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.
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