Just returned from a lecture on Titian from a practicing artist. I enjoyed hearing Titian's style explained through formal and stylistic elements versus through historical data.
In addition to TAing at Syracuse, I have started substituting at ISF's Junior School in Bagno a Ripoli. This morning I taught first, second, and fourth grade art classes. It's official: I don't want kids.
03 February 2011
21 January 2011
The Murse
There are times when a man must make a difficult decision, often breaking tradition and affronting morals, tradition, and taste. A test of mettle, these decision reveal the strength of one's character and priorities. According to the common conception of masculinity, man-purses (also called European carry-alls or murses) suggest affectation and the fairer sex. However, masculinity also calls for effectiveness, utilitarian practicality, and unflinching determination when facing tough jobs.
Keeping in mind these pillars of masculinity, I discovered that murses cause the trappings and the spirit masculinity to contradict one another. Preparing to lead a field trip through Arezzo and Perugia, I learned that cold front had settled on central Italy, the weathermen calling for snow tonight and tomorrow. At the train station tomorrow morning, I will meet fifty-five students, mostly twenty year-old coeds, blurry-eyed and skeptical of spending the day touring cities on foot through the cold and snow for the sake of architectural history. Besides force-marching this group through weather clogged streets, my responsibilities include managing logistics, transportation, museum passes, and hundreds of Euro in cash, divided across separate class accounts. After touring two cities, we will return to Florence just before 20:00, a full twelve hours of Syracuse's famous scholarship in action.
This field trip presented me with a dilemma. I had to accept my role as a teaching assistant, that is slitting the throat of many idle Saturdays in sacrifice to the education of the future of America, and developing, as one of the manlinest men that I ever knew used to hammer into my skull, a system. I needed to organize and manage each trip effectively on the fly. Pockets were prone to being picked and did not provide enough space for the reams of receipts, money, and handouts I would be carrying. It was also unwise to lug around a bookbag all day. Besides its weight, its extra space, as many TAs has learned, is an invitation to carry students' and professors' items.
Only one option was left: the murse, and I struggled with the idea. The word "murse" induces visions on one hand of sensitives male nurses and on the other of overly perfumed men strutting like roosters through Florence. The fact that Indiana Jones carried a murse-like satchel was of little comfort. "Murse" canoted ridiculousness, the thing itself anathema to gritty, fire-bellied manliness. I could not see myself joining the ranks of murse carrying men.
But slowly I came to realize that the spirit of manliness is more important than how manliness appears. More important than prevailing fashions or the opinions of others is finding the most simple and practical solution to a given problem.
This afternoon, I purchased a murse. I now have a system, along with the added benefit of being able to slip more easily, at least as easily as a large, Anglo-Saxon can, into the Italian social fabric. As a man, I have come to terms with my murse and feel comfortable sporting it, especially in a country that understands and appreciates many contradictions.
Keeping in mind these pillars of masculinity, I discovered that murses cause the trappings and the spirit masculinity to contradict one another. Preparing to lead a field trip through Arezzo and Perugia, I learned that cold front had settled on central Italy, the weathermen calling for snow tonight and tomorrow. At the train station tomorrow morning, I will meet fifty-five students, mostly twenty year-old coeds, blurry-eyed and skeptical of spending the day touring cities on foot through the cold and snow for the sake of architectural history. Besides force-marching this group through weather clogged streets, my responsibilities include managing logistics, transportation, museum passes, and hundreds of Euro in cash, divided across separate class accounts. After touring two cities, we will return to Florence just before 20:00, a full twelve hours of Syracuse's famous scholarship in action.
This field trip presented me with a dilemma. I had to accept my role as a teaching assistant, that is slitting the throat of many idle Saturdays in sacrifice to the education of the future of America, and developing, as one of the manlinest men that I ever knew used to hammer into my skull, a system. I needed to organize and manage each trip effectively on the fly. Pockets were prone to being picked and did not provide enough space for the reams of receipts, money, and handouts I would be carrying. It was also unwise to lug around a bookbag all day. Besides its weight, its extra space, as many TAs has learned, is an invitation to carry students' and professors' items.
Only one option was left: the murse, and I struggled with the idea. The word "murse" induces visions on one hand of sensitives male nurses and on the other of overly perfumed men strutting like roosters through Florence. The fact that Indiana Jones carried a murse-like satchel was of little comfort. "Murse" canoted ridiculousness, the thing itself anathema to gritty, fire-bellied manliness. I could not see myself joining the ranks of murse carrying men.
But slowly I came to realize that the spirit of manliness is more important than how manliness appears. More important than prevailing fashions or the opinions of others is finding the most simple and practical solution to a given problem.
This afternoon, I purchased a murse. I now have a system, along with the added benefit of being able to slip more easily, at least as easily as a large, Anglo-Saxon can, into the Italian social fabric. As a man, I have come to terms with my murse and feel comfortable sporting it, especially in a country that understands and appreciates many contradictions.
19 January 2011
With the new semester, the young folks church dinners begin anew tonight. I am cooking a slew of tripe, and I'm going to make 'em eat it.
I have decided not to think about the future until Easter--not a thought or word of it. In the meantime, I am teaching architectural history, tutoring, and managing the church apartments. Life has taken on a rhythm of busy weeks and frequent visitors, whom I have enjoyed seeing greatly.
I am leading a field trip to Perugia and Arezzo this Saturday; it will be nice to spend the day wandering through those quiet cities.
I have decided not to think about the future until Easter--not a thought or word of it. In the meantime, I am teaching architectural history, tutoring, and managing the church apartments. Life has taken on a rhythm of busy weeks and frequent visitors, whom I have enjoyed seeing greatly.
I am leading a field trip to Perugia and Arezzo this Saturday; it will be nice to spend the day wandering through those quiet cities.
26 December 2010
Boxing Day
The blogging now resumes after a long hiatus; last semester, my Master's thesis and four other jobs took precedence. However, I don't have anything to write.
10 October 2010
Troppo da fare
Quick updates and a few pictures before returning to my Master's thesis, which is due in fewer than two weeks. I have moved into St. Mark's English Church; I manage the apartments there and need to be on site. I built a new website for the apartments that you can find at florenceholidayapartments.org. Since the church has a transient congregation, stewardship is lacking. We are using the apartments to keep in the black, but because of pending restoration projects, we need to find new means for raising funds.
Teaching at the International School and tutoring privately is going well but demanding much more time than I expected.
In the place of more writing, here are some pictures:
Piazza del Camp in Siena
The same piazza during the Palio
Sabre Brigade
Street in Cascia
San Agostino in Cascia
View of Florence
San Felice in Piazza
Ponte Santa TrinitÃ
14 September 2010
14 August 2010
Lights out
The power went out yesterday morning, and the electrician and I just now restored it. In fact, it was the simple matter of switching the main breaker. Dr. Ewell had told me where to find the two fuse boxes inside lo Stallino e la casa grande, each with a main breaker of its own. These were all switched on, but not the mother breaker, which I just now found hiding in the external wall side of the Stallino.
While not having electricity for twenty-four hours may sound like an inconvienence, it was lovely. It rained yesterday afternoon, and I napped with the windows open to the cool air. At night, the skies cleared, and I built a fire and cooked porkchops and peppers. Mist breathed in the valleys, and the headlights of the cars that swept across the hillroads formed solid mass that drummed staccato through the trees. I sat in front of the fire past midnight with Toby and a bottle of Syrah, reading and watching fire from the pit and the silver candle-sticks brought up from the dining room, while over time, their dripping wax gathered in weeping stalactites. Night birds and tree-frogs sang to me, stars fell overhead, and I bathed in firelight watched the heavens' silent chalice turn.
While not having electricity for twenty-four hours may sound like an inconvienence, it was lovely. It rained yesterday afternoon, and I napped with the windows open to the cool air. At night, the skies cleared, and I built a fire and cooked porkchops and peppers. Mist breathed in the valleys, and the headlights of the cars that swept across the hillroads formed solid mass that drummed staccato through the trees. I sat in front of the fire past midnight with Toby and a bottle of Syrah, reading and watching fire from the pit and the silver candle-sticks brought up from the dining room, while over time, their dripping wax gathered in weeping stalactites. Night birds and tree-frogs sang to me, stars fell overhead, and I bathed in firelight watched the heavens' silent chalice turn.
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