Rome: Look Down

Rome: The Good, the Bad, the Heartbreaking.
The Heartbreaking
Look down.
I know I’ve insisted on looking up. Having your breath taken away by the extreme beauty of Italian ceilings is an experience that never gets old.
But one day I happened to look down as I opened the front doors of my apartment on Via Germanico, 96. I saw three brass squares the size of cobblestones, set slightly askew in the sidewalk.
Curious, I looked closer. A few minutes later, I felt my heart crack. A teaspoon of information was on each one; a name, three dates, two places.

Qui Abitava
Giuseppe Efrati
Nato 1880
Arrestato 16.10.1943
Deportato
Auschwitz
Assassinato 23.10.1943

I can only recognize a few words in Italian, but I understood this immediately. Arrested, deported, assassinated. I barely needed the dates to know what I was looking at. Auschwitz is synonymous with Hell in every language. In one blink, I’d seen a Holocaust memorial, powerful and painful. Here, right here, these people lived, just as I lived here now, and they were taken from here to be slaughtered.

Qui Abitava
Clara Baroccio Efrati
Nata 1891
Arrestata 18.10.1943
Deportata
Auschwitz
Morta
in luogo ignoto
in data ignoto

I had to Google Translate the ending of Clara Baroccio Efrati’s brass square

Dead
In an unknown place
On an unknown date

The third square belonged to their son.
Qui Abitava
Augusto Efrati
Nata 1916
Arrestata 16.4.1944
Deportata
Auschwitz
Morta 19.3.1945
Gross rosen

It ended with another phrase I didn’t understand; Gross rosen. Big Roses? What could that mean? Google knew. It was the center of an industrial complex and the administrative hub of a network of at least 97 subcamps. If you saw the movie Schindler’s List, it was set there.

What did the writing on the three brass squares tell me? A 63-year-old man and 52-year-old woman – husband and wife (most likely) and their 29-year-old son, who shared the name of an emperor of Rome. The couple was arrested in October 43, he first, she two days later. The young man was not captured until April 44, seven months later. I wonder, was he in hiding, or in denial? Unable to escape or unwilling to leave his home? The father died a week after deportation, the mother’s death is at a place and at a date unknown. The son survived for 11 months after his arrest.

I don’t know which fragment of information is more devasting. The two days the wife is left behind, or the day they knock at the door again? The mother’s anonymous death and unmarked grave, or the seven months the son spent in grief and dread? Auschwitz was liberated by the Soviets Jan 27, 1945 but not soon enough for the son. He dies two months after that date, after eight months of forced slavery and unspeakable misery, exterminated by the Nazi regime.

I began to see these brass plaques in memoriams in front of doors in other Roman streets. They never failed to crack my heart wide open.They commemorated  Jews and patriots. The memorial for Don Pietro Pappagallo was a Resistance priest killed in the Fosse Ardeatine massacre in 1944 and whose character featured in Rossellini’s movie Open City

I learned more about the origins of these miniature memorials, called stolpersteins, via Google, Wikipedia and NPR.

“The stolperstein art project was initiated by the German artist Gunter Demnig in 1992, and is still ongoing. It aims at commemorating individual persons at exactly the last place of residency—or, sometimes, work—which was freely chosen by the person before he or she fell victim to Nazi terror,  euthanasia, eugenics, was deported to a concentration or extermination, or escaped persecution by emigration or suicide. As of 31 January 2017, over 56,000 stolperstein have been laid in 22 European countries, making the stolperstein project the world’s largest decentralized memorial.”

 

Rome: Look Around

Rome: The Good, The Bad, The Heartbreaking.
The Bad.
Roma è schifoso. Seriously. Rome is not just dirty, it’s nasty.  It’s filthy. Dumpsters overflow with garbage, stinking puddles of ooze spreading out from the base.I don’t know why my souvenirs of Rome didn’t include Cholera. Bags of garbage are left on street corners for city pick up that may or may not happen. Seagulls, dogs, and other scavengers* rip them open and scatter the contents. I’m not bitching about graffiti or pollution. Litter is everywhere. People drop wrappers, cigarette butts, cans, bottles, and half-eaten pizza on the sidewalk and walk away. Rome’s parks are weedy, trashy and unkempt, overgrown pastures for the homeless. Don’t take my word for it. Watch this April 2017  footage of poor neglected Piazza de Vittorio. If you want to cut to the to the rubbish chase, start at 2:43.

Locals tell me it’s an intractable situation created by city employee corruption and/or the Mafia. The whole system needs to be scrapped and redesigned. Good luck with that.

In April, Rome mayor Virginia Raggi, elected on a promise to solve the garbage crisis, announced a 12-point plan to clean up the eternal city.
My favorite unintentionally hilarious point is redefining garbage as “post-usage materials.” Poof! Garbage no longer exists, so there’s no longer a crisis.
One glimmer of hope – recycling is a fundamental Roman skill. Roman builders scavenged ‘spolia’ (reusable materials) throughout the Middle Ages and into the Renaissance, the church re-purposed temples into churches and recycling is the centerpiece of Raggi’s plan.

I doubt a Keep Rome Beautiful PSA will do it, even if they made Michelangelo’s David cry.
However, in a world where smoking can successfully be banned from Italian restaurants, anything is possible. Maybe divine intervention is the way to go. Pray for a miracle. 

*rats

Tuesday, April 11, Basilica Papale San Paolo Fuori le Mura & Quetzalcoatl. Arrivederci, Roma

Another spin of my travel wheel of fortune (think Tarot card, not TV game show). For my last day in Rome, I Ubered out a ways, to Basilica Papale San Paolo Fuori le Mura, or Saint Paul Outside the Walls. I pictured a small, remote edifice haunted by the past, quiet enough for footsteps to echo in the nave, and rustic enough to hear the hum of bees in the cloister. I’d seen photos of the mosaic over the entry, but this was off the beaten track of the Centro Storico by miles. And I somehow edited out the meaning of basilica. In retrospect, I realized the image in my mind’s eye was a partial view of the mosaics across the front and perhaps a part of the cloister. I had the scale all wrong.  Uber drove me past an immense structure when the scudi dropped. This was no humble, drowsy rural church, this was one of the heavy hitters.

As soon as I saw the security tent, up by the road and away from the building, I took my iPhone and the Altoids tin that holds my cash out of my pockets and put them in my bag. I know the drill. It didn’t take long. For all the great size of this place, there were few people in line. I appreciated the very visible presence of security at these sites.  Though I have no faith that it would stop a determined suicide bomber, I’m glad they stand guard over humanity’s heritage.

I buzzed in and followed the sign to the museum and cloister section. I loved the rotini twirl of the slender columns and the wink of delicate mosaics.The cloister, created between 1220 and 1241,  was modest in size compared to the one in the Baths of Diocletian, but no less tranquil.  There was a shallow pool in the center and I saw the orange flash of a koi tail beneath the water plants. A pair of young priests walked briskly through the covered arcade.**
I turn a corner, step into a small room, and there before me was a niche of reliquaries. They were still in service, that is to say, the bone fragments of skulls, arms, fingers were still inside. There was a notice to the effect that this was a chapel, not a museum exhibit.

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There was a list matching a reliquary image to a list of who’s who inside; St. Stephen, St. Laurence and St. Timothy among them. I took photos and notes on the style and construction of the boxes. I felt lucky and blessed.
There’s a small museum of Saint Paul Outside the Walls-related artifacts: letters from popes pertaining to the basilica,  accounts of the rebuilding after near total destruction from an 1823 fire, painting of disciples writing their gospels,  illuminated manuscripts, but the glare off the glass cases was such I have no photos to share.
I thought it was funny when I realized I had to exit through the gift shop. Shades of Banksy! Turns out they sell Vatican stamps and had a post box for them. Decision made, I bought a handful of postcards, took my pastry and sat in the sun on a bench outside a cafe.
Nearby me 22 college students sat around a long table. The café rolled out a trolley with a bowl of steaming pasta and two kinds of sauce, and a server dished it up for them.  The kids burst into snatches of song. There was intermittent giggling and banter. They reminded me of Camp Merrimac counselors out for dinner at My Father’s Pizza.

I pulled out the postcards and my pencil stubs and drew for a couple of hours. I needed to finish them in time to post them, but it was a pure pleasure. This was as close as I got to my fantasy idea of this site;  scribbling away absorbed and happy, a little drowsy from the sun, in an atmosphere that was both lively and calm.

After a while, I dropped my cards from today and yesterday in the Vatican box. I have faith they will be delivered.
It was time to enter the basilica. As huge as I now knew this place to be, my jaw dropped. I was staggered by the sheer size.  It was the definition of monumental. The maybe 50 tourists at the other end were dwarfed into insignificance, barely visible.  It would have been utterly impressive if the chairs set out for worshippers weren’t blue molded plastic. That put a dent in the grandeur.
There were three main spaces, with 80 columns delineating them. Here’s one side, minus the blue plastic chairs. Triple it, making the central one twice as wide in your mind.

Outside, I asked a kind tourist to take my picture, as far away he could get, to give you an idea of the scale.

So far, St Peter’s in the Vatican is the only church I visited that hummed with life. There are worshipers in some of the other churches, but they are there to pay obeisance to the art.

Ubered from there to Quetzalcoatl Chocolatier, Via delle Carrozze, 26, Roma for some of the best caramel and chocolate I ever put in my mouth. I am somewhere between a connoisseur and a fanatic when it comes to that combination. Pricey? Well, yeah. but worth it. I get eight pieces to take home, and a few pieces of dark chocolate dipped ginger. Intense, packing some heat, spicey-sweet. Back to the hotel to finish packing, and let me praise the marvels that are E-bags. I was done in record time. Though my plane doesn’t depart until 12:30pm tomorrow, I’ll be hauling it to the airport at 9:30***

Around 8pm I walked to Valentino’s. It was the first time  I’d been for dinner, though I’d been many times for lunch. I said my goodbye to Rome over a plate of pasta Amatriciana, in a place that had consistently shown me patience and kindness. I thanked them, most sincerely and they wished me safe travels.
** I’ve seen nuns on every street in Rome and I’m always surprised when I catch them window shopping. They are seldom solo, mostly women of color, and wear a wide variety of habits. I’ve seen more priests in churches than on the street, and even a couple of men in rough brown or white robes with cowls whom I presume are monks. They have backpacks like all the tourists, and rosaries hang from their waists.

*** I left at 9:45. Delta had moved my flight earlier by 15 minutes. I sprinted from the curb the .98 distance to the gate. Fortunately, there was no line for security. I made it there only 15 minutes before it started boarding.

Arrivederci, Rome.

Monday, April 10, Jewish Ghetto, Protestant Cemetery

It all funneled down. Forty-eight hours in Rome left to spend, and it was getting harder, not easier, to decide what to do with my last two days. Revisit favorites? Too many candidates, an embarrassment of choices. I had some entry mileage left on the Barberini ticket and my Vatican Patron privileges, but I just wasn’t feeling it.
Instead of bid farewell to La Fornarina, or St George, I chose to do something I haven’t done  – a walk through the Jewish Ghetto, a scrap of Roman real estate where the Chosen people survived despite the best efforts of a hostile world and the machinations of the pope.
The weather was ideal, and I walked and listened to the RomeWalks audio tour; to the stories of persecution, resistance, fortitude, and pride. S Angelo in Pescheria, in the center of the fish market from the 12th century until 1880, was the official church of the Confraternity of Fishmongers. Pope Gregory XIII forced Jews to attend the church and listen to denunciations of their faith. That went on for 200 years.

The octagonal dome of S Maria del Pianto caught my eye.

The Jewish synagogue was built in 1904, after the Papacy fell as a temporal power and the Italian State was created. Assyrian and Babylonian motifs deliberately distinguished it from the domed churches. Palm trees and flowers grew in its verdant side gardens. Sadly for me, it was closed to visitors, along with its museum. No reason was given, and no day when it was expected to reopen.
I watched this row of hydraulic pilars raise and lower like a reverse portcullis. Something both chilling and comforting, guard houses at the entry points, for protection from terrorist activity.

I ducked into Limentani’s, a warren of rooms below ground, filled with crates of Baccarat and Waterford,  Christofle and Spode, Meissen and Portmeirion. I was hoping to find a nice linen tea towel, but no luck.

Ubered to a delicious lunch from Mordi & Vai at the Testaccio market.  I also downed a glass of fresh pressed juices. I bought a handbag/tote, made in Florence, in a muted taupe that matched the suede belt.

Consulted my GoogleMap, and having a few hours to spare, I walked to the Protestant Cemetery, Cimitero Acattolico. I almost didn’t because I was in a melancholy frame of mind. Not the best mood for a city of the dead, even if famous foreign poets (Shelly, Keats) were interred there. But it was so close by, just a few minutes walk away.

Of course, it was one of my favorite places. A tidy, quiet terraced garden protected by ancient Aurelian walls, with wonderful inscriptions on the stones on one end, and the Pyramid of Cestius on the other. Terraced levels, like a vineyard of marble, Someone was sculpting a stone in a small workshop built into the wall. I heard the tapping of a chisel and hammer all afternoon.  Cypresses and pines, orange trees, palms, and wisteria in graceful bloom.  It was more expressions of love and esteem than cries of grief, though there was some of that too.  It makes you want to live so those you leave behind will think this highly of you.
Some of my favorite epitaphs:
Wise, magnanimous, tenderhearted

Let come what will come
God’s will be well come

Excellent in his profession
Modest in self-estimation
endeared to friends by his social virtues
beloved by his family as a
kind husband and tender father

Let the earth be light for you.

Marvelous statuary. I loved both sculpture and inscription of a young Scotsman “Devereux Plantagenet Cockburn…beloved by all who knew him, and most precious to his parents and family, who had sought his health in many foreign climes. He departed this life in Rome, aged 21 years.”

Yes! There’s Maddy! Just what I’d like for my tomb, except I’d be sitting up in bed, leaning back on a pillow and reading. What? They don’t sculpt like that anymore? Right. Back to fabricating reliquaries. Maybe I can work in an etching.
I was surprised to find a marker for a soldier of the Confederacy.

The pyramid was more monumental than I had grasped from photos, and gleaming from a recent cleaning.

I sat down on a bench near the pyramid and drew what I saw – the edge of the monument, the iron and brick fence, the redbud tree in bloom. One of the most restorative and peaceful hours I’ve spent in Rome. I came here to soak up history and art, and here they were, in spades. Plus, English! As I left, I saw a middle-aged couple stood before Keats stone, holding hands, her head leaned on his shoulder in silent reverence. Nice.

Ubered back, day well spent. Time to start packing.

 

**Thomas Jefferson Page (1808-1899), American explorer, commander of United States Navy expeditions mapping Argentina and Paraguay. He moved to Argentina and then Europe following the Confederate defeat in the Civil War.

 

Sunday, April 9, Flea Market, Testaccio, Medici Villa

The famous Porta Portese market is about two miles long, according to my phone app, going down one aisle, one way. It looks like a Dollar Store threw up. Cheap shoes, scarves, off-brand towels, 10 to a package socks, knockoff ipod/ipad charger cords. Though I looked for things my girls might be interested in, there was zip, zilch, nada.  If you jumped out of the torrent of humanity pushing forward and veered toward the edges and a little way into the side streets, there was more of an attic and garage sale feel, like these heaps of frames, belts, and bins of beads.

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I’d expected much more variety and felt like I’d wasted my morning, until I came across a box of vintage postcards. I bought a dozen for 5 euro and look forward to sketching on them. It will make a change from the famous works of art cards I’ve mailed.

Two hours in, and done to a crispy turn, I stared at Googlemaps, perplexed, tired and hungry. I thought about doing an audio walking tour of  Trastevere but couldn’t find it on my phone apps. No taxi stand in sight. After 15 minutes of dithering, I trudged a few blocks down the main drag and found refuge in a great bakery and coffee bar. I had a cappuccino and a meli e noci (apple and almond) pastry, just like I used to get at Caffeteria Rubeto, and eat in the Vatican courtyard. Hope revived.

I called Uber thinking lunch at Testaccio Market would be grand. Upon arrival, it looked closed and I asked the driver who said, ‘No, people are there, go in.’ It was closed and the lesson was I should have checked my indispensable Theory of Everything listing first, but the best plan won’t work if you don’t use it. That’s on me.  I thought about taking another Uber, but surge pricing was in effect. I consulted my GoogleMap and saw a starred restaurant two blocks away, not far from one of my favorite street art buildings, the falling wolf mural painted by Belgian artist ROA in 2014. Wondered if it alluded to the mother of Romulus and Remus or the AS (Associazione Sportiva) Roma soccer team.Given a table at the intimate Osteria Degli Amici, Via Nicola Zabaglia, 25,  I ordered pasta with artichoke and pancetta and listened to their Ray Charles, Sinatra, and Nat King Cole playlist. It was lush, but to my surprise,  I couldn’t finish it – guess I shouldn’t have had that pastry.
I took Uber to the Villa Medici, The French Academy in Rome, which was open for free visits.  After being frisked, wanded, and my bag searched, I joined the others walking up the hill and entered the seven-hectare garden. High hedges divide the garden into sixteen squares and six lawns, and inside the squares I glimpsed an aviary for peacocks, a grove of orange trees, a newly planted kitchen garden, and a contemporary art installation.

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There was also a fountain with several detached sculptures, and  I asked one of the French docents about it. She told me they represented the story of Niobe, a mother considered too proud of her seven sons and seven daughters. For her presumption, her children were slain by Artemis and Apollo. Here she stood, weeping , surrounded by the bodies of her 14 children. This group of Niobids was discovered by archaeological excavation at the end of the 15th century, purchased by Ferdinando de’ Medici and installed here. On that unhappy note, I headed towards the palazzo, passing a table laden with jars of marmalade made from the villa’s own oranges and noting the acanthus plants, sprawling into the paths from the geometry of the hedges. They are everywhere in art, a stylized ornamental motif. Here they were part of a frieze of putti. I’d never seen them in the wild, so to speak.

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It’s a gorgeous palace, though not open for visitors today.
The artist in residence of the French Academy, Annette Messager**, is one of France’s leading visual artists known for her installations that explore feminist themes. She knocked my socks right off with her snakes installed on a fountain. Loved it, and loved her banner.

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I admired this noble lion, guarding the entrance.

This elegant stature of a stylin’ Frenchman, whose name Colbert made my brain instantly supply Report. Marco! Polo!

And this warlike female statue. I’m guessing she is Artemis, but no, Google informs me she is Rome.

Suddenly the day was good. Ambled around the garden. Sat on a stone bench and drew a postcase. Took photos from the overlook.

Reading the news on my iPhone, trying to get a bead on Delta, who canceled 3000 flights. Will I need to find shelter here?

**Messanger is the recipient of numerous prestigious awards, from the Golden Lion at the Venice Biennale, to the Praemium Imperiale Arts International Award for sculpture.

Saturday, April 8, Praz House Museum

Close to the Tiber and only a few doors away from the Napoleonic Museum was the address Google had given me for Museum Praz, Via Zanardelli Giuseppe, 1. Open Thurs 2:30-7:30, Fri 2:30-7:30, Sat 9-1:30.

I recognized the marble entry with three doors as soon as I stepped inside. I’d been here before when I was searching for the entrance to the Napoleon Museum and was sent away by a man at a table in a dark room lined with bookshelves. Which door to choose, the lady or the tiger? I picked the middle door. Same guard, same dim room filled with books. “Dove Museum Praz?” I asked. The man held up a finger for me to wait and called someone, then led me through two rooms he had to unlock, put me in a personal sized elevator and tapped the third-floor button. Once again, there were three doors. The far right door opened, a man beckoned and I entered a small vestibule with a view of a long narrow room crammed floor to ceiling with ornate furniture, mirrors, books, sculpture, and paintings.
A bevy of teenagers whispered and watched me. Hmmm. An adult man explained briskly that I must be escorted by a guide, I could take photos without flash, and there will be no time to sketch. A boy stepped up, and the tour commenced.

I’ll pause here for a quick bio. Professore Mario Praz was an Italian-born writer, Anglicist, and collector. Along with two books on interior design, an autobiographical book The House of Life** and An Illustrated history in Interior Design, he also penned The Romantic Agony, a survey of erotic and morbid themes in European literature. Praz theorized that furnishings were tangible artifacts of social history and that the interior of a home was a representational evocation of the individual that resides in the home, reflecting the character or the personality of the occupant. He called his apartment his archive of experiences and the museum of his soul.

What impression did these rooms give me of his soul? An interestingly eccentric man, straddling the thin line between hoarder and collector.  It’s crammed with oddities, from bas-relief miniature portraits made of painted wax and ornate fans, to musical instruments so peculiar you’re not sure which end the sound comes out of.

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He combined Napoleonana and squicky sentimental paintings, like a girl weeping over her dead lapdog.  He had a motif of hot air balloons in his dining room décor. He hung a portrait of a pope over his teenage daughter’s bed. What adolescent girl wouldn’t love that staring down at her at night?
He needle-pointed the upholstery for a sofa with his wife, a pair of swans on a field of butter yellow. Swans mate for life and his marriage ended in divorce after eight years, yet swan iconography is everywhere. Ironic, bitter, or oblivious?
Along with the weirdness there were elegant pieces; large mirrors, chandeliers, inlaid cabinets, English furniture, French bronzes, Russian malachite, Bohemian crystals, German china, landscapes of Italian and European cities, and the portraits of reigning monarchs, from the Bourbons to the Bonaparte family, plus a canopy bed from the Castle of Fontainebleau. It was a quirky assemblage, but that was its chief appeal.

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“It had its spring in the France of Louis XV, its summer in the Empire and its languid autumn in the delicious awkwardness of the Biedermeier,“ Praz said. Awkward yes. Delicious, I’m not so sure. Fun to gawk at, most definitely.
The young man walked me around the first room, and pointed out the most impressively weird acquisitions, like this bust of a woman whose hairstyle dates to when recently imported giraffes were all the rage. Seriously.

Three girls followed us and prompted him sotto voce, correcting his English and nudging him to talk about specific items. By the second room, I’d learned they were college students and this was a project for their English language class. There were maybe 15 of them, and they handed me off to each other, like a fire brigade passing a bucket hand to hand. The Mamma in me came out. They were working so diligently. I asked encouraging questions. Sometimes I helped with a word. I pulled out GoogleTranslate when they got stuck. I inquired about their areas of study. I cheered them on.
The student tour guides are what made this morning shine for me. It reminded me of the time I visited the Louvre on a Wednesday night and art students were stationed in the Denon wing to explain the significance of various works of art. I left thoroughly charmed. I asked the man in charge if they did this every Saturday. “Oh no,” he said, “this was a one-time project, a once in a lifetime experience.” He winked.  I left thoroughly charmed.
Long walk back to the hotel, stopping at various stores I’d earmarked via Google to find souvenirs for my family. Not much shopping luck. Cheesy and cheap or just okay stuff that cost a whack. After dinner, I walked down via Urbana to get some of the Fatamorgana gelato and heard a deep-throated bark overhead. I looked up and saw Cerebus.

Tomorrow, the infamous flea market, Porta Portese.

**Cyril Connolly and Edmund Wilson had opinions about his autobiographical book, The House of Life. Wilson praised Praz’s work as a “masterpiece,” Connolly called it “one of the most boring books I have ever read…it’s unbelievably exhausting…it has a bravura of boredom, an audacity of ennui that makes one hardly believe one’s eyes.”  Jeez, Connolly, tell us how you really feel.

 

Friday, April 7. Caravaggio, Chigi and Hendrik Christian Anderson.

Never expected to wake up at a decent hour after a marathon of reading until 3am. I even hung the Do Not Disturb sign on my door, but my eyes popped open at 7:30. I sat in the little lounge/dining area of the hotel, ate my standard breakfast of fruit and yogurt, and pondered where to go.
Usually, the night before I scan my Theory of Everything document, which has every venue on my list. The first section is museums, churches, and monuments/historic sites. The second section lists restaurants and the third is shopping. That pretty much tells you my priorities. This also has the address, website, and days and hour each place is open. This is critical in Italy, land of the eccentric opening/closing times, Lots of churches close from 2-6, and some museums are open Wed-Sun only.
I pick out my top three choices based on proximity, figuring I’ll get to at least two of them. I consider restaurant options in the neighborhood.
This is Italy and the peak times are 1:30-2:30. Most places open around 12:30. If they open earlier than that, you don’t want to eat there. If you get there at 2:30, they may be out of artichokes, the only vegetable in Italy. Ha ha! JK. Don’t order fish before Thursday or after Sunday.
Back to planning, I copy and paste my choices into an email, I add appropriate notes like mail postcards, find ATM, get chocolate.  I can change my mind in the morning about the order, or go in a different direction entirely, but I do better if I have a plan. It’s like having a manuscript to edit. I love putting the travel day puzzle together, but I get lost in possibility and consideration and two hours can go by and I realize I am still in my jammies. Speaking of which, I also put out my clothes the night before, for the same reason.

I decided to go to the Basilica of Santa Maria Del Popolo, to revisit the famous pair of Caravaggio’s; Peter crucified upside down and Saul’s moment of conversion on the road to Damascus. Both showcase virtuoso painting and feature a pair of prominent asses, horse and man.  Caravaggio was a particularly quarrelsome artist, who couldn’t let a real or perceived slight go without a fight, or conceal his contempt for his patrons.

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Going back to my planning procedures, here’s the copy/paste of the church listing from my Theory of Everything:
Basilica of Santa Maria del Popolo, Piazza del Popolo 12, near Porta Pinciana, Rome, Latium, 00186 open Mon–Thurs. 7:15.–12:30 & 4–7 , Fri. / Sat. 7:30 – 7 , Sun. 7:30 -1:30 & 4:30–7:30 www.santamariadelpopolo.it Seven chapels, by Pinturicchio, Raphael, Bernini and Caravaggio.
See what I mean about opening days and times?  Just showing up at a church or museum in Rome is a recipe for disappointment. If no one has told you, the Borghese Gallery, one of the finest collections in the city, is ticketed entry only, for exactly two-hour increments, and fully booked a week or more in advance. I actually wish the Vatican (museums, not the basilica) would do this. As it is now, mornings are like the running of the bulls in Pamplona, with herds of tour groups substituting for careening bovines.

My brain, though functional, was still working in slo-mo, because after the taxi dropped me off at the edge of the piazza, I stood in the center of the piazza, perplexed, trying to figure out up from down on my iPhone’s map, when one of the single rose vendor guys stuck one in my face. Startled,  I batted it away and barked an irritable NO! I knew then I was so sleep-deprived that I didn’t have a working filter and I’d have to watch my temper.
There are three churches in this piazza and when I entered what I thought was a likely door, I found myself in the Carabinieri Comando Provinciale Roma. They ushered me out, politely but firmly. They wore beautifully tailored uniforms and they wore them well.
After three failed attempts I found the right door. The Caravaggios were easy to find, I just looked for a clog of tourists in the artery of the aisle. There was a retractable belt stanchion, and young layman letting through as many people as came back out. That actually makes sense to me. I joined the line and, being solo, got pulled to the front when a single person left, since most of the people were families or couples.
I try to approach each church with ‘soft eyes.’ I picked up that phrase from an episode of The Wire series about looking for evidence at the scene of the crime. Don’t stare hard looking for evidence, unfocus your gaze. Look for what isn’t there. I’ll add, look at the margins and edges. That’s how I found the stone dragon, and how, even though I was distracted by Caravaggio, I didn’t miss the Chigi chapel. Thanks, Raphael and Bernini! Clearly, the Chigis knew what heaven ought to look like, from top;to bottom. On the chapel floor, a winged skeleton held up the Chigi family coat of arms. The Latin inscription Mors aD CaeLos (translation From Death to Heaven) and the capital letters, MDCL, were Roman numerals for 1650, the year the floor was laid. There were different artistic takes on skulls and bones everywhere you looked.

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I spent most of the morning there, and paid attention to the edges of the slabs over the tombs beneath the floor. They had a variety of border designs that would translate well to the metal boxes I’m working on.
Next, I walked to a small museum of a single artist, the sculptor Hendrik Christian Anderson, via Pasquale Stanisloa Mancini, 20. Despite two rooms packed with weirdly cheerful figures on a gigantic scale, there was something sad here.

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I was the only soul there for an hour and a half. Four staff members guarded a museum that was well cared for but lonesome, like they threw a party but no one came.  Still, it had the happiest baby sculptures in town.
By then I was tired and hungry. I trudged around looking for a taxi stand, but no luck. I finally walked back to Piazza del Popolo and taxied across the city to the Trattoria Vecchia Roma, looking forward to the relaxed atmosphere and welcome I’d enjoyed with my nephew and his family. The woman, so friendly before, scowled, flapped her hands to wave me away, repeating, “No room, no room.”  I suppose the empty tables were reserved.  Luckily, I knew I was only two blocks away from Panella, via Merulana 54. I took a table outside, ordered bean and shrimp soup, and addressed postcards. A thin broth was set before me with head, feelers, and tail waving hello. I channeled my inner NOLA and plunged in. Not bad, but nothing I’d order again. But their pastries… ahhh. I bought three to go, because they were that freaking scrumptious.

Suddenly I  felt as tired as a bag of cement. Walked back to the hotel and fell immediately asleep. When I woke up, I sized photos for this blog and then walked down via Urbana, picked up a personal pan-sized sausage and broccoli pizza from Trieste and ate that, a lemon curd tart from Panella, and chai tea for my dinner. All in all, an awesome day.

 

 

Thursday, April 6, Two Villas and Tivoli.

Awesome, excellent, marvelous, best ever day!
DarkSky app warned me of an 80% chance of rain, starting at 10am. I wasn’t thrilled with the forecast but figured Context Tours had experience with how to tailor an outdoor tour so I wouldn’t drown. I packed an extra pair of socks, my umbrella, and a positive attitude.  Scampered up to Termini at 8:15 (no less crowded, dirty and scary to me) to meet my fellow touristas, a couple my age from Berkeley, Ms Barberini the tour leader, and Aniek, an intrepid 19-year-old intern from Holland, in front of the Nike Store. We hopped into a Mercedes van and glided down the road to our first stop, Hadrian’s Villa.
Between Modern Scholar audio lectures, Wikipedia, and Mary Beard, I had brushed up on Hadrian.
He was considered one of the five good emperors. On the plus side of the ledger, he was an administrator par excellence, and fervid builder (he rebuilt the Pantheon).  Our docent explained how Hadrian, who came not from Rome but from Spain, worked diligently to lose his foreign accent so he would not be mocked. Our man had something to prove. Architecture on a grand scale was just the ticket. On the minus side, and it’s a very grim mark, he hated the resistance of the Jews to Roman rule, specifically to worshiping Roman gods, and did everything he could to annihilate them. The fact he was a besotted lover so grief-stricken after his lover Antinius died (drowned in mysterious circumstances in the Nile), that he not only named cities after him, he deified his lost boy and had many sculptures made of him. It would be all romance on a grand scale, if he hadn’t been 48 and Antinius 13 when the boy became his favorite, as the museum placards like to say. There’s that pesky issue of consent. But I digress.

The name Hadrian’s Villa is misleading. This was no country home, this was a town, run by an army of workers and slaves, using a warren of underground passages. Water for multiple bath complexes, a library, fish ponds, groves of olives and oranges trees, reflecting pools, an amphitheater. My favorite, after the library, was Hadrian’s private getaway on a man-made island encircled by a moat and high walls. How big was it? My app says I walked five miles, and by no means covered the entire place. Here’s most of a map recreating how it was laid out.And a model, for those of us who think in 3D.

It had more acreage than Vatican City and served something like the purpose of Versailles. It was Hadrian’s way to get out of dirty, noisy Rome (not much has changed there) and still be able to rule effectively with the wealth and power of Rome on display.  What is left of all these great structures is bits of the picked-over skeleton, the brick and stone that lay beneath the marble-covered walls, mosaic floors, and wood shaded porticos and walkways. It was first abandoned and later scavenged for parts to build other villas, like Villa d’Este. One good reason to see both places is you can squint at the Villa d’Este marble floors and imagine them beneath your feet at Hadrian’s Villa.
I’ve always heard the phrase ‘ruins’ in connection with dilapidated stone structures, but I never felt the truth of it before today. There’s a  difference between something that decays over time, and a place that has been deliberately despoiled. Hadrian’s Villa was pillaged, ravaged by the depredations of men tearing apart the carcass. It may have been in the spirit of recycle, but what it left behind feels ruined.

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I asked inconvenient questions about the running of the place. The model of the grounds showed only the main buildings and pleasure gardens. Where were the kitchen gardens? Where did they stable the horses? How was the livestock fed and sheltered? I am always a little more interested in downstairs than upstairs, with how something like this was sustained as well as built.  This was a town, not a stately home. Sadly, there was not much information. There were segregated baths for the slave/servant population, the warren of underground passages to keep all human machinery out of sight, and an immense building for the slave quarters. A series of modest rooms with mosaiced floors, marking the space for three bed per unit, was considered the likely quarters of his personal guards. Seeing this makes me want to go home and start laying mosaic in my entrance hall. Sorry Robert!

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It was a perfectly gorgeous spring day with birds all atwitter and redbud trees, lilacs and wistera in full flower. Olives in groves just leafing out. Blue skies. A balm to the spirit. So much for DarkSky, though I will say it’s better to be warned for nothing, than not be warned and drenched. I left my umbrella and jacket in the van.
I am so glad I came. Walking around even a small part of the acreage gave me a sense of the vastness of it, a chance to absorb through my senses the scale of a building complex achieved just shy of two thousand years ago. It was a taste of what Rome at the pinnacle of her powers could do. It was also a very pleasant walk in the country. I had almost become inured to the filthiness of the city, until I breathed air that was sweet and pure. I had a strong urge to pack my bags and move to Tivoli. Don’t think I was not tempted.
We had lunch in the insanely charming town of Tivoli, which was the place to go for prophesy back in the day.  The place my Context guide knew was closed but we lucked into a wonderful restaurant on a terance overlooking the hills and valley, the medieval streets and houses clinging to the verdant hills. Our table was beneath an arbor canopy of wisteria in full bloom. Yeah, charmed life. Ms Barberini made a remark that has had me thinking ever since. Someone has asked her if the way Italians use their hands when they speak is reflected in the gesturing in renaissance painting, like the hands of Michelangelo’s Christ of the last Judgment in the Sistine Chapel. Huh. I’ll be looking for that for the rest of the week.
Back through the narrow lanes of Tivoli, which were startlingly clean;  oh poor dirty, nasty, trashy Rome and off to Villa d’Este. The rooms were painted in a way that reminded me of Chigi’s Farnesina, as there was a certain Raphael-lite look to the art. I loved this trompe l’oeile of the painter stepping through a door in his doublet and improbably, but perfectly, chained to an ape. But oh, the views, the terraces, the gardens, and the fabulous feats of hydraulic engineering.  The water features were situated in a way that each one came into view fresh. They were revealed as you turned a corner, or walked down a stair, or out onto a terrace. Each one had its moment and the cumulative effect was both powerful and enchanting at the same time.
A Rockette lineup of spitting gargoyles faces, A Sybil sculpture above waterfall  where meals were served. The sound of water falling was so loud I do not doubt guests could have had private conversations.A wall of sculpture, spitting fauns, and pools that overlooked a magnificent vista.

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I’ll end with this little video of the first area of multiple water features, gardens, and yet another version of the wolf suckling the rapacious twins.

Let’s pause and think about this origin story of Rome. Not the benign Kipling-esque Jungle Boy Mowgli spin I’d like to put on it, but the pair of blood soaked feral children.  Like Cain and Able, the murderer was the founder of the tribe. They go on to deceive and slaughter guests to steal their women. Invite every thug on the run to come to them. A long tradition of successfully brutal killers. I guess the surprising thing isn’t that they managed to subdue the known world through conquest, but that they managed to conceive of and enforce the Pax Romana. Centuries of peace, for the price of submission. And art, wonderful, wonderful art, that celebrates their conquests and fornications and spiritual ideals. The engineering is pretty impressive too.
Long day of beauty and history, good food and excellent company. Driving back at 4:30 there is lightening in the distance and the thunder rolls. It didn’t really pour until around 7pm, when I was on my way back to my room from getting a slice of pizza to go. Uploaded photos and considered what to do with my final six days. Think I’ll visit a place Ms Barberini recommended as one of her favorite small museums.

 

 

 

 

Wednesday, April 5, RomeWalks #2

I decided to connect a few liturgical art dots, walking from church to church. My first stop was St Agostino. I came for the famous Caravaggios, I stayed for Monica. St Augustine’s mamma didn’t kneel as she fervently prayed for her son’s  conversion, she stretched flat out on the floor of the nave She was all in. Though his bones are interred elsewhere, she is buried here. Little do my children know how often I thought of Monica, stretched out on the cold stones of the church floor leaking tears. She seemed like a kindred spirit, one who would understand what it was like to be under fire deep in the trenches of motherhood, praying for courage, strength, and patience.

There was a sculpture of Madonna who has been elected to handle infertility issues. Witness those pinned offerings of it’s a boy/it’s a girl ribbons, testaments to answered prayers. Blatant tokens of maternal victory, or expressions of gratitude?  My brain thinks they are cheesy but my heart approves.
I’ve learned on this visit to Rome that it’s not just the church, it’s the chapel that stops me in my tracks and that I’ll remember. I’d visited S Maria della Pace before and never noticed the masterful frescoes of Adam and Eve, before and after Eden, in the arch above.

Nor these figures, reclining on sarcophagi supported by sphinxes. I give you  Mr and Mrs Eternal Rest.

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I found the Sant’Agnese in Agone church but the marble sculpture I was seeking by Bernini was nowhere to be found. I wonder if they are not connected, the sculpture and the church. Piazza Navonna is much like I remember, bustling with hustlers and the ghost of weddings past, with passersby calling out ‘Auguri!’ to the perambulating newlyweds.
I’d chosen another RomeWalks, and found myself in the Sant’Antonio dei Portoghesi. They went a little crazy with the marble, which makes perfect visual sense to me after my journey to Lisbon two years ago. Being in the pews you’re surrounded above and below and from every point of the compass with visual splendor. Sometimes every sense is engaged; the cool even temperature, traces of incense steeped in the wood and marble, recording of liturgical music, or, like the other day, organ practice. Is not only visually rich, there’s an emotional impact. The feeling I have in those moments is how Holly Golightly describes being in Tiffanys. “It calms me down right away, the quietness and the proud look of it; nothing very bad could happen to you there…”
I’ll say again that I love Anya Shetterly’s wise, informed, and cultured commentary and her egoless decision to let a professional do the interstitial parts of the audio. Yes, it’s old and you’ll have to hunt it down on the internet, but it will be worth it.

This unprepossessing facade is the church that housed the order of clergy who took it upon themselves to pray for the souls of the condemned on their way to the scaffold. When an execution was scheduled, they’d put a sign up outside this very door that promised a plenary indulgence for everyone who prayed for the soon to be departed soul.
Here’s another tip for the visitor; never eat in a place where you think, huh – cute. Good food does not do cute in Rome. They do barely visible virtually anonymous, and blend in. Let that be a lesson to me. Lured in by that adorable artichoke tree outside, I had a memorably bad meal at this place. Greasy, mushy, flavorless. Do your homework, and don’t get distracted by cute. I haven’t had a bad meal at places recommended by bloggers Katie Parla and Elisabeth Minnchilli

Took the long way back to the hotel, just to see what I could see. The variety of uniforms never fails to impress.

Very tempted to enter this shop and empty out my wallet.

I’ll save any hardcore shopping for my last few days. I was beat by the time I limped into the hotel. Any day I go over five miles, I feel it. I took it easy, and started drawing more postcards to send. That’s the good that came out of my stamp mishap. I was inspired to draw all evening long. Nothing wrong with that. I did four versions of La Fornarina because I adore her, and then I branched out. Those will be correctly stamped and mailed. I wish I had a record of which ones were trashed, but I really have not a clue. Maybe someone in the Italian postal service will notice them, have a heart and stuff them in the right boxes.