Wednesday, October 31, 2007
World Champions: 2006-2007
In San Ginignano one can find a gelateria with a bright neon sign. This is the home of the world champions of gelato for 2006-2007. They are also a member of team Italy. I suggest you pay them a visit. I also recommend getting the large with four scoops. Try chocolate, pistachio, mango, and white chocolate, and watch words slip away to be lost amid snowfields of cold, smooth gelato that swirls like an unruly vector field in your mouth.
When Scabia Invades.
Our landlady is a worried woman. She worries about the washing machine, she worries about us plugging the drains, but mostly she worries about "scabia". "Scabia" is some sort of skin parasite that can be found on pigeons. She saw that one of my roommates had hung his shirt outside the window to dry. Apparently this is a dangerous place because "scabia" might fall on it from the pigeons. She became very agitated when discussing "scabia".
Notes from Orvieto.
To the South there are hills with forest. The forest creeps down out of the hills. In the center of the valley are the pink and orange buildings of houses and the tram station.
The church of San Giovenale is austere inside. Its frescoes are mostly broken with only the face of Christ present in one, as if time were hesitant to break that. In another only the feet of some unknown person can be seen.
There are a multitude of honey bees here.
There are also feathers, flocks of feathers falling down from the sky.
The church of San Giovenale is austere inside. Its frescoes are mostly broken with only the face of Christ present in one, as if time were hesitant to break that. In another only the feet of some unknown person can be seen.
There are a multitude of honey bees here.
There are also feathers, flocks of feathers falling down from the sky.
And We Were Bombarded With Shells Of Water All The Rest Of The Day.
It rained during my meeting. The water collected in the folds of the umbrella above where we sat. These pools would grow larger, sagging down like a diseased beast until they burst and water shot down upon some random location. These sporadic attacks continued for the duration of the twenty minutes.
What a thing it is to speak of poetry while liters of water explode around one.
What a thing it is to speak of poetry while liters of water explode around one.
A Melancholy Light.
The light was sad, filtering through the windows of the Rome Center apartment. Reds, yellows fade away as the rain clouds pass over the sky. Inside the apartment all becomes blue. I venture outside and find a different city than I had previously known. This is a blue city and a gray city. The people on the streets have changed as well. I move quickly through the awkward shadows, through the light so dim that it makes you squint. This is not darkness but dimness.
Non-potable.
My sore throat was unbearable, the dust of the Italian countryside did not seem to have any healing properties. I drank from a fountain. Afterwards I saw a sign that said "Non-potable, DO NOT DRINK!" Excellent work.
Nine Generations.
For nine generations a family in Civita has pressed olives for oil. The current owner is an enthusiastic showman. He swings his arms about gesturing us to enter his small shop where a fire burns in the side of his fire place. The room is dim and the walls are stone, the very stone of the mountain upon which Civita sits. We eat olive oil, salt, garlic on bread that has been toasted upon an open fire. Here, the simplicity adds something to the overall taste. Down the street the road ends at the edge of a cliff. Here there sits an old woman with a lame foot. She offers to let us take pictures from her back yard for one Euro.
The Walk Back.
The walk back from the Rome Center has become a tiring routine. The Ponte Sisto is always covered with a carpet of people; vendors, the homeless, tourists. The speed of movement is approximately one mile per hour, probably less. The other side is an asteroid field of people walking in every direction.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
On the Collecting of Beauty (Creative Writing Assignment #21)
I.
Rome is the most beautiful of cities.
There live the most beautiful people.
There is found the most beautiful artwork.
I am leaving for Rome now.
II.
The plane doors open,
Italy exhales deeply.
Moist, muggy
air
hits my face.
It oppresses me.
III.
The buildings have been
lacerated by graffiti,
Excruciatingly bright neon scrawl,
only as high as the tallest Roman.
I am looking for beauty.
IV.
A gypsy woman,
her skull burdened by
a thousand
sores.
I have not yet found beauty.
V.
In a city, beauty dwells on the streets.
The museum is not the city.
The church is not the city.
I have searched the Corso,
the backstreets,
the bridges,
the parks.
Is Rome the most beautiful of cities?
Perhaps I am not a city person.
VI.
I have caught glimpses of it.
Three obelisks seen from one point,
space is drawn together toward me.
Green light.
The image is gone.
VII.
Say he came from a hill town,
from a thatched hut.
Long ago he saw an icon decorated with gold,
it flashed in the dim church.
He marveled to see the image of a man in lifeless metal.
All other pictures for him
have been drawn in the cold soil.
He comes to Rome.
A pilgrimage.
He sees a palazzo,
he sees a piazza,
he sees the statues,
so much greater than that
small icon.
He is finally warm,
this must be the city of God.
The most beautiful city in the world.
VIII.
I glimpse it again.
A wizen man waters the flowers upon his deck.
Vibrant, exuberant flowers that cannot help
but sweetly dangle themselves before the street below.
“Hurry, hurry, we must not be late!”
The vision is gone.
IX.
A memory:
We are in the airport,
above our heads hang dirty, loose wires,
bloated worms laying eggs in an infection.
To our side are gold display cases,
designer purses that seem as if
nothing should ever contaminate their perfection.
Beauty here,
Ugliness here.
Am I beginning to understand the secret?
X.
He watches the carriage of the Pope
riding past him through the sodden streets.
Purple, gold embroidered curtains sway in crystal windows.
Mud splashes onto his cloak.
Which does he see
the Pope or the mud?
XI.
Two weeks in Rome.
Have I discovered the cause of my blindness?
XII.
There is beauty in all cities.
But the people of cities position it
in different ways.
Like two keepers of
a Zen garden,
we rake our beauty
in contrary patterns.
Where I am from,
we spread it evenly,
so that we completely cover the dirt below.
The Romans collect it in great piles.
They do not look to the dirt.
They look to the magnificence
of the piles.
Rome is the most beautiful of cities.
There live the most beautiful people.
There is found the most beautiful artwork.
I am leaving for Rome now.
II.
The plane doors open,
Italy exhales deeply.
Moist, muggy
air
hits my face.
It oppresses me.
III.
The buildings have been
lacerated by graffiti,
Excruciatingly bright neon scrawl,
only as high as the tallest Roman.
I am looking for beauty.
IV.
A gypsy woman,
her skull burdened by
a thousand
sores.
I have not yet found beauty.
V.
In a city, beauty dwells on the streets.
The museum is not the city.
The church is not the city.
I have searched the Corso,
the backstreets,
the bridges,
the parks.
Is Rome the most beautiful of cities?
Perhaps I am not a city person.
VI.
I have caught glimpses of it.
Three obelisks seen from one point,
space is drawn together toward me.
Green light.
The image is gone.
VII.
Say he came from a hill town,
from a thatched hut.
Long ago he saw an icon decorated with gold,
it flashed in the dim church.
He marveled to see the image of a man in lifeless metal.
All other pictures for him
have been drawn in the cold soil.
He comes to Rome.
A pilgrimage.
He sees a palazzo,
he sees a piazza,
he sees the statues,
so much greater than that
small icon.
He is finally warm,
this must be the city of God.
The most beautiful city in the world.
VIII.
I glimpse it again.
A wizen man waters the flowers upon his deck.
Vibrant, exuberant flowers that cannot help
but sweetly dangle themselves before the street below.
“Hurry, hurry, we must not be late!”
The vision is gone.
IX.
A memory:
We are in the airport,
above our heads hang dirty, loose wires,
bloated worms laying eggs in an infection.
To our side are gold display cases,
designer purses that seem as if
nothing should ever contaminate their perfection.
Beauty here,
Ugliness here.
Am I beginning to understand the secret?
X.
He watches the carriage of the Pope
riding past him through the sodden streets.
Purple, gold embroidered curtains sway in crystal windows.
Mud splashes onto his cloak.
Which does he see
the Pope or the mud?
XI.
Two weeks in Rome.
Have I discovered the cause of my blindness?
XII.
There is beauty in all cities.
But the people of cities position it
in different ways.
Like two keepers of
a Zen garden,
we rake our beauty
in contrary patterns.
Where I am from,
we spread it evenly,
so that we completely cover the dirt below.
The Romans collect it in great piles.
They do not look to the dirt.
They look to the magnificence
of the piles.
Wrestling Down Beauty (Creative Writing Assignment #5)
Like our other senses, our perception of beauty is dynamic. It sways this way and that in the breeze of our current environment. To a prisoner confined to a dank dungeon cell, the crudest image of a beached sailboat might be enough to summon an intense aesthetic experience. While to the denizen of the Louvre, even a masterpiece of painting might only be able to garner a momentary glance. Who has not entered an art museum bearing bountiful enthusiasm, studied the first few rooms carefully, trying to inhale through the eye every image, every angle, but plowed through the last rooms with only a superficial and weary glance to everything that is neither exploding from its frame, depicting the undepictable, or surrounded by a furious crowd of photobandits? Seeing one beautiful image demands that we experience something of even greater beauty, something that will cause all our thoughts to be for a second completely terminated. The bar is always being raised.
This makes identifying the most beautiful works of art in Rome particularly difficult. By the time that I had trudged to the Vatican, I had visually devoured nearly two thousand years of genius. My stomach for art was understandingly displeased. In fact I had nearly lost my appetite. It would take a visionary like Bernini to give me the kind of aesthetic meal that I had grown to crave. The bar is raised again. Yet if I must create a list of the most beautiful art works in Rome, I will at least do it in retrospect. I challenge anyone to return to the David, stand in front of that lone figure, who is capable of handing you his mental state in a glance, and say that Bernini dwells on a higher level of artistic heaven. Here then, in retrospect, I present to you the artworks in Rome that I have at one point found most beautiful.
You step forward believing that you are entering a caliginous, cavernous space. A dream of pagan gloom received by dark Caligula. You are inhaled through the door. Engulfed with the other tourists. Then you see it, the shaft of light that creates a glowing ellipse and casts everything else around it in shadows. Your eyes follow this road, this portal, upwards through the lofty places where the smoke from sacrifices once swirled. Your body cannot follow your eyes as they exit the oculus and escape the Pantheon for the cityscape of Rome and the furiously blue sky above.
His name was unfamiliar. Later I would wonder at how many other artists might be lost to me, the victims of the whims of history and fashion. I had no expectations when I entered the room. For a time I thought little because I forgot that the material that I was absently staring at was marble. That the flowing clothe was made of a stone formed from the shells of microscopic ocean creatures. Never had I known that in this crude material I could see cultivated a soft thigh, a mane of dense hair, coarse bark, a supple gown that is carried in the breeze. The figures seemed to have grown by some mysterious chain of chemical reactions. Any process besides the series of minuscule explosions that constitute the work of the chisel and hammer.
In the mountains, this is where the duomo must have been born. Here it seems as if the soaring green marble facade might have sprouted from between boulders. Here where you are always either ascending or descending. This is the only appropriate place for a duomo, where it can soar into the air and compete with the surrounding peaks. The Duomo of Siena, like the statues of Bernini, give the feel of a natural process. When one looks at the ornate textures, the intricate carvings that like fractals should be infinite in their detail, one feels the sense that these have grown out of the marble, that even now forces inside the building a stretching new grooves into the living surface.
As my toiletries, sufficient for five weeks, begin to feel sadly empty, I try to reflect upon what I have seen. Try to journey back and recognize the moment upon which the rest of my aesthetic experience could be balanced. Was it the ancient pantheon, father of domes, forger of that famous blade of ethereal light? The overwhelming and inhuman majesty of the Sistine Chapel, a place where time runs differently, where an hour seems to pass in a minute? No, for me, the beauty of Rome’s artwork finds its locus at a group of far more inconspicuous figures which stand as vigilant sentinels on the Pilgrim’s roads of the city. They have seen nearly all of the city’s history from the secret eye that some say exists on their pyramidion. They have fallen to ruin, they have been resurrected in the glory of scaffolding, hemp rope, and sweaty bodies in labor. They are so simple that I can imagine a world in which I might have formed the idea of them in my mind. But they symbolize for me what the Romans do best. They are stolen, they are made better, they are mixed with all the rest of the chaos to create something that structures a city. Something that supports the dizzying image that is at once Rome and the World. They are a blank slate that has been interpreted by generation after generation of Romans. They are the obelisks.
This makes identifying the most beautiful works of art in Rome particularly difficult. By the time that I had trudged to the Vatican, I had visually devoured nearly two thousand years of genius. My stomach for art was understandingly displeased. In fact I had nearly lost my appetite. It would take a visionary like Bernini to give me the kind of aesthetic meal that I had grown to crave. The bar is raised again. Yet if I must create a list of the most beautiful art works in Rome, I will at least do it in retrospect. I challenge anyone to return to the David, stand in front of that lone figure, who is capable of handing you his mental state in a glance, and say that Bernini dwells on a higher level of artistic heaven. Here then, in retrospect, I present to you the artworks in Rome that I have at one point found most beautiful.
You step forward believing that you are entering a caliginous, cavernous space. A dream of pagan gloom received by dark Caligula. You are inhaled through the door. Engulfed with the other tourists. Then you see it, the shaft of light that creates a glowing ellipse and casts everything else around it in shadows. Your eyes follow this road, this portal, upwards through the lofty places where the smoke from sacrifices once swirled. Your body cannot follow your eyes as they exit the oculus and escape the Pantheon for the cityscape of Rome and the furiously blue sky above.
His name was unfamiliar. Later I would wonder at how many other artists might be lost to me, the victims of the whims of history and fashion. I had no expectations when I entered the room. For a time I thought little because I forgot that the material that I was absently staring at was marble. That the flowing clothe was made of a stone formed from the shells of microscopic ocean creatures. Never had I known that in this crude material I could see cultivated a soft thigh, a mane of dense hair, coarse bark, a supple gown that is carried in the breeze. The figures seemed to have grown by some mysterious chain of chemical reactions. Any process besides the series of minuscule explosions that constitute the work of the chisel and hammer.
In the mountains, this is where the duomo must have been born. Here it seems as if the soaring green marble facade might have sprouted from between boulders. Here where you are always either ascending or descending. This is the only appropriate place for a duomo, where it can soar into the air and compete with the surrounding peaks. The Duomo of Siena, like the statues of Bernini, give the feel of a natural process. When one looks at the ornate textures, the intricate carvings that like fractals should be infinite in their detail, one feels the sense that these have grown out of the marble, that even now forces inside the building a stretching new grooves into the living surface.
As my toiletries, sufficient for five weeks, begin to feel sadly empty, I try to reflect upon what I have seen. Try to journey back and recognize the moment upon which the rest of my aesthetic experience could be balanced. Was it the ancient pantheon, father of domes, forger of that famous blade of ethereal light? The overwhelming and inhuman majesty of the Sistine Chapel, a place where time runs differently, where an hour seems to pass in a minute? No, for me, the beauty of Rome’s artwork finds its locus at a group of far more inconspicuous figures which stand as vigilant sentinels on the Pilgrim’s roads of the city. They have seen nearly all of the city’s history from the secret eye that some say exists on their pyramidion. They have fallen to ruin, they have been resurrected in the glory of scaffolding, hemp rope, and sweaty bodies in labor. They are so simple that I can imagine a world in which I might have formed the idea of them in my mind. But they symbolize for me what the Romans do best. They are stolen, they are made better, they are mixed with all the rest of the chaos to create something that structures a city. Something that supports the dizzying image that is at once Rome and the World. They are a blank slate that has been interpreted by generation after generation of Romans. They are the obelisks.
Ambushed in Il Gesù (Creative Writing Assignment #11)
From a distance and through the pulsing rain, Il Gesù presents itself as a sober, colorless church that crouches among the smaller commercial buildings of the Via del Plebiscito. There seems to be no intention in its grey, expressionless façade, which blends into the leaden sky behind it. As the viewer draws closer, jumping over puddles, details begin to materialize out of the slick, wet marble. Ascending the stairs at the entrance, the viewer lifts his head and notices that two stone figures have appeared on either side of the doors, as if they had just stepped out from the shadows of their niches. As his view travels down the flowing robes of these holy men, he is suddenly confronted with the first of many unexpected images, for under the boot of the stern figure is the body of a naked woman. Her anguished face projects out of the church at the viewer. Her breasts are squeezed against the stone ledge, so that they also protrude toward the steps. It is this woman’s face that looks at him, not the stern face of the Jesuit holy man. It is with her that the viewer is meant to identify. So here at the beginning of the journey, the viewer is at once being tempted and chastised for in one moment we may see an object of lust and the wretchedness that it will cause. This is foreshadowing for all the sensations that Il Gesù will impose upon those who enter.
Inside, trying to squeegee off the rain, one might not immediately look up. But Il Gesù is prepared to wait. For none can resist the eventual urge to follow the red pillars to the cosmic battle that rages above. Here one can see figures radiating outward from the name of Jesus, an asymmetrical sun drooping with the putrid weight of its radian of sinners. This mass of flesh tumbles downward, further into the church and toward the void where the dome soars upward from the ceiling. As his eye traces their fluttering bodies, the viewer hears the low growl of thunder outside. Somewhere in the depths of the church a hungry, antediluvian beast awaits these sinners. Staring at the trajectory of these doomed souls the viewer suddenly realizes that their course downward along the churches ceiling directly mirrors his own. Again, he sees that Il Gesù has made a judgment about him and it intentions to speak to him of this through form and surprise.
Further into the church, the viewer passes chapels that stand as islands of sanctuary amid the visual assault that constitutes the decoration of the church. But just as Eden has been blocked against the entrance of fallen men, so too have these shelters been barred with rough wooden railings. Il Gesù intentionally allows the viewer to glimpse these grottos hidden from the pandemonium, only to raise a stiff arm in denial. So he stares eagerly from behind the gate. As he stares through the dim, musty air he begins to focus upon the shadowed forms. A delicate woman bearing a cross looks down before her into the shadows that lay like bodies under a new fallen snow of coal. This is comforting, except for the sliver of malice that is barely discernable in her face. Following her eyes he perceives with a sense of betrayal for being tricked again, that she is kicking at two disheveled figures. The skin on their arms is like the exoskeleton of a molting dragonfly; it hangs loose with the fine wrinkles that one can only find in a material that is micrometers thin. One of these crouching figures shields himself with his arm while the other tumbles backward, as a serpent coils itself around his writhing body. The viewer again stands closest to these two figures. Who else can he identify himself with but them. Now the viewer has begun to feel uncomfortable, as he knows that Il Gesù has meant for him to. The condemning foot of Il Gesù is casting a shadow over him, and he has begun to cower. But he goes on forward.
The church seems to extend itself as the viewer walks, the bright altar receding, tunneling into Rome. To one side in a chapel he sees a painted statue of Christ on the cross. Fully illuminated with artificial light he can see the vulgar, scarlet blood painted onto Christ’s hands. His look of complete anguish. After Il Gesù has pointed the finger of sin at the viewer, it highlights exactly what this has cost IHS.
In the end of this long preparation, Il Gesù leads the viewer to the altar. He has since become a sinner, kicked and stepped upon, blamed for the flesh ripping torture of the world’s most famous death. He is led to the point of light that has shone as a confident beacon all throughout his journey. It is blindingly golden, and it seems as if this gold itself casts away the darkness that would otherwise conceal the awkward painting that hangs above. The viewer examines the figures, and for sometime he believes himself to be starring at a vision of the birth of Jesus. But if he is clever he will see the final machination. The painting represents the circumcision of Christ. This is stranger than anything before, but it ties together everything that he has already seen. Here Jesus undergoes the traditional male sacrifice. He is not being kicked or stepped on but he is sacrificing the symbol of his reproductive power to the God of Israel. The viewer stands for a while, this is what the patriarchal Il Gesù has been driving towards, submission to God and therefore submission to Il Gesù. Now the viewer may flee the angry titan, or he may bow in submission. But the foot can be seen falling forward, the IHS bounded by radiating spears of gold. Now it is the viewer’s turn to show his intention.
Inside, trying to squeegee off the rain, one might not immediately look up. But Il Gesù is prepared to wait. For none can resist the eventual urge to follow the red pillars to the cosmic battle that rages above. Here one can see figures radiating outward from the name of Jesus, an asymmetrical sun drooping with the putrid weight of its radian of sinners. This mass of flesh tumbles downward, further into the church and toward the void where the dome soars upward from the ceiling. As his eye traces their fluttering bodies, the viewer hears the low growl of thunder outside. Somewhere in the depths of the church a hungry, antediluvian beast awaits these sinners. Staring at the trajectory of these doomed souls the viewer suddenly realizes that their course downward along the churches ceiling directly mirrors his own. Again, he sees that Il Gesù has made a judgment about him and it intentions to speak to him of this through form and surprise.
Further into the church, the viewer passes chapels that stand as islands of sanctuary amid the visual assault that constitutes the decoration of the church. But just as Eden has been blocked against the entrance of fallen men, so too have these shelters been barred with rough wooden railings. Il Gesù intentionally allows the viewer to glimpse these grottos hidden from the pandemonium, only to raise a stiff arm in denial. So he stares eagerly from behind the gate. As he stares through the dim, musty air he begins to focus upon the shadowed forms. A delicate woman bearing a cross looks down before her into the shadows that lay like bodies under a new fallen snow of coal. This is comforting, except for the sliver of malice that is barely discernable in her face. Following her eyes he perceives with a sense of betrayal for being tricked again, that she is kicking at two disheveled figures. The skin on their arms is like the exoskeleton of a molting dragonfly; it hangs loose with the fine wrinkles that one can only find in a material that is micrometers thin. One of these crouching figures shields himself with his arm while the other tumbles backward, as a serpent coils itself around his writhing body. The viewer again stands closest to these two figures. Who else can he identify himself with but them. Now the viewer has begun to feel uncomfortable, as he knows that Il Gesù has meant for him to. The condemning foot of Il Gesù is casting a shadow over him, and he has begun to cower. But he goes on forward.
The church seems to extend itself as the viewer walks, the bright altar receding, tunneling into Rome. To one side in a chapel he sees a painted statue of Christ on the cross. Fully illuminated with artificial light he can see the vulgar, scarlet blood painted onto Christ’s hands. His look of complete anguish. After Il Gesù has pointed the finger of sin at the viewer, it highlights exactly what this has cost IHS.
In the end of this long preparation, Il Gesù leads the viewer to the altar. He has since become a sinner, kicked and stepped upon, blamed for the flesh ripping torture of the world’s most famous death. He is led to the point of light that has shone as a confident beacon all throughout his journey. It is blindingly golden, and it seems as if this gold itself casts away the darkness that would otherwise conceal the awkward painting that hangs above. The viewer examines the figures, and for sometime he believes himself to be starring at a vision of the birth of Jesus. But if he is clever he will see the final machination. The painting represents the circumcision of Christ. This is stranger than anything before, but it ties together everything that he has already seen. Here Jesus undergoes the traditional male sacrifice. He is not being kicked or stepped on but he is sacrificing the symbol of his reproductive power to the God of Israel. The viewer stands for a while, this is what the patriarchal Il Gesù has been driving towards, submission to God and therefore submission to Il Gesù. Now the viewer may flee the angry titan, or he may bow in submission. But the foot can be seen falling forward, the IHS bounded by radiating spears of gold. Now it is the viewer’s turn to show his intention.
"And in a church..." (Creative Writing Assignment #15)
When I enter a church in Rome I have certain expectations about what I am about to see. When there is something other than the usual penitent saints, unnatural flying cherub heads, crucified Christs, and chaste virgins, I am surprised, and more often than not, confused. So you can guess what my reaction might have been when I turned a corner in the Church of San Francesco a Ripa and was assaulted by the sight of a gaping, moaning mouth. And this mouth did not belong to a homely martyr, finally vocalizing the pain that the love of God so long kept imprisoned. No, decidedly not. This mouth belonged to a woman lying not upon a cross, nor upon the blood soaked steps of a pagan temple, but upon a resplendent sofa.
My eyes stared at that singular, dark orifice, the upper lip slightly drawn back to show the irregular winding of ivory teeth. The face of the woman is bathed in light, and the contrast between shining marble and shadows held my attention for some time to this inexplicable expression of emotion. The next feature I looked to was the eyes. This was an obvious step; I was after all intensely interested in deciphering the strange frisson that the woman was currently experiencing. I have found that in statues as well as live humans the eyes are good place to look to identify emotion.
I started when I found them to be not only discomforting, but even more provocative than the mouth. They are open, but only slightly so. They resembled the condition of eyes that are at ease when sight is no longer a necessity, when some other sense has usurped the concentration of the mind. The pupils inside are also absent. The marble is smooth where these symbols of consciousness, attention, and regularity would have dwelt. I have seen enough Bernini statues to know that he tends to carve pupils into his figures. This can only mean then that the woman’s eyes have rolled back in their sockets. In pleasure, in pain, or in that strange country that is a mixture of these both of these. The entire face is disconcerting and I have already begun to feel a sense of guilt at seeing this depiction of such a personal moment.
Traveling away from the light I survey the entire body. A neck limply bent, the beginning of a flowing garment, and then I come upon the next shock. It is the hand of the woman, or rather the position of the woman’s hand. It clutches at her breast as if to alleviate the unbearable lightness that she must be feeling in her chest. Now I truly do wish to turn away. But I do not, for now I am a servant to the mystery that the statue is revealing. I look again at the hand, its fingers splayed to gain the entire diameter of the breast. Her wrist is bent in surprise. It also redirects my attention toward her body, in case it had begun to drift elsewhere. And in case you wondered, her hand is sadly on the wrong side to be clutching at her heart.
So I continue down this futile voyage of discomfort, passing down through the luscious folds of the woman’s gown. When I reach her legs I no longer have any expectations. I see that they are slightly parted, enough so that the folds of her blankets are visible between them. She is apparently unable to hold her head up but she is capable of keeping her body slightly turned such that her knees are almost a foot apart. Beyond this, the sculpture sits in shadow.
What does the light illuminate? Our three favorite pieces of course; the face that I would tell you was glazed with a gentle dew of sweat, except I know it is only smooth marble, the grasping hand that bites like a cobra into the woman’s breast, and the conspicuously parted knees that look so intentional and yet remain profoundly unpleasant. As if to add to this surreal image, above the woman fly a flock of that deranged creation of the baroque, the flying cherub heads. They watch her, their small wings barely able to support the girth of their melon-sized craniums.
I eventually leave the church, turning finally away from this sculpture that is so appropriately titled, “The Ecstasy of Beata Ludovica Albertoni”. While a description of this marble paradox might suggest that it is unique, I later discover to my surprise that this is not to be the case. In fact, Beata has an older sister named St. Theresa.
When I enter the church that holds “The Ecstasy of St. Theresa”, Santa Maria della Vittoria, I feel as if I have entered a beehive. The coffered, honeycombed ceiling glows with sweet gold. The church is crowded with objects and adornment, stores for the coming winter. My mind tries to imagine how Beata might fit into this more glamorous and cluttered atmosphere. Better than she did in the austere Church of San Francesco a Ripa. The obvious attention that has been paid to the appearance of the church makes the expression of emotion seem more appropriate. I can better imagine the dramatic, sexual, Beata here than I can in San Francesco a Ripa.
Theresa also sits in a chapel off to the left side as one walks in. This time as I walk forward, my mind swiftly constructs possible arrangements. Will the light again strike from behind her, illuminating the contours of here slightly bulbous nose, revealing the absence of a pupil? Will she recline in a too secular, too sexual bed? Will my first impression again be a moaning mouth? But when I turn the corner to the chapel, it is not St. Theresa that first holds my attention. It is a captivated young boy, supposedly an angel, who kneels upon the mound of fabric that is St. Theresa. His head is slightly cocked so that the light that shines from above can bleach his chubby face. In his hand, he holds an arrow that he gently points toward St. Theresa’s reclining body. Looking at the face that seems to take so much pleasure from staring at Theresa, I try to restrain myself from identifying him with Eros. Again it feels as if we are being tempted to begin down a path of interpretation different than the one that we might voice in a church.
St. Theresa herself no longer rests on a bed. She instead sprawls upon a cloud, her weight causing her to sink into the light woolpack. One foot rests upon a puff, but the other dangles over what I imagine to be a patchwork of farmland and forests. Does her altitude reflect what she is feeling? Lofty, spiritual exultation? I only hope so. This time the light falls from a window above, hitting St. Theresa’s almost directly. Because of this, I see with a strange sense of disappointment that the black, gaping mouth has been dulled. The light is brighter and instead of highlighting only the most suggestive parts of the statue, it is indiscriminate. It is for this reason that St. Theresa seems buried in her garments, why I had to search for her head among the maze of folds.
Again retreating from the light, my gaze cascades down the ridged garment like a stream winding its way down the channels in the side of a mountain slope. I pass by the location where a hand might have asserted itself, but surprisingly does not. It also is concealed in a sea of fabric. There is nothing of significance past the face until I see the foot. The excessive, masculine foot that emerges from the edge of the robe and falls downward. The size makes me imagine that this statue might have originally been intended to sit somewhere higher up. But there is something of more significance than just the size of the foot. The largest toe is slightly splayed. It is subtle, but once the attention catches it, this detail delivers a pulse of comprehension. This tiny detail sent my mind back to where it had been when I had viewed Beata. I imagine the ecstasy that slips downward through the body, contracting each muscle as it passes, and ending the lowly toes.
But besides this detail, I find the sculpture to be uninteresting. This surprises me since I had thought that I had been hoping for a piece like this. Something that would seem appropriate for a church. But the light is too bright and undirected, the golden ornamentation too distracting, the face is lost in folds. Only the toe interests me. As I turn to leave, I note old, bearded men looking on from the wings. They are pointing and it seems to me that they are discussing the considering the piece just as I have been. I can imagine one of them whispering, “do you really think that is what it is?” Whoever placed St. Theresa must have had a sense of humor.
So I go to Beata and I am embarrased by what I think exists in the sculpture. Then I see St. Theresa and I am bored precisely because the sculpture does not as well convey what I had before felt so uncomfortable with. This is a strange chain of interactions.
My eyes stared at that singular, dark orifice, the upper lip slightly drawn back to show the irregular winding of ivory teeth. The face of the woman is bathed in light, and the contrast between shining marble and shadows held my attention for some time to this inexplicable expression of emotion. The next feature I looked to was the eyes. This was an obvious step; I was after all intensely interested in deciphering the strange frisson that the woman was currently experiencing. I have found that in statues as well as live humans the eyes are good place to look to identify emotion.
I started when I found them to be not only discomforting, but even more provocative than the mouth. They are open, but only slightly so. They resembled the condition of eyes that are at ease when sight is no longer a necessity, when some other sense has usurped the concentration of the mind. The pupils inside are also absent. The marble is smooth where these symbols of consciousness, attention, and regularity would have dwelt. I have seen enough Bernini statues to know that he tends to carve pupils into his figures. This can only mean then that the woman’s eyes have rolled back in their sockets. In pleasure, in pain, or in that strange country that is a mixture of these both of these. The entire face is disconcerting and I have already begun to feel a sense of guilt at seeing this depiction of such a personal moment.
Traveling away from the light I survey the entire body. A neck limply bent, the beginning of a flowing garment, and then I come upon the next shock. It is the hand of the woman, or rather the position of the woman’s hand. It clutches at her breast as if to alleviate the unbearable lightness that she must be feeling in her chest. Now I truly do wish to turn away. But I do not, for now I am a servant to the mystery that the statue is revealing. I look again at the hand, its fingers splayed to gain the entire diameter of the breast. Her wrist is bent in surprise. It also redirects my attention toward her body, in case it had begun to drift elsewhere. And in case you wondered, her hand is sadly on the wrong side to be clutching at her heart.
So I continue down this futile voyage of discomfort, passing down through the luscious folds of the woman’s gown. When I reach her legs I no longer have any expectations. I see that they are slightly parted, enough so that the folds of her blankets are visible between them. She is apparently unable to hold her head up but she is capable of keeping her body slightly turned such that her knees are almost a foot apart. Beyond this, the sculpture sits in shadow.
What does the light illuminate? Our three favorite pieces of course; the face that I would tell you was glazed with a gentle dew of sweat, except I know it is only smooth marble, the grasping hand that bites like a cobra into the woman’s breast, and the conspicuously parted knees that look so intentional and yet remain profoundly unpleasant. As if to add to this surreal image, above the woman fly a flock of that deranged creation of the baroque, the flying cherub heads. They watch her, their small wings barely able to support the girth of their melon-sized craniums.
I eventually leave the church, turning finally away from this sculpture that is so appropriately titled, “The Ecstasy of Beata Ludovica Albertoni”. While a description of this marble paradox might suggest that it is unique, I later discover to my surprise that this is not to be the case. In fact, Beata has an older sister named St. Theresa.
When I enter the church that holds “The Ecstasy of St. Theresa”, Santa Maria della Vittoria, I feel as if I have entered a beehive. The coffered, honeycombed ceiling glows with sweet gold. The church is crowded with objects and adornment, stores for the coming winter. My mind tries to imagine how Beata might fit into this more glamorous and cluttered atmosphere. Better than she did in the austere Church of San Francesco a Ripa. The obvious attention that has been paid to the appearance of the church makes the expression of emotion seem more appropriate. I can better imagine the dramatic, sexual, Beata here than I can in San Francesco a Ripa.
Theresa also sits in a chapel off to the left side as one walks in. This time as I walk forward, my mind swiftly constructs possible arrangements. Will the light again strike from behind her, illuminating the contours of here slightly bulbous nose, revealing the absence of a pupil? Will she recline in a too secular, too sexual bed? Will my first impression again be a moaning mouth? But when I turn the corner to the chapel, it is not St. Theresa that first holds my attention. It is a captivated young boy, supposedly an angel, who kneels upon the mound of fabric that is St. Theresa. His head is slightly cocked so that the light that shines from above can bleach his chubby face. In his hand, he holds an arrow that he gently points toward St. Theresa’s reclining body. Looking at the face that seems to take so much pleasure from staring at Theresa, I try to restrain myself from identifying him with Eros. Again it feels as if we are being tempted to begin down a path of interpretation different than the one that we might voice in a church.
St. Theresa herself no longer rests on a bed. She instead sprawls upon a cloud, her weight causing her to sink into the light woolpack. One foot rests upon a puff, but the other dangles over what I imagine to be a patchwork of farmland and forests. Does her altitude reflect what she is feeling? Lofty, spiritual exultation? I only hope so. This time the light falls from a window above, hitting St. Theresa’s almost directly. Because of this, I see with a strange sense of disappointment that the black, gaping mouth has been dulled. The light is brighter and instead of highlighting only the most suggestive parts of the statue, it is indiscriminate. It is for this reason that St. Theresa seems buried in her garments, why I had to search for her head among the maze of folds.
Again retreating from the light, my gaze cascades down the ridged garment like a stream winding its way down the channels in the side of a mountain slope. I pass by the location where a hand might have asserted itself, but surprisingly does not. It also is concealed in a sea of fabric. There is nothing of significance past the face until I see the foot. The excessive, masculine foot that emerges from the edge of the robe and falls downward. The size makes me imagine that this statue might have originally been intended to sit somewhere higher up. But there is something of more significance than just the size of the foot. The largest toe is slightly splayed. It is subtle, but once the attention catches it, this detail delivers a pulse of comprehension. This tiny detail sent my mind back to where it had been when I had viewed Beata. I imagine the ecstasy that slips downward through the body, contracting each muscle as it passes, and ending the lowly toes.
But besides this detail, I find the sculpture to be uninteresting. This surprises me since I had thought that I had been hoping for a piece like this. Something that would seem appropriate for a church. But the light is too bright and undirected, the golden ornamentation too distracting, the face is lost in folds. Only the toe interests me. As I turn to leave, I note old, bearded men looking on from the wings. They are pointing and it seems to me that they are discussing the considering the piece just as I have been. I can imagine one of them whispering, “do you really think that is what it is?” Whoever placed St. Theresa must have had a sense of humor.
So I go to Beata and I am embarrased by what I think exists in the sculpture. Then I see St. Theresa and I am bored precisely because the sculpture does not as well convey what I had before felt so uncomfortable with. This is a strange chain of interactions.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
A Distant Roar.
We were changing trains in a small town in Tuscany. Standing on the platform we heard screams and horns through the incessant mosquitoes. Perhaps the local soccer team had a victory?
The Tracks.
On the tracks at the station lies a thick white dust. It was as if the train itself were depositing snow.
Two Cities
There are two cities in Siena. The first is ancient. It is formed from man-made canyons coiling their way between buildings, winding down hills, always being delved deeper by the constant flow of human feet. Here are the gelateria, here are the boutiques. Here is the ancient and here also is the new. They have formed a symbiotic alliance, where the first gives its nobility to the second and the second nourishes the first with its life.
The second city sits down the hill some way. It is a shabby city full of faded yellow apartment complexes. Here is a government licensing building, there an old shirtless man looks out from his porch. Here things are neither new nor ancient.
The second city sits down the hill some way. It is a shabby city full of faded yellow apartment complexes. Here is a government licensing building, there an old shirtless man looks out from his porch. Here things are neither new nor ancient.
A Dialogue Between Two Cloister Visitors
Henry: I approach the Church of Santi Quattro Coronati. This place looks like a medieval fortress after a rainstorm of stones. The walls are a patchwork of different kinds of bricks, all chipped, all worn. I feel unsure when I notice the windows are barred, blocked with wrought iron. It is faintly menacing. I will go on only because I have been in Italy long enough to know that churches delight in surprising, in showing that assumptions are groundless.
Hank: As I approach I am surprised as well, but not with the apprehension I feel at entering. On the door to the cloister of Church of St. Maria della Pace I see a sign advertising free WI-FI inside. Is this really a cloister? Somehow I always associated a cloister with isolation, yet this cloister offers connection to anywhere in the world. The door itself sits in the side of a respectable, marble church. I go on because I have also learned to never trust the exterior of churches. At the door, as well as prohibiting bare shoulders, these churches require that you leave your expectations outside.
As I enter I feel as if I have just passed back into the street. This cloister is a perfect square, surrounded with arches that seem to be made up of competing right angles that build upon one another in an attempt to reach out into the open space. I immediately feel like I am standing in some small alley, but with a dead end on all sides. Yet another paradox. A broken fresco on one of the walls depicts a line of monks trudging out of a structure that resembles the Colosseum. Where are they going? This feels like a place I also should pass through.
Henry: My first sensation was that of clumsiness. This cloister is a place of an inhuman tranquility. I picture an accumulation of fine dust that has taken years to settle. With each intrusive step I scatter that dust back into the air. Movement is difficult here.
Though the cloister is surrounded by a covered a walkway, I am drawn to look out at the garden that resides in the center. This is where Eden has disappeared to. The grasses here are a thick, rich green that gently contrasts itself with the pink gravel covering the pathways. A breeze swoops down from the sky above and the grasshalms bow themselves compassionately before the fountain. To me this place seems a temple to Nature.
Hank: The cloister of St. Maria della Pace has no vegetation. It is all stone and marble. If your cloister is a temple to Nature, mine is a temple to Humanity. I look up at the surrounding walls and I see the human body. Near their top they are all fleshy brown stone, tanned and stained by many years of Italian sun. Deep down where I sit the walls are calcium-white bones, the skeleton that supports the stories above.
The cobblestones in this cloister all slope toward the center. There sits a drain the shape of a human navel. This place consumes, it drinks the water that falls to it from the sky.
Henry: My cloister produces water. At its center stands a fountain from which four fragile threads of water fall. In the pool below, there is an orange smudge that slowly meanders about. It is a goldfish, the sole animal inhabitant. Other than a few substantial rocks, the fish lives alone in this aqueous abode.
It is quiet here, except for the sound of the water. And this murmur somehow seems to increase the silence. Even though there are others here, there is a feeling of isolation that had begun to cover everyone as inevitably and unstoppably as the ice that laces up the surfaces of puddles on a December morning.
Hank: In my cloister it is loud with the clinking of glasses. In one of the upper stories there is a café, and as I look up I see a head suddenly rise up, look, and disappear back to the comfort of a coffee and pastry. Here I am certainly not alone.
Henry and Hank: (In chorus) We leave our cloisters for the world beyond. We leave the temple to Nature and the temple to Man. Amid their stark dissimilarities they together form a whole view of the world existing within only two small courtyards.
Hank: As I approach I am surprised as well, but not with the apprehension I feel at entering. On the door to the cloister of Church of St. Maria della Pace I see a sign advertising free WI-FI inside. Is this really a cloister? Somehow I always associated a cloister with isolation, yet this cloister offers connection to anywhere in the world. The door itself sits in the side of a respectable, marble church. I go on because I have also learned to never trust the exterior of churches. At the door, as well as prohibiting bare shoulders, these churches require that you leave your expectations outside.
As I enter I feel as if I have just passed back into the street. This cloister is a perfect square, surrounded with arches that seem to be made up of competing right angles that build upon one another in an attempt to reach out into the open space. I immediately feel like I am standing in some small alley, but with a dead end on all sides. Yet another paradox. A broken fresco on one of the walls depicts a line of monks trudging out of a structure that resembles the Colosseum. Where are they going? This feels like a place I also should pass through.
Henry: My first sensation was that of clumsiness. This cloister is a place of an inhuman tranquility. I picture an accumulation of fine dust that has taken years to settle. With each intrusive step I scatter that dust back into the air. Movement is difficult here.
Though the cloister is surrounded by a covered a walkway, I am drawn to look out at the garden that resides in the center. This is where Eden has disappeared to. The grasses here are a thick, rich green that gently contrasts itself with the pink gravel covering the pathways. A breeze swoops down from the sky above and the grasshalms bow themselves compassionately before the fountain. To me this place seems a temple to Nature.
Hank: The cloister of St. Maria della Pace has no vegetation. It is all stone and marble. If your cloister is a temple to Nature, mine is a temple to Humanity. I look up at the surrounding walls and I see the human body. Near their top they are all fleshy brown stone, tanned and stained by many years of Italian sun. Deep down where I sit the walls are calcium-white bones, the skeleton that supports the stories above.
The cobblestones in this cloister all slope toward the center. There sits a drain the shape of a human navel. This place consumes, it drinks the water that falls to it from the sky.
Henry: My cloister produces water. At its center stands a fountain from which four fragile threads of water fall. In the pool below, there is an orange smudge that slowly meanders about. It is a goldfish, the sole animal inhabitant. Other than a few substantial rocks, the fish lives alone in this aqueous abode.
It is quiet here, except for the sound of the water. And this murmur somehow seems to increase the silence. Even though there are others here, there is a feeling of isolation that had begun to cover everyone as inevitably and unstoppably as the ice that laces up the surfaces of puddles on a December morning.
Hank: In my cloister it is loud with the clinking of glasses. In one of the upper stories there is a café, and as I look up I see a head suddenly rise up, look, and disappear back to the comfort of a coffee and pastry. Here I am certainly not alone.
Henry and Hank: (In chorus) We leave our cloisters for the world beyond. We leave the temple to Nature and the temple to Man. Amid their stark dissimilarities they together form a whole view of the world existing within only two small courtyards.
Disfigured by Light (Creative Writing Assignment #12
The Church of S. Maria Cosemedin is unique in that it is the only church in Rome that is protected by a living wall. To reach it, one must push through the damp bodies of weary tourists, who wait for a chance to have their photograph taken with their hand tentatively placed in the mouth of that Hollywood empowered lion that rests outside the doors. If only he would crush just one liar’s hand between his worn and tired stone jaws, then there would be no confused and annoyed glances from those people whose vacation consists of creating physical proof that they were on vacation. Then one might simply walk into the church, passing through nothing but the soft Roman air.
But until the lion tests his bite, the church will be obscured behind money belts and wagging tour guide flags. Pushing past these one enters the church. Here, within the simple medieval walls, one might expect to find a place where everyday sunlight has been harnessed to transport the viewer to a realm of the spirit, far from the concerns of tomorrow’s writing assignment or the impatient stomach. Here, daylight might become the light of God shining through the shadows of ignorance and fear to illuminate what had previously been a crudely worked wooden Christ now metamorphosed into the image of suffering for the world. And such would you find in S. Maria Cosemedin, but for the fluorescent lights that line the walls along the central nave.
These fluorescent lamps plow through the darkness and shadows and overbear the passive sunlight. They tactlessly show corners of the church that should have remained hidden. The darkness that once must have expanded it, stretching inky corners into vast corridors, has been exposed as a forger of space. Observing the shape of the walls, the number of windows, one may imagine what the church might have looked like before these unwelcome illuminators arrived.
Remnants can still be seen of what must have been the dominating light source. Scratches of sunlight, the product of thick, hazy windows, curl about the ceiling above the central walkway. Standing in the dim church, this light would be intensified until it seemed that without the roof, in the terrible brightness, one’s skin might become as translucent as a cave salamander. The eyes are drawn upward to see the brightness that comes from God’s presence just out of sight above the roof. But through the windows the bleary sunlight would shine down here comfortably. It would redirect all attention to the pathway toward the altar. All directions but this one, would pass on into shadow. Behind the altar are three sets of windows, collections of fist-sized, golden portals. With their frayed edges, they resemble a small galaxy of suns, each casting its own light toward the altar. So standing there at the threshold of the church, one would see the light of the heavens above and the light of the golden altar framed before.
But instead all receive the indiscriminate light of the alien fluorescent bulbs, so careless that they might have been the illumination of another tourist’s flash. The light-trail toward the altar is no longer the clear option; one might meander off toward a chapel. The pathway has been lost. But maybe there is an hour during the summer when the church closes before the sun has set. Then there would be a divine moment when the fluorescent bulbs would be silenced, retired for the evening, when the last rays of the setting sun might again be the master of the church. They might again be able to, through their straight and unerring course inward, engineer the path to salvation.
But until the lion tests his bite, the church will be obscured behind money belts and wagging tour guide flags. Pushing past these one enters the church. Here, within the simple medieval walls, one might expect to find a place where everyday sunlight has been harnessed to transport the viewer to a realm of the spirit, far from the concerns of tomorrow’s writing assignment or the impatient stomach. Here, daylight might become the light of God shining through the shadows of ignorance and fear to illuminate what had previously been a crudely worked wooden Christ now metamorphosed into the image of suffering for the world. And such would you find in S. Maria Cosemedin, but for the fluorescent lights that line the walls along the central nave.
These fluorescent lamps plow through the darkness and shadows and overbear the passive sunlight. They tactlessly show corners of the church that should have remained hidden. The darkness that once must have expanded it, stretching inky corners into vast corridors, has been exposed as a forger of space. Observing the shape of the walls, the number of windows, one may imagine what the church might have looked like before these unwelcome illuminators arrived.
Remnants can still be seen of what must have been the dominating light source. Scratches of sunlight, the product of thick, hazy windows, curl about the ceiling above the central walkway. Standing in the dim church, this light would be intensified until it seemed that without the roof, in the terrible brightness, one’s skin might become as translucent as a cave salamander. The eyes are drawn upward to see the brightness that comes from God’s presence just out of sight above the roof. But through the windows the bleary sunlight would shine down here comfortably. It would redirect all attention to the pathway toward the altar. All directions but this one, would pass on into shadow. Behind the altar are three sets of windows, collections of fist-sized, golden portals. With their frayed edges, they resemble a small galaxy of suns, each casting its own light toward the altar. So standing there at the threshold of the church, one would see the light of the heavens above and the light of the golden altar framed before.
But instead all receive the indiscriminate light of the alien fluorescent bulbs, so careless that they might have been the illumination of another tourist’s flash. The light-trail toward the altar is no longer the clear option; one might meander off toward a chapel. The pathway has been lost. But maybe there is an hour during the summer when the church closes before the sun has set. Then there would be a divine moment when the fluorescent bulbs would be silenced, retired for the evening, when the last rays of the setting sun might again be the master of the church. They might again be able to, through their straight and unerring course inward, engineer the path to salvation.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
A View from the Tower.
From the tower in San Ginignano one can see all of the surrounding landscape. When I stood there it was windy and the clouds flew past in the sky above. Tuscany is a country of hills.
Before aviation, towers must have seemed like the only way in which man might look down on the world. They would offer the closest thing to a map of the surrounding land. It is no wonder that towers and mountains were associated with wisdom and worship. With sight of what lies below comes power.
Before aviation, towers must have seemed like the only way in which man might look down on the world. They would offer the closest thing to a map of the surrounding land. It is no wonder that towers and mountains were associated with wisdom and worship. With sight of what lies below comes power.
Rice Between the Cracks.
As one walks the cobblestones of San Ginignano one can see bits of rice scattered in certain areas on the street. Where did these come from.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
The Marshes of Rome.
They say that Rome is built upon a marsh and I certainly believe it after seeing the city when it rains. We walked through several inches of water trying to get back to the Rome center. All the while waterfalls were cascading down the sides of churches, and streams were trickling off of open umbrellas, under which frightened tourists hid as if they had suddenly been transported to a war zone. I look down at the water that is almost up to my ankles. In this water is the sweat of Rome. Everything that has fallen to the cobblestones in the last ten days is floating in this great soup, resurrected for some comic and ultimately short lived judgment day.
Postcard from Piazza Navona III
9/14/07
6:29pm
To You-Who-Are-Not-Present,
While light and architecture dominated the space of the Piazza Navona in the afternoon and morning, humans conquer the evening. The Piazza is made up of families, couples, and lone walkers that orbit around the fountains. Like bacteria they ocassionally form aggregate membranes that surround a human nucleus, some entertainer. Tonight it is a man that rides a unicycle around in circles. Garbage men and police sit around the perifery of the square. An old man with a violin plays furiously, while the rest of his tired body supports itself on the rail of the Fountain of Neptune.
The obelisk, throne of the sun god, no longer holds the light of day. It is now lit from below by the vendors lights, which shoot upward into the air trying to outdo the weary obelisk. The top of S. Agnese in Agone glows red, hinting at a sunset somewhere far beyond the buildings of the city. Through all the other noise I can hear a child singing in some language I do not know, but to me it sounds like a song devoted to the ending of the day.
6:29pm
To You-Who-Are-Not-Present,
While light and architecture dominated the space of the Piazza Navona in the afternoon and morning, humans conquer the evening. The Piazza is made up of families, couples, and lone walkers that orbit around the fountains. Like bacteria they ocassionally form aggregate membranes that surround a human nucleus, some entertainer. Tonight it is a man that rides a unicycle around in circles. Garbage men and police sit around the perifery of the square. An old man with a violin plays furiously, while the rest of his tired body supports itself on the rail of the Fountain of Neptune.
The obelisk, throne of the sun god, no longer holds the light of day. It is now lit from below by the vendors lights, which shoot upward into the air trying to outdo the weary obelisk. The top of S. Agnese in Agone glows red, hinting at a sunset somewhere far beyond the buildings of the city. Through all the other noise I can hear a child singing in some language I do not know, but to me it sounds like a song devoted to the ending of the day.
Postcard from Piazza Navona II
9/13/07
8:50am
To You-Who-Are-Not-Present,
The Piazza rests in the cool shade at this hour of the morning. Unlike yesterday this is not the diffuse light of an overcast sky. The shadows that carpet the cobblestones are deep. To the West the Church of S. Agnes in Agone shines brilliantly, almost blindingly, the sun seeming to activate some radiance inside of the marble. I remember yesterday when this church loomed, concealed in umbrage.
The Piazza is nearly empty of pedestrians now. The benches stand bare. There is a residue of calm that still clings to the chilled stones. The few people that do move through this place do so with purpose, striding past the autumnal forest of collapsed umbrellas that stand on the East side of the square.
The most striking impression at this time is the sky. It is a luminous and pale blue that contrasts sharply with the deeply shadowed square.
8:50am
To You-Who-Are-Not-Present,
The Piazza rests in the cool shade at this hour of the morning. Unlike yesterday this is not the diffuse light of an overcast sky. The shadows that carpet the cobblestones are deep. To the West the Church of S. Agnes in Agone shines brilliantly, almost blindingly, the sun seeming to activate some radiance inside of the marble. I remember yesterday when this church loomed, concealed in umbrage.
The Piazza is nearly empty of pedestrians now. The benches stand bare. There is a residue of calm that still clings to the chilled stones. The few people that do move through this place do so with purpose, striding past the autumnal forest of collapsed umbrellas that stand on the East side of the square.
The most striking impression at this time is the sky. It is a luminous and pale blue that contrasts sharply with the deeply shadowed square.
Postcard from Piazza Navona I
9/12/07
1:46pm
To You-Who-Are-Not-Present,
The sun is hidden. The light of the Piazza Navona is diffuse. There is an equality in the square, for the dichotomy between shadow and blinding brightness that so usually characterizes this place is gone. Accordion music still drifts, bouncing from building to building. But where I sit by the fountain, the chattering of water greeting water submerges most of the other sounds. The people move slowly in the surprising shade, they linger by the Fountain of Neptune. The benches are all full. Time seems to move slower when the sun is not looking. At the North end vendors are selling prints of paintings. The cobblestones are clean.
Without warning the top of the obelisk grows bright, sunlight reflecting off of the frozen dove. The light slides down the hieroglyphics that cover the obelisk's sides as if some occult incantation has been cast. The Church of S. Agnese in Agone replies to this when its marble towers counter the red granite of Egypt. Soon the whole Piazza is again shadow and light. The benches are vacant now, and people move away quickly to avoid the heat of the sun.
1:46pm
To You-Who-Are-Not-Present,
The sun is hidden. The light of the Piazza Navona is diffuse. There is an equality in the square, for the dichotomy between shadow and blinding brightness that so usually characterizes this place is gone. Accordion music still drifts, bouncing from building to building. But where I sit by the fountain, the chattering of water greeting water submerges most of the other sounds. The people move slowly in the surprising shade, they linger by the Fountain of Neptune. The benches are all full. Time seems to move slower when the sun is not looking. At the North end vendors are selling prints of paintings. The cobblestones are clean.
Without warning the top of the obelisk grows bright, sunlight reflecting off of the frozen dove. The light slides down the hieroglyphics that cover the obelisk's sides as if some occult incantation has been cast. The Church of S. Agnese in Agone replies to this when its marble towers counter the red granite of Egypt. Soon the whole Piazza is again shadow and light. The benches are vacant now, and people move away quickly to avoid the heat of the sun.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
An Unfinished Adventure.
I cannot say why I chose to leave the cool interior of the Rome Center, to vanish among the camera-decked pilgrim hordes that are the only humans disparate enough to travel the streets in 109 degrees. Perhaps I craved another sip of the total alienation that one can only feel among the tourist throng of the international city. Or it may be that I had hoped to breakthrough the crowd just to see that there was an Italy on the other side which might not be so very different from the town where I grew up.
For one who grew and matured among the shaded cedar roots in the forest, the ponds swarming with tadpoles and dragonflies, the labyrinth of blind streets and graffiti strewn walls of Rome can feel inhospitable. Leaving the Campo de' Fiori I watched pack upon pack of khakied and handkerchief-bedecked tourists racing after the floating red flag in the crowd. Where are the stinging bees and the maggots that feed off of the tourist's sweat I wondered, remembering the poet's description of Limbo. If I had not known that Dante loved his city of Florence, I would be sure that he had modeled "Inferno" after the summer crowds of the large cities of Italy, the sea of flesh, undulating to allow horses to pass through, the steaming cobblestones after a short shower.
But there was no steam for it had not rained in many days. Drinking from one of Rome's many fountains I reflected on the ingenuity that synced flow of water to the flow of humans, and much later the flow of electricity. Rome is a city of flow, a million tubes linking reservoirs. I flowed through the smaller streets, moving quickly, just as a moving liquid's velocity increases when the diameter of its pipe decreases. In this way I flew through the Jewish Ghetto. There was much to see, but on this day I wished for speed above all else. Even as I walked, the lush fountains of inner courtyards passed silently, their gates open and beckoning.
In Rome humans flow, water flows, and for me as I traveled, ideas flowed. In this city images and objects are so bedecked in meaning as to be near collapse. Take the Pantheon which I could not see but I knew existed somewhere to the North, overgrown in a forest of buildings. It is a pagan temple and much of its structure has meaning in that. It is also a Christian church, and now a tourist destination, the weight of so many associations is overbearing.
As I walked down past the Forum, I drew near the Colosseum. Here the unnaturally red tourist foodcarts vended their four euro water bottles. Here gladiators with bright white t-shirts and cell phones, muscled like centaurs, harassed the oily bodies in damp Tommy Bahama shirts as they waded through the pools of asphalt that surround the Colosseum. One misses the quiet streets. In the center I saw rising above me the Colossus himself, that structure that has been the father and patron of so much pain and pleasure. At this navel, the dislocation of travel reaches its apex. I walked on to sling shot off its circumference climbing up a gentle slope. If it was the alienation of endless tourism that I wanted, this certainly filled me completely. The sun was now in the West and I begin to climb.
I entered the square of the Quirnale. Here there was a teasing breeze and for the first time since the journey's beginning, I found myself alone in an open space with only the melancholy and lost obelisk to see me and my shadow. Of its many wonders, the Piazza highlights and enhances shadows, spreading them out on the stones, black butcher-paper cut-outs. The air is lighter up here.
For one who grew and matured among the shaded cedar roots in the forest, the ponds swarming with tadpoles and dragonflies, the labyrinth of blind streets and graffiti strewn walls of Rome can feel inhospitable. Leaving the Campo de' Fiori I watched pack upon pack of khakied and handkerchief-bedecked tourists racing after the floating red flag in the crowd. Where are the stinging bees and the maggots that feed off of the tourist's sweat I wondered, remembering the poet's description of Limbo. If I had not known that Dante loved his city of Florence, I would be sure that he had modeled "Inferno" after the summer crowds of the large cities of Italy, the sea of flesh, undulating to allow horses to pass through, the steaming cobblestones after a short shower.
But there was no steam for it had not rained in many days. Drinking from one of Rome's many fountains I reflected on the ingenuity that synced flow of water to the flow of humans, and much later the flow of electricity. Rome is a city of flow, a million tubes linking reservoirs. I flowed through the smaller streets, moving quickly, just as a moving liquid's velocity increases when the diameter of its pipe decreases. In this way I flew through the Jewish Ghetto. There was much to see, but on this day I wished for speed above all else. Even as I walked, the lush fountains of inner courtyards passed silently, their gates open and beckoning.
In Rome humans flow, water flows, and for me as I traveled, ideas flowed. In this city images and objects are so bedecked in meaning as to be near collapse. Take the Pantheon which I could not see but I knew existed somewhere to the North, overgrown in a forest of buildings. It is a pagan temple and much of its structure has meaning in that. It is also a Christian church, and now a tourist destination, the weight of so many associations is overbearing.
As I walked down past the Forum, I drew near the Colosseum. Here the unnaturally red tourist foodcarts vended their four euro water bottles. Here gladiators with bright white t-shirts and cell phones, muscled like centaurs, harassed the oily bodies in damp Tommy Bahama shirts as they waded through the pools of asphalt that surround the Colosseum. One misses the quiet streets. In the center I saw rising above me the Colossus himself, that structure that has been the father and patron of so much pain and pleasure. At this navel, the dislocation of travel reaches its apex. I walked on to sling shot off its circumference climbing up a gentle slope. If it was the alienation of endless tourism that I wanted, this certainly filled me completely. The sun was now in the West and I begin to climb.
I entered the square of the Quirnale. Here there was a teasing breeze and for the first time since the journey's beginning, I found myself alone in an open space with only the melancholy and lost obelisk to see me and my shadow. Of its many wonders, the Piazza highlights and enhances shadows, spreading them out on the stones, black butcher-paper cut-outs. The air is lighter up here.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
The View from the Well (Creative Writing Assignment #18)
Note: Again, the quote below is purely the creation of the author.
“You must go forward. You cannot linger here. This place is a process. Down and rise again. Descend and ascend. This is the eternal and infinite recurrence.”
- Puteus Condus, “A Treatise on the Metaphysical Functions of Wells and Other Subterranean Shafts”
With some minor approximations one can deconstruct the well into two fundamental geometrical entities. The first is the cylinder, oriented such that the plane of its diameter is orthogonal to any line projected from the Earth’s center of mass.
I have come to the first opening onto the well shaft; it is only a few meters below the top. At this window the air is still thick and hot. It spills over the edges above, cascading down past me into the dim void. I cannot see this, but pushing my head out I can feel the heat spiraling and splashing in its descent. Above are the sounds of sparrows and I imagine them, their beaks open trying to expel the late-afternoon heat. I am still connected to the world here. When I look downward I see a million scintillating motes of Italian dust caught in the descending ray of light. Beyond is an indistinct pool. There is still a veil of unreality that separates me from it. I would not be surprised if suddenly the pool was revealed to be only an ingenious optical illusion. In the shaft the lines of the stones all lead downwards, drawing the eye to the watery vortex.
The second component is the set of double helix stairs that coil around the descending cylinder. Each helix makes six full rotations from the surface to the water. The stairs and cylindrical well shaft meet at windows.
The third opening and the light has changed. Or is it my eyes that have changed? This place is a process. Here the air is lighter; the summer humors that float above cannot weigh down this place. The warm tendrils of the sun snake their way down the stones to touch this point. I glance above and see that the sky has become deeper and clearer. The water below is an iridescent blue that mirrors the brilliant sky. These are two realities and I am in between them. Leaning against these cool stones, halfway between water and sky one can almost feel at ease. At this moment I could choose to return to the feverish Italian afternoon, or I could continue my descent toward the phosphorescent liquid that stares upward toward me, a pale eye. At this point nothing is certain. There is a freedom here where I can see simultaneously see into two worlds.
At the side of the shaft that extends into the Earth, the two helices meet on a bridge that bisects the diameter of the shaft and stands a meter above the water. Here, he who journeyed down may, without ever doubling back, ascend again to the world again.
I walk to the center of the brittle bridge that crosses the bottom of the well. The air has become thick again, but this time is saturated with the damp of ancient stone. This place is not cold. But it is absent of heat. The water below my feet is luminous, as if its purity itself was enough to give it light. It gladly reveals the sandy bottom several meters down. Looking up I see a sky purer than any other I have seen. I once believed that to see the ideal through the crude imperfections of reality I had to reach a point infinitely close to that entity. The cracked mirror when viewed closely enough reveals only endless repetition of the elegant and incorruptible atom. Looking up at the sky now though, I wonder if the opposite might be true as well. Perhaps one can also use complete isolation to see through to the perfection in everything. Here at the bottom the lines of the stone all lead upwards. I must go forward. I cannot linger here.
“You must go forward. You cannot linger here. This place is a process. Down and rise again. Descend and ascend. This is the eternal and infinite recurrence.”
- Puteus Condus, “A Treatise on the Metaphysical Functions of Wells and Other Subterranean Shafts”
With some minor approximations one can deconstruct the well into two fundamental geometrical entities. The first is the cylinder, oriented such that the plane of its diameter is orthogonal to any line projected from the Earth’s center of mass.
I have come to the first opening onto the well shaft; it is only a few meters below the top. At this window the air is still thick and hot. It spills over the edges above, cascading down past me into the dim void. I cannot see this, but pushing my head out I can feel the heat spiraling and splashing in its descent. Above are the sounds of sparrows and I imagine them, their beaks open trying to expel the late-afternoon heat. I am still connected to the world here. When I look downward I see a million scintillating motes of Italian dust caught in the descending ray of light. Beyond is an indistinct pool. There is still a veil of unreality that separates me from it. I would not be surprised if suddenly the pool was revealed to be only an ingenious optical illusion. In the shaft the lines of the stones all lead downwards, drawing the eye to the watery vortex.
The second component is the set of double helix stairs that coil around the descending cylinder. Each helix makes six full rotations from the surface to the water. The stairs and cylindrical well shaft meet at windows.
The third opening and the light has changed. Or is it my eyes that have changed? This place is a process. Here the air is lighter; the summer humors that float above cannot weigh down this place. The warm tendrils of the sun snake their way down the stones to touch this point. I glance above and see that the sky has become deeper and clearer. The water below is an iridescent blue that mirrors the brilliant sky. These are two realities and I am in between them. Leaning against these cool stones, halfway between water and sky one can almost feel at ease. At this moment I could choose to return to the feverish Italian afternoon, or I could continue my descent toward the phosphorescent liquid that stares upward toward me, a pale eye. At this point nothing is certain. There is a freedom here where I can see simultaneously see into two worlds.
At the side of the shaft that extends into the Earth, the two helices meet on a bridge that bisects the diameter of the shaft and stands a meter above the water. Here, he who journeyed down may, without ever doubling back, ascend again to the world again.
I walk to the center of the brittle bridge that crosses the bottom of the well. The air has become thick again, but this time is saturated with the damp of ancient stone. This place is not cold. But it is absent of heat. The water below my feet is luminous, as if its purity itself was enough to give it light. It gladly reveals the sandy bottom several meters down. Looking up I see a sky purer than any other I have seen. I once believed that to see the ideal through the crude imperfections of reality I had to reach a point infinitely close to that entity. The cracked mirror when viewed closely enough reveals only endless repetition of the elegant and incorruptible atom. Looking up at the sky now though, I wonder if the opposite might be true as well. Perhaps one can also use complete isolation to see through to the perfection in everything. Here at the bottom the lines of the stone all lead upwards. I must go forward. I cannot linger here.
The Discomfort of Pilgrimages (Creative Writing Assignment #23)
Note: The following quotes are all the creation of the author, and do not actually refer to any real document.
“It is said that after seven years of trials St. Abbo reached the foot of the mountain upon which Yehsalva the Elder had been crucified. Before he ascended, he knelt to give prayer and thank God for his safe passage. As he bent forward an asp emerged from a hollow in the earth and struck him in his ankle. Lying prostrate on the ground, St. Abbo was visited by an angel of the LORD who offered to give him the strength to climb the mountain and finish his pilgrimage.
“’This final trial is far too simple’, he replied. ‘My pilgrimage was to this asp. It was for him and every previous calamity that I first ventured forth. You of all should know that it was from the foot of this mountain that I began.’”
- Tykelmenos of Crete
The Book of One Thousand Steps
I am in the Basilica of St. Peter’s. Above me gold crowds the opulent vault, trailing down the pillars toward the voluminous eyes of the pilgrims and tourists. I watch them come around the corner and through the door. Their cameras are already blazing like automatic rifles. This is one of the world’s navels of spirituality and yet I feel a bitter anger when I am elbowed in the small of my back by an old woman with furiously red lipstick, or when the German tour guide leads her duckling tourists to the exact spot I have fought so hard to maintain. The ridiculousness of my anger provokes me to even greater anger. “Not now, not here,” I plead with myself.
A pilgrim is a person who battles against his own wrath. He lures it out with the trials of the journey, then he slays it.
* * *
“Let misfortune be as a friend to you. Through misfortune a pilgrimage is born.”
- Askinof Jerimiahikov
“Following the Saints: A Guide to the Perplexed”
As the train drew into the station we looked up from books and sleep to see that the clouds, our constants companions, had finally made good upon their promise. Even now the tree branches were sagging under the weight of the rain. We looked at each other: the bare arms and legs, progeny of the Italian sun. No one had anything besides a light cardigan. Tentatively hands reached for bags. With a gasp the doors opened and the smell of wet leaves gushed in. We stood watching droplets cascading down the doorframe.
A voice behind said sarcastically, “Well, at least we will remember this”.
The pilgrim is a person who remembers through discomfort.
* * *
“When the Metropolitan of Novgorod toured Rezin he was shown a man who proclaimed himself to be a hermit. The Metropolitan looked upon the man and spoke.
“’But brother, a hermit lives apart from humanity in the wilderness. You live in a mighty city.’
“’ Yet is there any other place that can cause greater loneliness than the mighty city?”’
- Grom the Scribbler
Chronicles of the Metropolitans
It is Notte Bianca and I cannot move. One arm is tightly pressed against my stomach, the other is held up in a contortion that I never thought my tendons capable of. I stand on the stairs to the Capitoline Hill. What I am waiting for in this line I do not know. I cannot ever remember being so close to so many people. The man next to me is smoking a cigarette, but I might as well have been smoking it since our faces were only inches apart. I have never been so close to so many people, but I have also never felt loneliness like this. Here in this crowd among the dozen languages that are being spoken I cannot understand anything, here among all these people who have never seen me and will never see me again.
The pilgrim is a person who is isolated when others surround him. The pilgrim is most alone when he is with his own kind.
* * *
“We spent the night under a bridge to escape the rain. Near dawn we awoke to find the swollen river rushing past our legs. I had never before felt such fear. Why didn’t I have Adel teach me how to swim?”
- John of Salingary
The Search for Telimare
When we exited the bus my throat was raw, my cold was gaining ground inside of me. I searched the exterior of the silent city for a fountain. Soon my search was rewarded when coming around a corner I heard the gurgle of water greeting water, that jovial conversation that so many of the fountains in Rome celebrate. Bracing one of my hands against the side of the fountain I leaned forward and allowed the water to flow through my mouth. The tendrils of cold wove their way into my skull and face. I then drank greedily. After I was finished one of my companions pointed to a sign beside the fountain. “Non potable. Do not drink water!”
In a silent city,
Water is laughing constantly,
It has a secret
The pilgrim is someone who chooses poorly. A pilgrimage follows the wrong answers and ends at the correct one.
“It is said that after seven years of trials St. Abbo reached the foot of the mountain upon which Yehsalva the Elder had been crucified. Before he ascended, he knelt to give prayer and thank God for his safe passage. As he bent forward an asp emerged from a hollow in the earth and struck him in his ankle. Lying prostrate on the ground, St. Abbo was visited by an angel of the LORD who offered to give him the strength to climb the mountain and finish his pilgrimage.
“’This final trial is far too simple’, he replied. ‘My pilgrimage was to this asp. It was for him and every previous calamity that I first ventured forth. You of all should know that it was from the foot of this mountain that I began.’”
- Tykelmenos of Crete
The Book of One Thousand Steps
I am in the Basilica of St. Peter’s. Above me gold crowds the opulent vault, trailing down the pillars toward the voluminous eyes of the pilgrims and tourists. I watch them come around the corner and through the door. Their cameras are already blazing like automatic rifles. This is one of the world’s navels of spirituality and yet I feel a bitter anger when I am elbowed in the small of my back by an old woman with furiously red lipstick, or when the German tour guide leads her duckling tourists to the exact spot I have fought so hard to maintain. The ridiculousness of my anger provokes me to even greater anger. “Not now, not here,” I plead with myself.
A pilgrim is a person who battles against his own wrath. He lures it out with the trials of the journey, then he slays it.
* * *
“Let misfortune be as a friend to you. Through misfortune a pilgrimage is born.”
- Askinof Jerimiahikov
“Following the Saints: A Guide to the Perplexed”
As the train drew into the station we looked up from books and sleep to see that the clouds, our constants companions, had finally made good upon their promise. Even now the tree branches were sagging under the weight of the rain. We looked at each other: the bare arms and legs, progeny of the Italian sun. No one had anything besides a light cardigan. Tentatively hands reached for bags. With a gasp the doors opened and the smell of wet leaves gushed in. We stood watching droplets cascading down the doorframe.
A voice behind said sarcastically, “Well, at least we will remember this”.
The pilgrim is a person who remembers through discomfort.
* * *
“When the Metropolitan of Novgorod toured Rezin he was shown a man who proclaimed himself to be a hermit. The Metropolitan looked upon the man and spoke.
“’But brother, a hermit lives apart from humanity in the wilderness. You live in a mighty city.’
“’ Yet is there any other place that can cause greater loneliness than the mighty city?”’
- Grom the Scribbler
Chronicles of the Metropolitans
It is Notte Bianca and I cannot move. One arm is tightly pressed against my stomach, the other is held up in a contortion that I never thought my tendons capable of. I stand on the stairs to the Capitoline Hill. What I am waiting for in this line I do not know. I cannot ever remember being so close to so many people. The man next to me is smoking a cigarette, but I might as well have been smoking it since our faces were only inches apart. I have never been so close to so many people, but I have also never felt loneliness like this. Here in this crowd among the dozen languages that are being spoken I cannot understand anything, here among all these people who have never seen me and will never see me again.
The pilgrim is a person who is isolated when others surround him. The pilgrim is most alone when he is with his own kind.
* * *
“We spent the night under a bridge to escape the rain. Near dawn we awoke to find the swollen river rushing past our legs. I had never before felt such fear. Why didn’t I have Adel teach me how to swim?”
- John of Salingary
The Search for Telimare
When we exited the bus my throat was raw, my cold was gaining ground inside of me. I searched the exterior of the silent city for a fountain. Soon my search was rewarded when coming around a corner I heard the gurgle of water greeting water, that jovial conversation that so many of the fountains in Rome celebrate. Bracing one of my hands against the side of the fountain I leaned forward and allowed the water to flow through my mouth. The tendrils of cold wove their way into my skull and face. I then drank greedily. After I was finished one of my companions pointed to a sign beside the fountain. “Non potable. Do not drink water!”
In a silent city,
Water is laughing constantly,
It has a secret
The pilgrim is someone who chooses poorly. A pilgrimage follows the wrong answers and ends at the correct one.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
A History of Trouble (Creative Writing Assignment #20)
At times it is difficult for me to travel. You might read this and draw images of a figure of a fragile disposition, a lethargic nature, or an anxious temper. Do I fear airplanes, pickpockets, terrorists, or the horrific countenance that might constitute foreign cuisine? It is altogether less interesting than that, though perhaps you will still fail to believe me. It is this quandary that has led me to finally claim my word as PARALLEL.
When traveling, especially in Rome, you can see all sorts of people. There are the hordes of red-faced, animatronic tourists, trudging mindlessly forward, dominated by their headsets. Moving among these is that class of people that sustains itself through the generous tourist. The hawkish vendors of knock-off purses, the ubiquitous statue men in their latest unpersuasive wrapping of sheets be it a gold painted Tutankhamen or a spray painted Roman orator, and of course the many beggars of all imaginable forms. One can even sometimes spot the endangered species, the Roman. So many people. And with this phantasmagoria of faces and bodies, within this cacophony of clucking, whining, barking, grunting, sighing, and screaming, there are weaving around me so many stories. There are probably more stories, memories, and impressions walking about St. Peter’s on a Saturday afternoon than could fill the Vatican library.
This overwhelms and troubles me. I walk through the Camp di Fiori and pass a man selling flashing heart pins. Did he know that he would one day be doing this? Does he sit late at night, counting his earnings and think back to the first time he learned to swim in that now remote amber river? Do his sore legs again remember the sensation of being able to thrash about, free for once of soil and stone? What of the silent Japanese woman that sits alone in the Pantheon early on a Thursday morning. Why has she come to Rome? When did she first leave the city that she was born in? Does she remember the excitement at seeing the ocean for the first time, the horizon so keen that your eyes might slip over the edge? I can never know these things.
So my word is more a hope than a reality. I hope that all these lives actually run PARALLEL. That by living my life, I have in some way lived the lives of all this flesh that swarms through the streets of Rome. It is a selfish hope. Like the man who burns a book simply because he knows that he is incapable of finishing it. But what an ease it would be on the traveler. To be able to walk down a dim street in Trastevere, see an old man sitting without a shirt, mending a dilapidated bicycle and be able to confidently think, “What an interesting sight, but I know that what this man has felt I have felt as well. His life has just been a variation upon mine just as mine has been a variation upon that of the gaudy woman that is walking toward me”.
PARALLEL. Probably just an illusion. Nevertheless I continue to meander on through Rome, passing countless eyes, but perhaps only one continuous story.
When traveling, especially in Rome, you can see all sorts of people. There are the hordes of red-faced, animatronic tourists, trudging mindlessly forward, dominated by their headsets. Moving among these is that class of people that sustains itself through the generous tourist. The hawkish vendors of knock-off purses, the ubiquitous statue men in their latest unpersuasive wrapping of sheets be it a gold painted Tutankhamen or a spray painted Roman orator, and of course the many beggars of all imaginable forms. One can even sometimes spot the endangered species, the Roman. So many people. And with this phantasmagoria of faces and bodies, within this cacophony of clucking, whining, barking, grunting, sighing, and screaming, there are weaving around me so many stories. There are probably more stories, memories, and impressions walking about St. Peter’s on a Saturday afternoon than could fill the Vatican library.
This overwhelms and troubles me. I walk through the Camp di Fiori and pass a man selling flashing heart pins. Did he know that he would one day be doing this? Does he sit late at night, counting his earnings and think back to the first time he learned to swim in that now remote amber river? Do his sore legs again remember the sensation of being able to thrash about, free for once of soil and stone? What of the silent Japanese woman that sits alone in the Pantheon early on a Thursday morning. Why has she come to Rome? When did she first leave the city that she was born in? Does she remember the excitement at seeing the ocean for the first time, the horizon so keen that your eyes might slip over the edge? I can never know these things.
So my word is more a hope than a reality. I hope that all these lives actually run PARALLEL. That by living my life, I have in some way lived the lives of all this flesh that swarms through the streets of Rome. It is a selfish hope. Like the man who burns a book simply because he knows that he is incapable of finishing it. But what an ease it would be on the traveler. To be able to walk down a dim street in Trastevere, see an old man sitting without a shirt, mending a dilapidated bicycle and be able to confidently think, “What an interesting sight, but I know that what this man has felt I have felt as well. His life has just been a variation upon mine just as mine has been a variation upon that of the gaudy woman that is walking toward me”.
PARALLEL. Probably just an illusion. Nevertheless I continue to meander on through Rome, passing countless eyes, but perhaps only one continuous story.
The Pantheon in Four Colors (Creative Writing Assignment #10)
8:37 am
Eleven. This was the number of people that stood in the Pantheon. They orbited, sliding about the circumference. The vast floor remained empty. A janitor stood trying to tell a joke to a Japanese woman who had been sitting alone on a bench. A young couple meandered along, pointing and whispering to each other. These individual personalities will be absorbed and obliterated in the swell of photomongers when noon arrives.
The Pantheon was at its most powerful then. I could hear each of my steps ricocheting off the walls to eventually pass up through the oculus and outward into the Roman morning. Without the crowds and noise, the dome seemed to recede upwards as if the weight of all those pounding shoes during the afternoon had been holding it down. As I looked up at the dome I saw that the shading on the coffering gave the impression that the oculus was growing. That the dome was dilating to allow the sun in. I imagined the immense Pantheon as a flower, the oculus opening in the morning with the first rays of the sun.
In the morning I believed that I was in a Christian church. The crosses, the wooden carving of a crucified Christ, the frescos of the Annunciation, they were all visible. A narrow beam of light had only recently begun to crawl down the coffering, but the sacred language of church was already visible.
A pigeon suddenly darted above my head, soaring upward to a niche at the base of the dome. I saw this as a particularly Roman omen to leave.
The color that dominated the Pantheon in the morning was yellow.
2:10 pm
In the afternoon the Pantheon is a dark place. As I cross the threshold I have a fleeting fear that the darkness will not recede, that the Pantheon has been transformed into another dim cave, cloaking its exquisite vastness in obscurity. But then I see the sun-stain that terminates that vast and yet ethereal pillar of light. Through this column a million dust motes, citizens of Rome school, climbing hot currents upward. It seems like it might be made of some other medium than atmosphere. That one might be able to swim upward through the thick sunlight. The dust motes become tiny bubbles.
The hordes have come and now their cameras blaze. Are they afraid that their memories are weaker than their external hardrives? In the blurry confusion of echoes I cannot hear my footsteps any longer. Somewhere in the dim crowd a child is testing the strength of his shrill voice. That echo I do hear.
In the afternoon I believe that I am in a pagan temple. The same light that illuminated a circle of stone has seemed to suck the light out of the rest of the Pantheon. The Christian symbols have been veiled in shadows. The gloom the golden altar wall has turned to the color of urine. The wooden Christ that had previously drawn my attention now has taken on a new meaning with the change of light. Shadows have slid down from the arch above him enshrouding his bent head. He has gone from triumphant victory to forgotten martyr. Jupiter has taken the day shift.
The color that dominates the Pantheon in the afternoon is purple, like the dried blood of the sacrifices that once happened here.
7:17 pm
It will be the first time during the day that the Pantheon seems just as bright inside as the sky is outside. Soft, yellow lights will be switched on above the niches. The dome will be dark now except for a faint ring of light around the oculus. The tourists will be beginning to thin, they will move faster, shuffling in, pointing their weapons, snapping, and then shuffling out again. I will look to the coffering and see that opposed to this morning it will look as if the dome is contracting, as if the oculus is shrinking. The flower will close for the night.
With the help of the luminous bulbs, Christianity will take back the Pantheon. The wooden Christ again hangs triumphant, gloriously enthroned in artificial illumination. I will be able to see his bent head and know his sacrifice. The gold of the altar wall will shimmer again as I walk from one side to the other.
The colors that will dominate the Pantheon in the evening are blue and gold.
Eleven. This was the number of people that stood in the Pantheon. They orbited, sliding about the circumference. The vast floor remained empty. A janitor stood trying to tell a joke to a Japanese woman who had been sitting alone on a bench. A young couple meandered along, pointing and whispering to each other. These individual personalities will be absorbed and obliterated in the swell of photomongers when noon arrives.
The Pantheon was at its most powerful then. I could hear each of my steps ricocheting off the walls to eventually pass up through the oculus and outward into the Roman morning. Without the crowds and noise, the dome seemed to recede upwards as if the weight of all those pounding shoes during the afternoon had been holding it down. As I looked up at the dome I saw that the shading on the coffering gave the impression that the oculus was growing. That the dome was dilating to allow the sun in. I imagined the immense Pantheon as a flower, the oculus opening in the morning with the first rays of the sun.
In the morning I believed that I was in a Christian church. The crosses, the wooden carving of a crucified Christ, the frescos of the Annunciation, they were all visible. A narrow beam of light had only recently begun to crawl down the coffering, but the sacred language of church was already visible.
A pigeon suddenly darted above my head, soaring upward to a niche at the base of the dome. I saw this as a particularly Roman omen to leave.
The color that dominated the Pantheon in the morning was yellow.
2:10 pm
In the afternoon the Pantheon is a dark place. As I cross the threshold I have a fleeting fear that the darkness will not recede, that the Pantheon has been transformed into another dim cave, cloaking its exquisite vastness in obscurity. But then I see the sun-stain that terminates that vast and yet ethereal pillar of light. Through this column a million dust motes, citizens of Rome school, climbing hot currents upward. It seems like it might be made of some other medium than atmosphere. That one might be able to swim upward through the thick sunlight. The dust motes become tiny bubbles.
The hordes have come and now their cameras blaze. Are they afraid that their memories are weaker than their external hardrives? In the blurry confusion of echoes I cannot hear my footsteps any longer. Somewhere in the dim crowd a child is testing the strength of his shrill voice. That echo I do hear.
In the afternoon I believe that I am in a pagan temple. The same light that illuminated a circle of stone has seemed to suck the light out of the rest of the Pantheon. The Christian symbols have been veiled in shadows. The gloom the golden altar wall has turned to the color of urine. The wooden Christ that had previously drawn my attention now has taken on a new meaning with the change of light. Shadows have slid down from the arch above him enshrouding his bent head. He has gone from triumphant victory to forgotten martyr. Jupiter has taken the day shift.
The color that dominates the Pantheon in the afternoon is purple, like the dried blood of the sacrifices that once happened here.
7:17 pm
It will be the first time during the day that the Pantheon seems just as bright inside as the sky is outside. Soft, yellow lights will be switched on above the niches. The dome will be dark now except for a faint ring of light around the oculus. The tourists will be beginning to thin, they will move faster, shuffling in, pointing their weapons, snapping, and then shuffling out again. I will look to the coffering and see that opposed to this morning it will look as if the dome is contracting, as if the oculus is shrinking. The flower will close for the night.
With the help of the luminous bulbs, Christianity will take back the Pantheon. The wooden Christ again hangs triumphant, gloriously enthroned in artificial illumination. I will be able to see his bent head and know his sacrifice. The gold of the altar wall will shimmer again as I walk from one side to the other.
The colors that will dominate the Pantheon in the evening are blue and gold.
A Journey into the Crypt of S. Maria Concezione (Creative Writing Assignment #4)
Emerging from the threshold we are again in Rome. Cars and buses slide past in the mild morning air. Down on the steps below a gypsy woman with a sleeping infant begs for coins. A group of muttering tourists pick their way along the sidewalk. These are the objects of every Roman day, they are comforting in their ubiquity. But the paint has begun to flake on the images before us, just as it has from the massive green doors that stand as sentinels on so many Roman streets. Already looking at the gypsy woman we can see something that we had not noticed before. Below the skin, beyond in time. Our eyes will not show us this future, this continuity. But after the crypt we know that the eyes hide and distort a great deal.
Hallucination differs from other types of vision in that it is necessarily a product of the mind. It is a trick that one plays upon oneself unconsciously. In the crypt of Santa Maria della Concezione there are no hallucinations. Could our minds have dreamt up these contortions of the senses? Like the vertebrae that swirl about its ceiling, this place has a way of twisting around and through every expectation. We walk forward and back while chandeliers of tailbones hover above our heads. We observe the piles of femur bones stacked meticulously. On the walls ribs sprout into blotched ivory flowers, walls of skulls play with the light to create delicate patterns. The dried monks continue to penitently pray as they have for so many years now, their brittle-skinned hands wired tightly together.
Here there are no hallucinations for there are only two elements whose existence is undeniable: death and beauty. This space is a crypt but it might also be a temple to the two essential qualities of life. The medieval mind would have approved of this place. We may try to believe that these countless fragments of so many humans are only a hallucination, but what they say to us cannot be called hallucination for both will eventually assert themselves onto us. When we see the frail skeleton of the Princess, holding her bone hourglass, we see a matrix of calcium deposits, but we also see through to death and beauty.
The monks who made this place made it as a “memory palace” of the simplest sort. There are only two memories that this subterranean complex preserves. They are present in the tailbones that weave their way across the ceiling, in the distorted and hollow faces of men who knew that eventually they would contribute the fabric of their existence to creating a memory for someone else. Here we are, surrounded by the dead, imposed on by the dead.
This place cannot be left to words. The word “human bone” is so common and the experience so rare that the word and object no longer mean the same thing. We read “bone” and picture a Halloween decoration, we see a cross formed from finger bones and we experience something very different. The monks must have known this, known that when we left the crypt, we would be able to see, if only for a short time, the death and beauty in the outside world.
Leaving the crypt feels like returning to a hallucination. The gypsy woman’s infant has woken and is crying. The cars and buses slide past, dragging with them the cares of the day. Yet if we are careful we may be able to sway to one side of this mixture of hallucination and reality, to see what the medieval mind could have seen, to see what it already knew existed beyond the sight of our everyday eyes.
Hallucination differs from other types of vision in that it is necessarily a product of the mind. It is a trick that one plays upon oneself unconsciously. In the crypt of Santa Maria della Concezione there are no hallucinations. Could our minds have dreamt up these contortions of the senses? Like the vertebrae that swirl about its ceiling, this place has a way of twisting around and through every expectation. We walk forward and back while chandeliers of tailbones hover above our heads. We observe the piles of femur bones stacked meticulously. On the walls ribs sprout into blotched ivory flowers, walls of skulls play with the light to create delicate patterns. The dried monks continue to penitently pray as they have for so many years now, their brittle-skinned hands wired tightly together.
Here there are no hallucinations for there are only two elements whose existence is undeniable: death and beauty. This space is a crypt but it might also be a temple to the two essential qualities of life. The medieval mind would have approved of this place. We may try to believe that these countless fragments of so many humans are only a hallucination, but what they say to us cannot be called hallucination for both will eventually assert themselves onto us. When we see the frail skeleton of the Princess, holding her bone hourglass, we see a matrix of calcium deposits, but we also see through to death and beauty.
The monks who made this place made it as a “memory palace” of the simplest sort. There are only two memories that this subterranean complex preserves. They are present in the tailbones that weave their way across the ceiling, in the distorted and hollow faces of men who knew that eventually they would contribute the fabric of their existence to creating a memory for someone else. Here we are, surrounded by the dead, imposed on by the dead.
This place cannot be left to words. The word “human bone” is so common and the experience so rare that the word and object no longer mean the same thing. We read “bone” and picture a Halloween decoration, we see a cross formed from finger bones and we experience something very different. The monks must have known this, known that when we left the crypt, we would be able to see, if only for a short time, the death and beauty in the outside world.
Leaving the crypt feels like returning to a hallucination. The gypsy woman’s infant has woken and is crying. The cars and buses slide past, dragging with them the cares of the day. Yet if we are careful we may be able to sway to one side of this mixture of hallucination and reality, to see what the medieval mind could have seen, to see what it already knew existed beyond the sight of our everyday eyes.
Light, Movement, and the Story in a Statue (Creative Writing Assignment #17)
Pauline Bonaparte reclines on her mattress, a cloth is loosely wrapped about her waist. In one hand she delicately holds an apple, suspended in front of her shapely thighs. Her other hand rests in her hair. This arm does not show enough strain to be truly holding her head; it is merely a pose. Her face supports this sense of confidence. Her eyes wander off beyond us. She feigns disinterested in her observers. But the viewer knows that vainly she wishes for them to look upon her exposed form. However, in the morning light the sculpture is bare, there is an overabundance of smooth marble. Her form lacks the shadows and crevices that animate other sculptures. One wanders on in the museum, craving the energy of something different. The story here is too simple. One almost feels sorry for this sculpture that seems proud without reason. How would a mere candle change the work?
In the light of the candle that sits before her stomach, Pauline’s form takes on new shapes. Shadows intensify the voluptuousness of her supple breasts. The apple gleams, the candlelight being intensified into a single point that draws us toward the bed. She is now a temptation. Looking at her body one notices how the light has accentuated the wrinkles on the mattress caused by her fleshy, corporeal body. But it is when one returns to Pauline’s face that the story begins. The viewer realizes that they are watching Pauline as she waits for Camillo. She plays with her apple idly, dipping it toward the open flame. Gazing beyond us out the cracked door she listens for the sounds of foots on the steps. She does not look toward the viewer, but it is no longer out of pride. She has forgotten that she is being watched. This has become a private view in an intimate night setting. The viewer has been transformed into the voyeur and is hidden in the darkness.
A breeze catches the flame, scattering the shadows on Pauline’s body and giving the illusion of motion. Has a door been opened somewhere? She appears to have shifted her weight in expectation, trying to catch the sound. Perhaps she has heard the clip of boots on marble or the echo of a servant’s voice, welcoming the returning master. The sculpture has grown in complexity. The viewer now must hesitate before moving on.
In another room, out of the candlelight stands Bernini’s David. The viewer approaches it from behind and immediately and without any change of light we are drawn into a story. This story begins, as many do, with a question. What is this figure doing? We see him bent over some task. The muscles of his back seem taut. His skeleton is visible, stretching the marble as if beneath it there were smooth titanium vertebrae and ribs. Splaying his legs we can tell that he is preparing himself for some change in momentum. A sudden action is imminent.
As the viewer walks around the statue clockwise the story progresses. The viewer sees that David holds some sort of stone with rope wrapped around it. As his left arm becomes visible, it reveals enlarged veins. The gleam of marble here becomes the gleam of perspiration. The profile of a rutty face appears, but this is no surprise for it seems an inevitable outgrowth of the tense, straining body. Armor and a harp have fallen to his feet. This must mark a final commitment to his present action. Now the viewer is determined to see what David has been preparing.
Finally the device’s purpose is revealed, it is a slingshot. With the observer’s final rotation, David’s body begins to shift its weight. He is in the act of winding the up for a triumphant fling. The climax arrives when the face becomes fully visible. Now David bites his lips with the strain of the slingshot. All energy is now directed into his arms. And then it ends. There is no conclusion.
In the light of the candle that sits before her stomach, Pauline’s form takes on new shapes. Shadows intensify the voluptuousness of her supple breasts. The apple gleams, the candlelight being intensified into a single point that draws us toward the bed. She is now a temptation. Looking at her body one notices how the light has accentuated the wrinkles on the mattress caused by her fleshy, corporeal body. But it is when one returns to Pauline’s face that the story begins. The viewer realizes that they are watching Pauline as she waits for Camillo. She plays with her apple idly, dipping it toward the open flame. Gazing beyond us out the cracked door she listens for the sounds of foots on the steps. She does not look toward the viewer, but it is no longer out of pride. She has forgotten that she is being watched. This has become a private view in an intimate night setting. The viewer has been transformed into the voyeur and is hidden in the darkness.
A breeze catches the flame, scattering the shadows on Pauline’s body and giving the illusion of motion. Has a door been opened somewhere? She appears to have shifted her weight in expectation, trying to catch the sound. Perhaps she has heard the clip of boots on marble or the echo of a servant’s voice, welcoming the returning master. The sculpture has grown in complexity. The viewer now must hesitate before moving on.
In another room, out of the candlelight stands Bernini’s David. The viewer approaches it from behind and immediately and without any change of light we are drawn into a story. This story begins, as many do, with a question. What is this figure doing? We see him bent over some task. The muscles of his back seem taut. His skeleton is visible, stretching the marble as if beneath it there were smooth titanium vertebrae and ribs. Splaying his legs we can tell that he is preparing himself for some change in momentum. A sudden action is imminent.
As the viewer walks around the statue clockwise the story progresses. The viewer sees that David holds some sort of stone with rope wrapped around it. As his left arm becomes visible, it reveals enlarged veins. The gleam of marble here becomes the gleam of perspiration. The profile of a rutty face appears, but this is no surprise for it seems an inevitable outgrowth of the tense, straining body. Armor and a harp have fallen to his feet. This must mark a final commitment to his present action. Now the viewer is determined to see what David has been preparing.
Finally the device’s purpose is revealed, it is a slingshot. With the observer’s final rotation, David’s body begins to shift its weight. He is in the act of winding the up for a triumphant fling. The climax arrives when the face becomes fully visible. Now David bites his lips with the strain of the slingshot. All energy is now directed into his arms. And then it ends. There is no conclusion.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Interviewing Umberto Eco (Creative Writing Assignment #20)
Note: This assignment required that we translate a piece of writing from Italian based solely upon what English words the Italian words resembled. The less Italian we knew, the better. For example "Notte Bianca" (White Night in English), might be translated as "Bank Note". The following then is a "translation" of an interview with the writer Umberto Eco.
Bologna, come and ornament my traditions,
Auspicious will be the day of these major formations,
It will occupy the editorials and the multimedia presentations.
On an Alabaman Interstate Umberto Eco gorged,
Dreaming of airplanes to the third degree,
And the master of all directions.
Q: College telephones sit with ill Professor Umberto Eco. Is he the master of all directions in multimedia? Is he the master of all directions in the editorial cartoons? Scuttle with superiority, study these questions and omens.
A: Oh gee, it’s an advantage with a due cost. The first of the conclusions involved tears that circled from you to the diplomat. They dropped at intervals, initially in one form and then another. It was a lesson in four cycles. Simultaneously I arrived with a quest for four tornados, a quest to be the master. I am an altruistic master in editorials. In Italian, snows total another year. I will quest for the unicorn enough. OK, it was a windy impregnation which raged with a frequency that obliged me to quote the Indian with a due cost.
Q: There is a semblance to this same situation in Italian. You see it in a movement that is incorruptible. Someone is diverse when campaigning for death, for a quantity of regulation to the letter, but editorials, they are like alimony, which is the fat of numbers. There is a semblance to a Molotov vitamin.
A: Inane and doodle! The campaign for death, a sullen letter for my fans. Temperance is a poor story. Is there taro in Italy? If trunks never classified their fat or their past economic luck, a position based on quantity would regulate the numbers of freedom.
Bologna, come and ornament my traditions,
Auspicious will be the day of these major formations,
It will occupy the editorials and the multimedia presentations.
On an Alabaman Interstate Umberto Eco gorged,
Dreaming of airplanes to the third degree,
And the master of all directions.
Q: College telephones sit with ill Professor Umberto Eco. Is he the master of all directions in multimedia? Is he the master of all directions in the editorial cartoons? Scuttle with superiority, study these questions and omens.
A: Oh gee, it’s an advantage with a due cost. The first of the conclusions involved tears that circled from you to the diplomat. They dropped at intervals, initially in one form and then another. It was a lesson in four cycles. Simultaneously I arrived with a quest for four tornados, a quest to be the master. I am an altruistic master in editorials. In Italian, snows total another year. I will quest for the unicorn enough. OK, it was a windy impregnation which raged with a frequency that obliged me to quote the Indian with a due cost.
Q: There is a semblance to this same situation in Italian. You see it in a movement that is incorruptible. Someone is diverse when campaigning for death, for a quantity of regulation to the letter, but editorials, they are like alimony, which is the fat of numbers. There is a semblance to a Molotov vitamin.
A: Inane and doodle! The campaign for death, a sullen letter for my fans. Temperance is a poor story. Is there taro in Italy? If trunks never classified their fat or their past economic luck, a position based on quantity would regulate the numbers of freedom.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
The Obelisks of Rome
Introduction
The mythology of the Egyptians tells us that the god of life and death, Osiris, was murdered by his brother Seth, only to rise and again walk in the world. Such a narrative could very well be applied to the obelisks of Rome. Trophies of the Empire fall only to be resurrected by the “second emperors of Rome”, the popes. Simple though they seem the obelisks have both a complex history and a subtle plan behind their placement. Throughout the history of Rome they have been associated with various forms of social and political power. Through an understanding of obelisks one can gain a better understanding of the city in which they stand.
History
The Egyptians were the first culture to practice the craft of obelisk carving and to this day the finest and most beautiful obelisks are still of their ancient making. In fact, many of the obelisks were already aged when they were taken to Rome. Many had also already been reused by numerous pharaohs. The Egyptians placed their obelisks as pairs at the entrance to temples and sacred burial locations, unlike the Romans who generally erected them as solitary monuments in circuses. Most sources agree that the obelisks were connected to the sun worship. To this end their pyramidions may have been covered in gold. Such ornamentation would create the illusion from a distance and in direct sunlight that the obelisk was emitting light. Pliny claims that the obelisk represented the ray from the sun and that they served as thrones for the sun god Aten. Accurate or not, these ideas were held by the Romans and the Romans erected their stolen obelisks with them in mind.
The Romans first began to acquire obelisks when Augustus defeated Mark Antony and Cleopatra, and the Empire gained control of Egypt in 30 BC. To celebrate his triumph, Augustus brought the first obelisk back to Rome. This set the tone for all subsequent obelisk use in Rome. After this Roman emperors would continue to move obelisks to their capital city. Augustus later had several obelisks transported using massive boats that employed up to three hundred rowers. While they were never able to carve obelisks as well as the Egyptians, the Roman engineers had several advantages over the Egyptians in their transportation. They had at their disposal the compound pulley as well as ample timber. The Egyptians on the other hand had worked primarily with stone. The Romans though were not content only with the obelisks that had already been made, but also sculpted their own in both Alexandria and Rome. They even went so far as to carve fake hieroglyphics in some of their creations. After Augustus, Caligula, Diocletian, Domitian, and Hadrian all erected obelisks in Rome.
With the decline of Rome and the onset of the Middle Ages the obelisks again became ruins. They fell one by one until only the Vatican obelisk remained standing. Some were broken into several pieces during the many sackings of Rome. Through the periodical flooding of the Tiber some obelisks were completely buried under sediment. They would remain hidden or ignored until the popes began to turn an eye to them. The first of these re-erections came from the one of the most ambitious of the Counter-Reformation popes, Sixtus V (Felice Peretti, 1585-90). Sixtus V commissioned the genius engineer and architect Domenico Fontana to relocate the Vatican obelisk to the front of St. Peter’s. This undertaking was a landmark in the history of engineering, requiring the sum of contemporary mechanical science. After his success with the Vatican obelisk, Domenico Fontana went on to find and erect four more fallen obelisks for Sixtus. These include the obelisk in the Piazza dell'Esquilino, the Piazza del Popolo, the Piazza S. Maria Maggiore, and the Piazza S. Giovanni in Laterano. While several Popes such as Innocent X and Alexander VII followed Sixtus in erecting obelisks during their pontificates (the Piazza Navona obelisk and the Piazza della Minerva respectively), the second greatest of the “megolithomaniacs” was Pius VI. He had Giovanni Antinori re-erect the second obelisk that had stood before the Mausoleum of August, the first having been erected in the Piazza dell’Esquilino. Like Sixtus V, Pius VI went on to erect two more obelisks, again through the skill of Antinori. These were the Trinità dei Monti obelisk and the Montecitorio obelisk. Many other Western cities have followed the lead of Rome and now obelisks can be found in Paris, Constantinople, London, and New York.
Definition and Variation
With the popularity of obelisks has come a host of obelisk imitations. A true obelisk has a square, tapering shaft. At its top is a pyramidion that has a taper of sixty degrees. A true obelisk is also carved from a single piece of stone. The Egyptians used red granite and this was the preferred stone of the Romans as well. Obelisks generally sit upon some sort of base that raises it some distance above the ground. Obelisks have been presented in different ways at different times during their history. In the Baroque period obelisks were usually accompanied with a multimedia presentation of sculptures or fountains. Before this (such as the obelisks erected by Sixtus V), obelisks usually stood alone in an open space. The obelisks stolen from Egypt usually have hieroglyphic inscriptions on them. One cannot necessarily identify an Egyptian origin by this though because some of the obelisks made in Rome are inscribed with either genuine hieroglyphics or imitation symbols. These essential qualities above mark all the true obelisks that stand in Rome.
Some obelisks have had special features or ornamentation that set them apart. In Imperial Rome obelisks were sometimes oriented such that they acted as giant sundials. Augustus used an obelisk for such a purpose in the Campus Martius where he had the points that the pinnacle of the obelisk’s shadow touched at noon on the winter and summer solstice marked. To better define this tip, a globe was set at the top of the pyramidion. However, the weight of the obelisk caused it to sink into the earth, distorting the calculations and terminating its time marking capabilities. When one of these sundial obelisks was re-erected by Sixtus V, he removed the golden globe, which by that time was rumored to contain the ashes of Caesar. The major obelisks that now stand in Rome are also adorned with bronze ornamentation. This often includes symbols from the reigning pope’s arms. For example, at the top of the Piazza Navona obelisk sits a dove, the symbol for Innocent X, the Pope that re-erected this particular obelisk. Another important addition made to many of the obelisks by the popes of the Counter-reformation was a cross. Since the basic shape of the obelisk is so normalized, it is often only with their ornamentation that we can easily decipher their latest political agenda.
Function
Like any other monument, obelisks generally serve multiple functions simultaneously. Except as sundials, these functions are rarely practical and indeed nearly always involve the delivery of a message from the erector. For this reason the function of obelisks and the goals of their patron will be discusses together since they are in a sense inseparable. The function was to deliver the particular message, this was also the goal of the structure. All of this is further complicated by the fact that these multiple functions have shifted over time. In fact, the obelisks are interesting in their ability to absorb new intentions without having their structure significantly changed. Furthermore, different groups of people would understand the obelisk upon different levels. Regardless of specifics though, the underlying function of obelisks has always been to assert the political and social power of the current power holders.
When the obelisks were carried back from Egypt after its conquest they were seen as trophies, physical embodiments of Rome’s power as well as the power of Augustus. The presence of hieroglyphics would have sealed this meaning for those that did not immediately recognize them as Egyptian. The transportation of the obelisk itself was a symbol of the power of Rome. To move the obelisk all the way to the Nile and then ferry it across the Mediterranean must have proved a formidable task for the Roman Engineers. It is not insignificant that Egypt was also one of the principal grain suppliers to Rome. At this point in its history the city could no longer support itself on the surrounding countryside, and it relied heavily on the fertility of the Nile. The Classicist Grant Parker theorizes that the very transportation of the obelisk was an assertion of the power of Rome to move grain. The obelisk would moreover function as a displacement of concerns over the availability of food. Worries about grain supply were especially pertinent to the lower classes and this interestingly suggests that this message might have been directly aimed at an audience below the rich and powerful.
There were other reasons for Augustus to be interested in the obelisks. Augustus had traveled to Egypt and had there seen the tomb of Alexander. At its entrance stood two obelisks. Wishing to associate himself with Alexander upon his death, Augustus commissioned the construction of two new obelisks out of red granite and placed them at the entrance to his mausoleum. The uneducated might not have caught this reference, but the upper classes certainly would have. This action exemplifies the obelisk’s use as a way of connecting the previously powerful to the currently powerful. In this sense the obelisk is a well defined symbol of power. Often the obelisk would not only associate the possessor with the powerful previous possessor but would attempt to show how the current possessor had more power than the previous one. Egypt was a powerful civilization but Rome must be an even more powerful civilization since it was able to take the obelisk. It must be remember of course that through this very comparison the current owner of the obelisk expresses his respect for the previous owner. The Romans had a great respect for the Egyptian civilization and its religious beliefs as will be discussed later.
The Counter-reformation popes followed this pattern also. For the Popes though, the obelisk was a way of connecting their city back to the glory of Imperial Rome. While the obelisk structure originated in Egypt it now signified their previous owner, the Roman emperor. An inscription on the Quirnal Obelisk commissioned by Pope Pius VI connects him to both Alexander and Augustus, asserting his dominance over the former (this obelisk stood between two statues of Castor and Pollux. As the quote shows, Pius found it more convenient to mistake them for dual Alexanders):
“I, once carved from the cliffs of Egypt and carried by Romulean force over waves to stand as a wondrous monument to the tomb of Augustus, where the Tiber washes the grove of the Caesars, I, whom age vainly tried to bury in the mounded ruins when I was overturned and broken, I am called back to the light by Pius, who bids me to stand, repaired, high on the summit of the Quirnal Hill between the greatest images of Alexander, where I will testify how much lesser Alexander was than Pius.”
The Roman Emperors and Counter-reformation popes also lived during times when Egyptian culture, particularly their religious beliefs, was of intense interest to the educated, upper classes. Eastern cults were popular in Imperial Rome and foremost among these was the cult of Isis, the Egyptian goddess of fertility and femininity. The Emperor Domitian so devoted to her that he built the Iseum, a temple complex for her worship. In a similar vein, Domitian commissioned portraits of himself in which he was portrayed as an Egyptian Pharoah. Domitian more importantly commissioned the carving of the Piazza Navona obelisk, which had his name correctly written in hieroglyphics upon it. Archeologists believe that this obelisk probably first stood in front of the Iseum before it was moved to the Stadium where Piazza Navona now is located. Besides its popular deities, Egypt was associated with timeless wisdom and the occult. This association would remain with the obelisks until their re-erection. Along with their pagan Roman origins, their magical affiliation would necessitate their Christianization by any Pope that wished to erect them.
“Egyptomania” re-emerged with the end of the Reniassance. One of the most interesting figures involved in this was Giordano Bruno, a philosopher, priest, cosmologist, and occultist. He believed that Egyptian religious practices were of great importance to Christianity since they constituted an older, more universal system. It would be through these beliefs that religious differences would be overcome. Bruno even went so far as to suggest that the symbol of the cross had originated in Egypt. Though he was burned at the stake for these kinds of ideas, there were others in greater power that remained free to publicly pursue studies in all things Egyptian. The Borgia apartment in the Vatican depicted Isis and other Egyptian deities, and Pope Alexander VI himself claimed descent from Osiris. It is possible that the erection of the obelisks at this time were an outlet for this widespread interest in Egypt among the educated classes.
There were more universally utilitarian functions for the obelisks of Sixtus V and his followers than just their channeling of the current “Egyptomania”. The obelisks were erected to served as landmarks in the disordered city of Rome. Sixtus V saw Rome as the seat of both temporal and spiritual power. On the first day of his pontificate, Sixtus V set upon the reorganization of the city. He widened and created new roads and at the focal points of these roads he placed obelisks. These obelisks would be dynamic in their ability to draw visitor’s attention as well as their bodies to different parts of the city depending upon which direction one approached them. The Quirnal Obelisk for example can be seen from a long distance down the Via del Quirnale. Its placement draws one toward it and therefore into the heart of the city. Some obelisks were placed such that they could “see” other obelisks. The obelisk at Trinità dei Monti can “see” the obelisk at S. Maria Maggiore for example. In this way the obelisks functioned to connect the various regions of Rome into an intelligible whole.
Sixtus V also began the practice of using obelisks to mark important locations in the city. The three obelisks erected by Sixtus stand in front of the major basilicas of Rome (St. Peter’s, S. Giovanni in Laterano, and S. Maria Maggiore). Three of Sixtus’ obelisks also mark important papal residences. The obelisk at the Piazza del Popolo marks one of the primary entrances to Rome and it is the focal point of a number of major roads in Rome. A confused pilgrim would be able to find his way to a particular church of pilgrimage if he could only spot an obelisk. Popes also often used obelisks to adorn locations in Rome that were important to their family. Innocent X erected the Piazza Navona obelisk in its current location because the square had long been important to his family, the Pamphili. By using the obelisks the popes were able to highlight certain locations that asserted both the church’s and their own personal power.
The Vatican Obelisk
To better examine how an individual obelisk might function, it is instructive to analyze several obelisks’ placement and ornamentation. The first of these is the Vatican obelisk. This obelisk had been brought to Rome by Caligula and set up in the Circus Gia et Neronis where is supposedly “watched” the martyrdom of hundreds of Christians. It was also the only obelisk that stood all throughout the middle ages and the first obelisk to be moved by a pope. This pope was Sixtus V, who had had the intention of changing the position of the monument even before he entered the papacy. The current location was awkward since it stood behind the Vatican and prevented proper framing of it. The obelisk was also beginning to disappear into the earth. Its base was already buried. Moving the obelisk to the front of St. Peter’s Basilica would be a symbol of the triumph of Christian Rome over Pagan Rome. Its monolithic shape would also fit with Sixtus’ plan to make Rome look like center of religious and temporal power on Earth.
The movement of the obelisk would itself be a monumental task and would require one of the best architects of the age, Domenico Fontana. Fontana would make use of two towers and forty capstans to first lower the obelisk and then later raise it. The pope issued a command that during this process a bystander who spoke (crowds came to watch the monument being raised) could be punished by death. Legend has it that at one point while it was being lowered, the crowd noticed that there was a problem with the lines holding the obelisk, they were beginning to become dangerously hot. Then, a sailor in the crowd broke the command when he shouted “Acque alle funi!” (“Water the lines”). Water was deposited on the lines, they held, and the project was saved. Instead of being punished, the Pope rewarded the sailor and his family by giving him the exclusive privilege of selling palms on palm Sunday. It is easy to forget that besides their importance to architecture and art history, the obelisks have played an important role in the progress of engineering.
On September 28, 1586 the obelisk was consecrated with a cross by Sixtus V. Below the cross was added pontifical devices of the five stacked peaks and above them the many pointed star, thus setting a standard which following popes would later imitate.
The Quirinal Obelisk
The second example is the Quirinal Obelisk. This obelisk stands in the Piazza del Quirinale and was erected by Giovanni Antinori for Pius VI. Like most of the other Baroque obelisks, the Quirinal obelisk is a multimedia presentation. It contains different elements from three distinctly different time periods. The obelisk stands on a base in between the two ancient horse tamer statues, all of which stand on another base behind a fountain. The Piazza Quirinale contains several important papal building. The most significant was the papal summer residence (now the president’s building), but the square also included the papal datary and the papal stables. The obelisk would highlight these buildings. The obelisk would also terminate Pius VI Strada Pia. In fact at the crossing of the Strada Pia and Quattro Fontane one can see both of the obelisks from Augustus’ Mausoleum. And as mentioned above, from outside the obelisk could draw viewers into the heart of the city. All these observations make it clear that the location of the Quirnal obelisk was clearly thought out and serves to augment the way a viewer of city would see both the obelisk and the structures that surround it.
Like the Vatican obelisk, the Quirinal obelisk was given significant bronze ornamentation. Art historians are also fortunate to have a letter written by Antinori in which he defends his choice of ornamentation. This gives a clear picture of what the artist/engineer was thinking when he created the adornment of the obelisk. First the obelisk was missing an apex so the bronze ornaments helped draw attention away from this. Antinori placed Eagle shaped astragals that allude to Pius’ arms as well as four projecting Eoli. Furthermore Antinori claimed that he the eagles had been inspired by the column of Trajan and “correspond well with current taste”. The eagles also serve to animate the horses, which had been rotated to look as if they were rearing up away from the obelisk. To those that said there was too much ornamentation Antinori retorted, “simplicity is beautiful, but sometimes it stands out best against some slightly more embellished part that highlights its natural grace”. The Quirinal obelisk shows how through ornamentation the plainness of an obelisk can be enhanced (through contrast) and the intentions of the new erector can be expressed.
Conclusion
The obelisks of Rome are structures that continue to influence generation after generation. For evidence of this one need look only at the way that they continued to make appearances in history. Their massive bulk straddles the whole of western history from the earliest civilizations of the Nile delta to modern day Rome. But it was Rome’s use of obelisks that sparked the modern crazed and it would safe to say that Rome’s obelisk tradition is responsible for the obelisks that one can find in Paris, London, and New York.
Through their existence the presentation of the obelisk has changed. Used in pairs by the Egyptians, functioning as sundials or trophies in Ancient Rome, erected as the marker of a pilgrimage church in Counter-reformation Rome. However the essential design has remained fundamentally the same. Perhaps this is why the modern viewer can still be entranced by its monolithic bulk. It is so simple and universal; there are no barriers that inhibit it from being transferred from one culture or time period to another. It is made up of two simple geometrical entities. The author of this paper found the obelisk’s universal admiration to be their most interesting aspect. Another appeal might be the age of the obelisk. They have come to be associated, like Egypt, with secrets and ancient wisdom. Regardless of this, obelisks continue to animate the streets of Rome and to remind us how easily we place meaning on what is really little different than a larger version of the proverbial block of stone.
Bibliography
Collins, Jeffrey. “Non Tenuis Gloria: The Quirnal Obelisk from Theory to Practice.” Memoirs of the American Academy in Rome 42 (1997): 187-245.
Collins, Jeffrey. “Obelisk designs by Giovanni Stern.” The Bvrlington Magazine 142 (2000): 90-100.
Curl, James Stevens. The Egyptian Revival. New York: Routledge, 2005.
Dibner, Bern. Moving the Obelisk. Norwalk: Burndy Library, 1952.
Galinsky, Karl. Augustan Culture: An Interpretive Introduction, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996.
Grafton, Anthony. “Obelisks and Empires of the Mind.” The American Scholar 71.1 (2002): 123-127.
Parker, Grant. “Narrating Monumentality: The Piazza Navona Obelisk”. Journal of Mediterranean Archeology 16.2 (2003): 193-215.
Piperno, Roberto. “Obelisks of Rome.” Rome: In the Footsteps of an XVIIIth Century Traveler. 1999-2005. < http://www.romeartlover.it/Obelisks.html>
The mythology of the Egyptians tells us that the god of life and death, Osiris, was murdered by his brother Seth, only to rise and again walk in the world. Such a narrative could very well be applied to the obelisks of Rome. Trophies of the Empire fall only to be resurrected by the “second emperors of Rome”, the popes. Simple though they seem the obelisks have both a complex history and a subtle plan behind their placement. Throughout the history of Rome they have been associated with various forms of social and political power. Through an understanding of obelisks one can gain a better understanding of the city in which they stand.
History
The Egyptians were the first culture to practice the craft of obelisk carving and to this day the finest and most beautiful obelisks are still of their ancient making. In fact, many of the obelisks were already aged when they were taken to Rome. Many had also already been reused by numerous pharaohs. The Egyptians placed their obelisks as pairs at the entrance to temples and sacred burial locations, unlike the Romans who generally erected them as solitary monuments in circuses. Most sources agree that the obelisks were connected to the sun worship. To this end their pyramidions may have been covered in gold. Such ornamentation would create the illusion from a distance and in direct sunlight that the obelisk was emitting light. Pliny claims that the obelisk represented the ray from the sun and that they served as thrones for the sun god Aten. Accurate or not, these ideas were held by the Romans and the Romans erected their stolen obelisks with them in mind.
The Romans first began to acquire obelisks when Augustus defeated Mark Antony and Cleopatra, and the Empire gained control of Egypt in 30 BC. To celebrate his triumph, Augustus brought the first obelisk back to Rome. This set the tone for all subsequent obelisk use in Rome. After this Roman emperors would continue to move obelisks to their capital city. Augustus later had several obelisks transported using massive boats that employed up to three hundred rowers. While they were never able to carve obelisks as well as the Egyptians, the Roman engineers had several advantages over the Egyptians in their transportation. They had at their disposal the compound pulley as well as ample timber. The Egyptians on the other hand had worked primarily with stone. The Romans though were not content only with the obelisks that had already been made, but also sculpted their own in both Alexandria and Rome. They even went so far as to carve fake hieroglyphics in some of their creations. After Augustus, Caligula, Diocletian, Domitian, and Hadrian all erected obelisks in Rome.
With the decline of Rome and the onset of the Middle Ages the obelisks again became ruins. They fell one by one until only the Vatican obelisk remained standing. Some were broken into several pieces during the many sackings of Rome. Through the periodical flooding of the Tiber some obelisks were completely buried under sediment. They would remain hidden or ignored until the popes began to turn an eye to them. The first of these re-erections came from the one of the most ambitious of the Counter-Reformation popes, Sixtus V (Felice Peretti, 1585-90). Sixtus V commissioned the genius engineer and architect Domenico Fontana to relocate the Vatican obelisk to the front of St. Peter’s. This undertaking was a landmark in the history of engineering, requiring the sum of contemporary mechanical science. After his success with the Vatican obelisk, Domenico Fontana went on to find and erect four more fallen obelisks for Sixtus. These include the obelisk in the Piazza dell'Esquilino, the Piazza del Popolo, the Piazza S. Maria Maggiore, and the Piazza S. Giovanni in Laterano. While several Popes such as Innocent X and Alexander VII followed Sixtus in erecting obelisks during their pontificates (the Piazza Navona obelisk and the Piazza della Minerva respectively), the second greatest of the “megolithomaniacs” was Pius VI. He had Giovanni Antinori re-erect the second obelisk that had stood before the Mausoleum of August, the first having been erected in the Piazza dell’Esquilino. Like Sixtus V, Pius VI went on to erect two more obelisks, again through the skill of Antinori. These were the Trinità dei Monti obelisk and the Montecitorio obelisk. Many other Western cities have followed the lead of Rome and now obelisks can be found in Paris, Constantinople, London, and New York.
Definition and Variation
With the popularity of obelisks has come a host of obelisk imitations. A true obelisk has a square, tapering shaft. At its top is a pyramidion that has a taper of sixty degrees. A true obelisk is also carved from a single piece of stone. The Egyptians used red granite and this was the preferred stone of the Romans as well. Obelisks generally sit upon some sort of base that raises it some distance above the ground. Obelisks have been presented in different ways at different times during their history. In the Baroque period obelisks were usually accompanied with a multimedia presentation of sculptures or fountains. Before this (such as the obelisks erected by Sixtus V), obelisks usually stood alone in an open space. The obelisks stolen from Egypt usually have hieroglyphic inscriptions on them. One cannot necessarily identify an Egyptian origin by this though because some of the obelisks made in Rome are inscribed with either genuine hieroglyphics or imitation symbols. These essential qualities above mark all the true obelisks that stand in Rome.
Some obelisks have had special features or ornamentation that set them apart. In Imperial Rome obelisks were sometimes oriented such that they acted as giant sundials. Augustus used an obelisk for such a purpose in the Campus Martius where he had the points that the pinnacle of the obelisk’s shadow touched at noon on the winter and summer solstice marked. To better define this tip, a globe was set at the top of the pyramidion. However, the weight of the obelisk caused it to sink into the earth, distorting the calculations and terminating its time marking capabilities. When one of these sundial obelisks was re-erected by Sixtus V, he removed the golden globe, which by that time was rumored to contain the ashes of Caesar. The major obelisks that now stand in Rome are also adorned with bronze ornamentation. This often includes symbols from the reigning pope’s arms. For example, at the top of the Piazza Navona obelisk sits a dove, the symbol for Innocent X, the Pope that re-erected this particular obelisk. Another important addition made to many of the obelisks by the popes of the Counter-reformation was a cross. Since the basic shape of the obelisk is so normalized, it is often only with their ornamentation that we can easily decipher their latest political agenda.
Function
Like any other monument, obelisks generally serve multiple functions simultaneously. Except as sundials, these functions are rarely practical and indeed nearly always involve the delivery of a message from the erector. For this reason the function of obelisks and the goals of their patron will be discusses together since they are in a sense inseparable. The function was to deliver the particular message, this was also the goal of the structure. All of this is further complicated by the fact that these multiple functions have shifted over time. In fact, the obelisks are interesting in their ability to absorb new intentions without having their structure significantly changed. Furthermore, different groups of people would understand the obelisk upon different levels. Regardless of specifics though, the underlying function of obelisks has always been to assert the political and social power of the current power holders.
When the obelisks were carried back from Egypt after its conquest they were seen as trophies, physical embodiments of Rome’s power as well as the power of Augustus. The presence of hieroglyphics would have sealed this meaning for those that did not immediately recognize them as Egyptian. The transportation of the obelisk itself was a symbol of the power of Rome. To move the obelisk all the way to the Nile and then ferry it across the Mediterranean must have proved a formidable task for the Roman Engineers. It is not insignificant that Egypt was also one of the principal grain suppliers to Rome. At this point in its history the city could no longer support itself on the surrounding countryside, and it relied heavily on the fertility of the Nile. The Classicist Grant Parker theorizes that the very transportation of the obelisk was an assertion of the power of Rome to move grain. The obelisk would moreover function as a displacement of concerns over the availability of food. Worries about grain supply were especially pertinent to the lower classes and this interestingly suggests that this message might have been directly aimed at an audience below the rich and powerful.
There were other reasons for Augustus to be interested in the obelisks. Augustus had traveled to Egypt and had there seen the tomb of Alexander. At its entrance stood two obelisks. Wishing to associate himself with Alexander upon his death, Augustus commissioned the construction of two new obelisks out of red granite and placed them at the entrance to his mausoleum. The uneducated might not have caught this reference, but the upper classes certainly would have. This action exemplifies the obelisk’s use as a way of connecting the previously powerful to the currently powerful. In this sense the obelisk is a well defined symbol of power. Often the obelisk would not only associate the possessor with the powerful previous possessor but would attempt to show how the current possessor had more power than the previous one. Egypt was a powerful civilization but Rome must be an even more powerful civilization since it was able to take the obelisk. It must be remember of course that through this very comparison the current owner of the obelisk expresses his respect for the previous owner. The Romans had a great respect for the Egyptian civilization and its religious beliefs as will be discussed later.
The Counter-reformation popes followed this pattern also. For the Popes though, the obelisk was a way of connecting their city back to the glory of Imperial Rome. While the obelisk structure originated in Egypt it now signified their previous owner, the Roman emperor. An inscription on the Quirnal Obelisk commissioned by Pope Pius VI connects him to both Alexander and Augustus, asserting his dominance over the former (this obelisk stood between two statues of Castor and Pollux. As the quote shows, Pius found it more convenient to mistake them for dual Alexanders):
“I, once carved from the cliffs of Egypt and carried by Romulean force over waves to stand as a wondrous monument to the tomb of Augustus, where the Tiber washes the grove of the Caesars, I, whom age vainly tried to bury in the mounded ruins when I was overturned and broken, I am called back to the light by Pius, who bids me to stand, repaired, high on the summit of the Quirnal Hill between the greatest images of Alexander, where I will testify how much lesser Alexander was than Pius.”
The Roman Emperors and Counter-reformation popes also lived during times when Egyptian culture, particularly their religious beliefs, was of intense interest to the educated, upper classes. Eastern cults were popular in Imperial Rome and foremost among these was the cult of Isis, the Egyptian goddess of fertility and femininity. The Emperor Domitian so devoted to her that he built the Iseum, a temple complex for her worship. In a similar vein, Domitian commissioned portraits of himself in which he was portrayed as an Egyptian Pharoah. Domitian more importantly commissioned the carving of the Piazza Navona obelisk, which had his name correctly written in hieroglyphics upon it. Archeologists believe that this obelisk probably first stood in front of the Iseum before it was moved to the Stadium where Piazza Navona now is located. Besides its popular deities, Egypt was associated with timeless wisdom and the occult. This association would remain with the obelisks until their re-erection. Along with their pagan Roman origins, their magical affiliation would necessitate their Christianization by any Pope that wished to erect them.
“Egyptomania” re-emerged with the end of the Reniassance. One of the most interesting figures involved in this was Giordano Bruno, a philosopher, priest, cosmologist, and occultist. He believed that Egyptian religious practices were of great importance to Christianity since they constituted an older, more universal system. It would be through these beliefs that religious differences would be overcome. Bruno even went so far as to suggest that the symbol of the cross had originated in Egypt. Though he was burned at the stake for these kinds of ideas, there were others in greater power that remained free to publicly pursue studies in all things Egyptian. The Borgia apartment in the Vatican depicted Isis and other Egyptian deities, and Pope Alexander VI himself claimed descent from Osiris. It is possible that the erection of the obelisks at this time were an outlet for this widespread interest in Egypt among the educated classes.
There were more universally utilitarian functions for the obelisks of Sixtus V and his followers than just their channeling of the current “Egyptomania”. The obelisks were erected to served as landmarks in the disordered city of Rome. Sixtus V saw Rome as the seat of both temporal and spiritual power. On the first day of his pontificate, Sixtus V set upon the reorganization of the city. He widened and created new roads and at the focal points of these roads he placed obelisks. These obelisks would be dynamic in their ability to draw visitor’s attention as well as their bodies to different parts of the city depending upon which direction one approached them. The Quirnal Obelisk for example can be seen from a long distance down the Via del Quirnale. Its placement draws one toward it and therefore into the heart of the city. Some obelisks were placed such that they could “see” other obelisks. The obelisk at Trinità dei Monti can “see” the obelisk at S. Maria Maggiore for example. In this way the obelisks functioned to connect the various regions of Rome into an intelligible whole.
Sixtus V also began the practice of using obelisks to mark important locations in the city. The three obelisks erected by Sixtus stand in front of the major basilicas of Rome (St. Peter’s, S. Giovanni in Laterano, and S. Maria Maggiore). Three of Sixtus’ obelisks also mark important papal residences. The obelisk at the Piazza del Popolo marks one of the primary entrances to Rome and it is the focal point of a number of major roads in Rome. A confused pilgrim would be able to find his way to a particular church of pilgrimage if he could only spot an obelisk. Popes also often used obelisks to adorn locations in Rome that were important to their family. Innocent X erected the Piazza Navona obelisk in its current location because the square had long been important to his family, the Pamphili. By using the obelisks the popes were able to highlight certain locations that asserted both the church’s and their own personal power.
The Vatican Obelisk
To better examine how an individual obelisk might function, it is instructive to analyze several obelisks’ placement and ornamentation. The first of these is the Vatican obelisk. This obelisk had been brought to Rome by Caligula and set up in the Circus Gia et Neronis where is supposedly “watched” the martyrdom of hundreds of Christians. It was also the only obelisk that stood all throughout the middle ages and the first obelisk to be moved by a pope. This pope was Sixtus V, who had had the intention of changing the position of the monument even before he entered the papacy. The current location was awkward since it stood behind the Vatican and prevented proper framing of it. The obelisk was also beginning to disappear into the earth. Its base was already buried. Moving the obelisk to the front of St. Peter’s Basilica would be a symbol of the triumph of Christian Rome over Pagan Rome. Its monolithic shape would also fit with Sixtus’ plan to make Rome look like center of religious and temporal power on Earth.
The movement of the obelisk would itself be a monumental task and would require one of the best architects of the age, Domenico Fontana. Fontana would make use of two towers and forty capstans to first lower the obelisk and then later raise it. The pope issued a command that during this process a bystander who spoke (crowds came to watch the monument being raised) could be punished by death. Legend has it that at one point while it was being lowered, the crowd noticed that there was a problem with the lines holding the obelisk, they were beginning to become dangerously hot. Then, a sailor in the crowd broke the command when he shouted “Acque alle funi!” (“Water the lines”). Water was deposited on the lines, they held, and the project was saved. Instead of being punished, the Pope rewarded the sailor and his family by giving him the exclusive privilege of selling palms on palm Sunday. It is easy to forget that besides their importance to architecture and art history, the obelisks have played an important role in the progress of engineering.
On September 28, 1586 the obelisk was consecrated with a cross by Sixtus V. Below the cross was added pontifical devices of the five stacked peaks and above them the many pointed star, thus setting a standard which following popes would later imitate.
The Quirinal Obelisk
The second example is the Quirinal Obelisk. This obelisk stands in the Piazza del Quirinale and was erected by Giovanni Antinori for Pius VI. Like most of the other Baroque obelisks, the Quirinal obelisk is a multimedia presentation. It contains different elements from three distinctly different time periods. The obelisk stands on a base in between the two ancient horse tamer statues, all of which stand on another base behind a fountain. The Piazza Quirinale contains several important papal building. The most significant was the papal summer residence (now the president’s building), but the square also included the papal datary and the papal stables. The obelisk would highlight these buildings. The obelisk would also terminate Pius VI Strada Pia. In fact at the crossing of the Strada Pia and Quattro Fontane one can see both of the obelisks from Augustus’ Mausoleum. And as mentioned above, from outside the obelisk could draw viewers into the heart of the city. All these observations make it clear that the location of the Quirnal obelisk was clearly thought out and serves to augment the way a viewer of city would see both the obelisk and the structures that surround it.
Like the Vatican obelisk, the Quirinal obelisk was given significant bronze ornamentation. Art historians are also fortunate to have a letter written by Antinori in which he defends his choice of ornamentation. This gives a clear picture of what the artist/engineer was thinking when he created the adornment of the obelisk. First the obelisk was missing an apex so the bronze ornaments helped draw attention away from this. Antinori placed Eagle shaped astragals that allude to Pius’ arms as well as four projecting Eoli. Furthermore Antinori claimed that he the eagles had been inspired by the column of Trajan and “correspond well with current taste”. The eagles also serve to animate the horses, which had been rotated to look as if they were rearing up away from the obelisk. To those that said there was too much ornamentation Antinori retorted, “simplicity is beautiful, but sometimes it stands out best against some slightly more embellished part that highlights its natural grace”. The Quirinal obelisk shows how through ornamentation the plainness of an obelisk can be enhanced (through contrast) and the intentions of the new erector can be expressed.
Conclusion
The obelisks of Rome are structures that continue to influence generation after generation. For evidence of this one need look only at the way that they continued to make appearances in history. Their massive bulk straddles the whole of western history from the earliest civilizations of the Nile delta to modern day Rome. But it was Rome’s use of obelisks that sparked the modern crazed and it would safe to say that Rome’s obelisk tradition is responsible for the obelisks that one can find in Paris, London, and New York.
Through their existence the presentation of the obelisk has changed. Used in pairs by the Egyptians, functioning as sundials or trophies in Ancient Rome, erected as the marker of a pilgrimage church in Counter-reformation Rome. However the essential design has remained fundamentally the same. Perhaps this is why the modern viewer can still be entranced by its monolithic bulk. It is so simple and universal; there are no barriers that inhibit it from being transferred from one culture or time period to another. It is made up of two simple geometrical entities. The author of this paper found the obelisk’s universal admiration to be their most interesting aspect. Another appeal might be the age of the obelisk. They have come to be associated, like Egypt, with secrets and ancient wisdom. Regardless of this, obelisks continue to animate the streets of Rome and to remind us how easily we place meaning on what is really little different than a larger version of the proverbial block of stone.
Bibliography
Collins, Jeffrey. “Non Tenuis Gloria: The Quirnal Obelisk from Theory to Practice.” Memoirs of the American Academy in Rome 42 (1997): 187-245.
Collins, Jeffrey. “Obelisk designs by Giovanni Stern.” The Bvrlington Magazine 142 (2000): 90-100.
Curl, James Stevens. The Egyptian Revival. New York: Routledge, 2005.
Dibner, Bern. Moving the Obelisk. Norwalk: Burndy Library, 1952.
Galinsky, Karl. Augustan Culture: An Interpretive Introduction, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996.
Grafton, Anthony. “Obelisks and Empires of the Mind.” The American Scholar 71.1 (2002): 123-127.
Parker, Grant. “Narrating Monumentality: The Piazza Navona Obelisk”. Journal of Mediterranean Archeology 16.2 (2003): 193-215.
Piperno, Roberto. “Obelisks of Rome.” Rome: In the Footsteps of an XVIIIth Century Traveler. 1999-2005. < http://www.romeartlover.it/Obelisks.html>
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Relics.
The churchs of Italy all usually have at least one relic in them. This may be a sliver from the cross upon which Christ was cruxified, it could also be something as simple as a cloth that touched a Saint's foot. Where relics become interesting is when they begin to include body parts. In San Domenico in Siena, one may view the head of St. Catherine, the patron saint of both Siena and the Dominicans. The head sits in a gaudy glass case, which nearly resembles a lantern with the grey-brown head taking the place of a candle. The head is well mumified and the case is placed just far enough to make one ever so slighly strain to try and see its details. It has some sort of cloth upon its hollow skull. They also have her finger in a different glass case, this one being much closer to the viewer.
What purpose does a relic serve in a religion where the body is only the clothing of the spirit. In the middle ages, the break from paganism to Christianity was muddled and far less definite than people believe. People were baptized, but they continued to practice many of their previous pagan customs by transforming the local gods into saints that could still be venerated. But what modern purpose do relics serve? They remind us of the miraculous some might say. They form a tie between the legendary miracles of the past and the physical world that each of us so intimately knowns. I reject this view. The finger of St. Catherine tells me nothing about miracles. I maintain that what the finger does is form a link between the holy and the trivial. The monks of San Domenico cannot possibly believe that Catherine's head lantern beautifies her head. Instead what it cleverly does through contrast is to emphasize the imperfection of the head. It does not verify the miraculous by sanctifying matter, but rather it corrupts the sanctified and reminds us that even a saint ought to take better care of their finger nails.
What purpose does a relic serve in a religion where the body is only the clothing of the spirit. In the middle ages, the break from paganism to Christianity was muddled and far less definite than people believe. People were baptized, but they continued to practice many of their previous pagan customs by transforming the local gods into saints that could still be venerated. But what modern purpose do relics serve? They remind us of the miraculous some might say. They form a tie between the legendary miracles of the past and the physical world that each of us so intimately knowns. I reject this view. The finger of St. Catherine tells me nothing about miracles. I maintain that what the finger does is form a link between the holy and the trivial. The monks of San Domenico cannot possibly believe that Catherine's head lantern beautifies her head. Instead what it cleverly does through contrast is to emphasize the imperfection of the head. It does not verify the miraculous by sanctifying matter, but rather it corrupts the sanctified and reminds us that even a saint ought to take better care of their finger nails.
On the Nature of Sounds in Italian Streets.
The twisting labyrinth of streets in Rome and Siena has curious effects on sound. Sound waves are confined to their piazza of origin, or to even a bend in the road. One may be only fifty meters from the Campo de Fiori on a Monday but be unable to hear the roar. This creates a strange sense of spatial isolation. It allows one to sit in a quiet grotto-like piazza and feel completely separated from the loud drone of the city streets. Nowhere was this more clear than in Siena. It was early morning and a local marching band was practicing marching about the streets playing drums (this is only the second of three times that drums made an appearance in Siena). Lying in bed I could hear the drums growing louder, not gradually, but in steps. Noise on the streets is quantized. Of course each time the sound grows louder it meant that the drummers were turning a corner, as it also did when they became muted a minute after their appearance.
An Unexpected Concert.
As we dawdled back from dinner, we heard pounding. It repeated, drums reverberating through the winding streets. Coming out upon the Campo of Siena we saw a crowd. The Campo in Siena is reminiscent of a shallow amphitheater, all lines leading downward toward a low point before the grand secular tower. There was a stage erected there and just off the stage were a circle of drummers in the very center of the crowd. They wore red, but in the dim evening light, all that was visible was the splashes of motion caused by their furious arms.
Later the musicians took the stage and proceeded to fiddle around for an hour. By the time a gawky Italian with an afro took the stage, we were already one by one drifting back to the hotel, feeling a pleasant calm, perhaps from the afternoon's rain.
Later the musicians took the stage and proceeded to fiddle around for an hour. By the time a gawky Italian with an afro took the stage, we were already one by one drifting back to the hotel, feeling a pleasant calm, perhaps from the afternoon's rain.
Pathways in the Air.
From the top of the Duomo, all of Florence is visible. One can see the people flowing like red blood cells through the streets below. But from up on this heavenly terrace one can see another network of paths connecting the buildings. Above the streets, roofs draw near to one another, and buttresses create pathways in the air. One might imagine that a street urchin capable of the ocassional leap, would be able to cross the city without ever having to touch the street.
In Rome, the canopy of the city is lush with greenery, the product of the roof-top gardens. Not so with Florence, this is a forest of trunks, with all but the ocassional verdant budding.
In Rome, the canopy of the city is lush with greenery, the product of the roof-top gardens. Not so with Florence, this is a forest of trunks, with all but the ocassional verdant budding.
Monday, September 3, 2007
Florence at Night.
Florence in the historical district: The streets are empty except for the a lone man hurrying quickly to some destination outside the city. The omnipresent bread bits litter the street along with the usual trash from the day. Around the corner some of the street vendors still sit on the curb smoking cigaretters. The moon, almost full has risen above the buildings and now hangs next to the enormity of the Duomo.
Florence on the otherside of the Arno: The young throng in the park along the river. There is broken glass on the cobblestones and in the park gravel, fresh cigarette butts smolder among the forest of bare legs. Someone in the crowd is singing.
How can a city provide two such different experiences in one moment?
Florence on the otherside of the Arno: The young throng in the park along the river. There is broken glass on the cobblestones and in the park gravel, fresh cigarette butts smolder among the forest of bare legs. Someone in the crowd is singing.
How can a city provide two such different experiences in one moment?
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