I think I’m museumed out for this trip, but more on that later. I arose (well, not all at once, more in stages) at 7 a.m., agonized over my wardrobe choices for the day (one and a half possibilities), left, careened down the street bouncing off walls, situated cars, and old ladies who are always out at that time of day probably hoping to avoid people like me, crawled into a bar (coffee type), and had a cuppa and a roll. Thus fortified, I sauntered on down the street, no longer leaving a trail of old ladies writhing on the sidewalk and hurling epithets, and started looking for the hotel in front of which the bus I was waiting for to take me where I was going was supposed to stop, if and when it would deign to come (Yes I know that sentence needs fixing, but I’m not going back there alone; I might never return). This hotel turned out to be so exclusive that its name was affixed to a building three doors down, but a street sweeper finally pointed it out to me, using reverential tones and gestures that are usually reserved for cathedrals and football stadiums. Where am I going with all this? Oh, the bus. This was one of those hop-on-hop-off buses that make stops around the city, completing the circuit every two hours.

My first disembarkation was at the Coliseum, but my destination was a ten-minute walk away. I was headed to the Peter in Chains church, built to house the shackles that Peter wore while a prisoner in Rome. Actually there are two sets of chains, one from Rome and the other from the time the angel set Peter free in Jerusalem. They are arranged, quite artistically, in a glass case in front of the altar. I was a little nonplussed by the “Made in Taiwan” imprint on one of them—just kidding. I forget the original chain of circumstances that made them both end up in Rome.

However, it was Mike, not Pete, who brought me here. The church, plain and unprepossessing, also houses the rather meager (with one magnificent exception) remnants of what was to have been Michelangelo’s crowning sculptural work, the tomb of Pope Julius II. Julius, just as forceful a character as Michelangelo, commissioned the work early in M’s career. Over the next thirty years he worked at it sporadically, but never got it anywhere near completion. Little things like the Sistine Chapel ceiling (also commissioned by Julius) kept interfering. After the Pope died, the money ran out, and M. ended up feeling he had wasted many of his best years on the aborted project. He did, however, complete the centerpiece of the tomb, a portrait of Julius as Moses.

I came expecting to be impressed, but I was stunned. Pictures simply don’t prepare one for the power of this work. To begin with it’s huge. Moses is seated, but if he were standing, he would be thirteen feet tall. He sits, the Ten Commandments under his right arm, tugging on his beard with his left hand, and head turned (turning) to the left. His left leg is flexed as if he’s just ready to rise; and, if I may be a little vulgar here, he is quite pissed off. This is the moment he realizes what the Children of Israel are up to with the Golden Calf, and he is not a happy camper. Disbelief and indignation mingle in his expression, and it appears as if the horns on his head are sprouting in his anger. Could you read much of this into the stone if you didn’t know the circumstances? Yes, I think so.

I’m beginning to understand what sets Michelangelo apart from other sculptors. They represent situations, ideas, likenesses; he creates personalities. The longer I looked at the Moses, the more I was drawn into its world. It was the same with the Pieta; somehow these sculptures take you in. I don’t understand how stone can be made to do that. I understand how it can represent someone or something; I have a much harder time understanding how it can be something that is as unique as a person himself.

I made my way to the Capitoline Hill museums, which, after Moses, may have been a mistake. Many of the halls and rooms of these two buildings are filled, almost to overflowing, with busts and statues, mostly Roman copies of Greek works. A few stand out: the Dying Gaul, a nude warrior with a broken sword, reclining on an arm that can barely support him; Venus, surprised at her bath and almost covering herself; the little domed room she is in sets her off quite nicely; and in bronze a small boy, concentrating on picking a thorn out of his foot—there’s a marble copy of this in the Borghese. The 5th century B.C. she wolf that represents Rome is here; a suckling Romulus and Remus were added during the Renaissance. There are several fragments of a huge bronze Constantine which had me smiling, while at the same time its sheer size is impressive. The head is about five feet from top to chin; the face is mostly intact but the pate is missing. The hand, in huge proportion, has lost most of the fingers; it once held a nearby globe, which is mostly whole. Were I Constantine, I might wish that the whole thing had disappeared; it is slightly ridiculous—though maybe it’s better to be remembered in gargantuan pieces than not at all.

I had planned to take in the Jewish Ghetto next, but it was hot, and I was tired. Instead I took the bus to St. Peters, irresistibly drawn by the Pieta. Despite the crowds (much greater than in March) and the almost constant barrage of flash cameras, the statue, as usual, transfixed me, and I actually felt sad at saying what was probably a final goodbye. Wandering around in the church, I spotted a small door leading to the crypt and Peter’s tomb, which I had missed the last time around.

Oh, a note on Moses’ horns: during the middle ages the Hebrew word for “halo” was mistranslated as “horns.” By M’s time they had it all straightened out, but he liked the effect they added to Moses’ ire. Under the circumstances they certainly beat a halo; that would have slipped all the way down to his ankles.

Dem Bones, Dem Bones, Dem Dry Bones

There’s a small nondescript church on the Via Veneto that I had been passing every day without noticing its existence. As it turned out, I almost missed one of the oddest of all the strange sights of Rome. The church belongs to the Cappuccin Order. When the monks died, they were buried in soil brought over from Jerusalem. After enough years had passed, and there was nothing left but skeletons; they were exhumed, and their bones were arranged in artistic, abstract patterns on the walls and ceilings of several rooms in the crypt. This practice went on for about 350 years from the 1500 to the 1800’s, so about 4000 monks contributed to this art project—that is a lot of bones. The effect is…exceeding strange. It’s not all that ghoulish—unless one thinks too much about what he is seeing. Thousands of skulls and larger bones are piled along the walls forming alcoves and niches where intact skeletons, clothed in brown Cappuccin robes, are standing or lying. The profusion of smaller bones are plastered on the walls and ceilings, including the corridor one walks down, in a variety of graceful patterns, mostly grouped with bones of their own kind. It is the clothed figures that make the scene truly macabre; without them the visitor can almost forget the reality. Some of these figures are partly mummified, and they grin as if in on some kind of ghastly joke. The floors are free of bones and are apparently used for normal internments.

There’s a religious purpose being served here; somehow it’s all supposed to show how the gospel has swallowed up death in victory—I’m not sure, though, how well the idea works. Death appears to have the upper hand. In one room a complete skeleton plastered onto the ceiling is holding a long handled scythe made of bones. This, the grim reaper, is the most dominant figure in the crypt.

The rest of the afternoon, I took it easy. I ate Chinese down around the Pantheon; strolled, an anonymous shadow among the crowds; ate a gelato; then drifted back to the hotel for a nightcap of a glass of water; and so to bed.

Oh, I almost forgot: tomorrow I’m going to Florence.

The David

Why Florence? Well, the first girl I ever kissed was Florence, Florence M___. Her family had come from Tuscany, and she was named after the capital city of that province. The other kids sometimes referred to her as “Minnie Mouse” because her upper front teeth protruded slightly more than was absolutely necessary—unless stripping the bark from a tree limb was somehow involved--but I thought she was mighty cute anyway, especially when she nibbled cheese. Actually, her condition was not nearly as pronounced as her mother’s; my dad, a man not ordinarily given to hyperbole, once remarked that she could probably kiss her husband goodbye after he left the house.

I diligently practiced on my forearm until the skin puckered, and my mother threatened to take me to the doctor to see if I had leprosy; but when the moment arrived, I still was not accomplished at the fine art of osculation. One problem was that because of those teeth she lacked a chin belay point below her lips; a second was that since I was in constant danger of hyperventilating during the act itself, I couldn’t keep any suction going. Because of these unresolved issues, I kept slipping off the target and down into a void past that nonexistent chin safety net—I didn’t realize until much later in my career that since I kept ending up in the vicinity of her neck anyway, it could have been an option.

She and her family moved shortly after the ordeal (I don’t think there was a connection), and I never saw her again. But I’ve always worried that she might have become a nun out of disappointment. Later I heard that the family had returned to Italy. Perhaps she had gone to her namesake city and ended up in a convent. Since I would be in the neighborhood, I would check it out; and if she were there, I would…but, no; it would never work: I’m too out of practice; my forearm, even shaved, is no longer as inviting as it once was; I probably could not avoid the void; and with those high collars that many of the older nuns wear, the neck still might not be an option. Best to let things be: I will go to Florence and see Michelangelo’s David instead.

Florence lies about a 130 miles north of Rome. This trip, along with the one to Pompeii in March, has allowed me to see a pretty good swath of central Italy. Although I’m not crazy about them, I took a guided tour. I’m not yet brave enough to just hop on a train and head for parts unknown. Perhaps if I had longer, but with only one day I’m afraid I would waste too much time just finding my way around.

There’s something about the Italian countryside that reminds me of America, but I’m never sure just which region. Of course, as soon as a town, village or even a single structure appears, semblances to the United States vanish. The motorway follows the valley of the Arno River; and many of the towns, founded by those mysterious Etruscans, are walled and perched high on volcanic hills. They cry out for exploration. If I get to Italy again, I want to see more of the countryside and the small villages. There’s lots of agriculture in this region: mostly tobacco, vineyards, and olive groves. There’s little heavy industry; that’s concentrated in the north around Milan. Italy is in the midst of a severe drought; and, according to the guide, must soon make a decision as to whether to use its water for agriculture or electricity and industry.

We arrived in Florence around 11 a.m. and stopped on a hill above the river to get a view of the city. Situated in the valley of the Arno, it is a lovely town of about a half million people. The gothic cathedral of Santa Maria dei Fioro, called the Duomo, dominates the skyline. Our tour proper began at the square of the Santa Croce church where we visited a leather factory; leather and gold works are two of the town’s main industries. Having no wish to get leathered up in the heat, I slipped out and visited the church. Buried there, among others, are Michelangelo, Dante, Galileo, Jones, Machiavelli, and Rossini—of Lone Ranger fame. Actually, there’s only a memorial to Dante: having assigned too many of his political enemies to the lower circles of hell in the Divine Comedy, he was banished from his home city.

After one of those ho-hum tour lunches (I ate with a lady from the United Arab Emirates who spoke little English and a lady from Alabama who spoke none but drawled it pretty well), we took a three-hour walking tour of the city. Florence is very compact compared to Rome; but, of course, we only got a smattering of what it has to offer: Michelangelo’s house, the home of the Medici, the beautiful bronze doors of the Baptistery (Mike said they were fit to be the gates of Paradise), and the Duomo with its modern, almost garish, façade and its plain, undistinguished interior. And finally, the culmination for me: the Academia, the museum housing the David. I’ve already carried on enough about M’s sculpture, so I’ll keep this to a minimum. Once again, even though I was expecting a lot, the David was so much more overwhelming and beautiful than I had anticipated: it’s a rare treat when reality outruns hype.

There are some unfinished pieces in this museum that were to have been a part of Julius’ tomb. These figures seem to be crying out to be released from the stone or struggling to realize their destiny. One can see how M. worked from front to back, the figure slowly emerging as if already fully formed within the marble—but, of course, that’s not really true. What makes the process even more remarkable is that the full creation existed, not in the stone, but in M.’s mind; and, perhaps, somehow, in his hands. His chisel marks are still visible, which gives these sculptures an immediacy the finished pieces don’t have.

There is another Pieta in the Academia (Michelangelo did four altogether). He sculpted the one in St. Peters in his early twenties, the one here when he was in his seventies (he was still chipping away at 87, a year before he died). This Pieta is much rougher and more modern looking, bordering on the abstract. In it two figures support the body of Christ as he is taken from the cross. They strain as if supporting an intolerable weight, as if his body does contain that which killed him, the sins of the whole world. This statue reveals only the essence of sorrow and loss; but that is enough. In its way it is as moving as his earlier one.

And then, back to Rome, dinner, and bed to complete a fourteen-hour day.

Farewell, Rome

My last day, and I’m not planning to do anything much, just a farewell stroll around Trevi Fountain and the Pantheon this evening. Currently, I’m sitting at a sidewalk café and writing up my journal…well, Rome still has its surprises: as I sit here scribbling, clip-clopping up the Via Veneto (one of the main thoroughfares of the city) is a two-wheeled horse drawn cart containing hay bales.

Later…

The Lonesome Traveler

Postscript:

As you have no doubt noticed, as an art novice I have been struggling to put down some coherent thoughts about Michelangelo’s sculpture and why it has affected me so deeply. By my own standards I’ve done a poor job. I’m going to take out my verbal chisel and have one more whack at it; so if you have had enough, now is the time to bail out and go do something practical that will make the world a better place.

While all of Michelangelo’s art that I have written about has a context, it seems to me that most of it is superfluous. In other words if you came upon these works without any knowledge of the circumstances, the history, or their creator, you would be little handicapped, if at all, in your understanding or appreciation. That is because Michelangelo has somehow managed to strip away all but the essence of a fundamental human experience, while at the same time keeping its representational form. To me that is an amazing and an almost unique accomplishment. I think much of abstract art attempts to get at the essence of things also, but in doing so it has to dispense with most of the representational. Without the representational, we move away from the feeling, emotional, human side into a more intellectual, abstract arena. We’re still connected with the human but not in such a visceral, immediate way.

When I look at Bernini’s realistically idealized works (is that too much of a contradiction?), I realize that without the background, the story, I lose too much information. I admire the skill and beauty, but without the context, there is a lack of meaning. But even when I know the story, these figures turn out to be mostly stock. Any feelings attached to these works are of a generic rather than an individual nature, and I share them only in an abstract way. Somehow these works miss the essence of a universal human experience that is at the same time individually unique. They insist on standing for something, and that limits the range and power of their appeal. They don’t exist as pure entities in their own right.

When I stand before the Pieta (and that’s important; the experience doesn’t come through nearly as clearly in pictures), I see the representational Mary and Jesus; that fact matters to a degree, but not a very large one (if you know the context, you can’t entirely divorce yourself from it). I see the forms, and that seeing connects me to the everyday human side, but what I also acknowledge is the universal--yet at the same time—uniquely personal, human experience of grief. Sorrow, loss, denial, resignation, and finally acceptance are somehow contained in the stone, the whole gamut of human grief. How is that possible? How can a piece of stone so purely distill an emotional experience? In my own experience of grief, the feelings are confused, fragmented, and transitory; but in this cold, dead stone I feel permanence, order, purity, and, in the end, serenity and acceptance. And all of this exists in its own self-contained world; the only thing it needs to reference is something inside of me. It is in this self-containment, and my participation in it, that the beauty, the wonder, and the genius of Michelangelo resides.

I do love words, but sometimes they are so inadequate—or maybe it’s the thinking that goes amiss. I guess I shouldn’t feel too bad; there are plenty of other things I can’t put into words either: love, obviously; my daughters’ births; my first glimpse of the Grand Canyon; evening light; the light and longing in another person’s eyes; but why go on? It would be a dull, dull world if we could explain it all.

TLT

written by  ed on October 29, 2005 from Rome, Italy
from the travel blog: ROME REDUX
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