Just returned for the Bargello, the best museum in Florence, and the mercato centrale, where I bought ingredients for dinner with my flatmates. At the Bargello, I discovered that I like Giambologna's sculpture more than I like Michelangelo's. Oceanus, the sculptures from the Juno fountain, and the Victory of Florence over Pisa were all beautiful and robust. Once Michelangelo falls into his mannerist period, my interest in his works dissipates, although some, like the unfinished bust of Brutus, are excellent. When sculpture is overly lithe, droll, or elegant, I don't like it.
Ate lunch at the mercato centrale: lampredotto, a tripe dish and the Mediterranean version of alkaseltzer. Word is that it truly does help after a long night of drinking. I'm off to go cruise the city, people watch, and pound caffè.
29 January 2010
25 January 2010
Carrara e Ravenna
Last weekend, I went with the school to Pietrasanta, Carrara, and Ravenna. Pietrasanta is home to a community of artists and craftsmen, and it has been famous for centuries for the marble and bronze sculptures that artists have created there. We watched modern workshops create sculptures and mosaics and learned to judge the types and quality of marble and bronze. We also visited Carrara, which is better known than Pietrasanta and has been an important marble production center since the ancient Romans began quarrying there thousands of years ago. Michelangelo selected his marble from those quarries, and the demand for Carrara marble is still strong, especially in newly wealthy countries. As people continue to quarry there, the mountains are always changing shape and slowly shrinking. Some people believe that there is a thousand years worth of marble left, but few believe that. Moreover, modern technology has allowed quarrying not only on the surface but engineers can remove massive blocks of marble from the heart of the mountain itself. We traveled to these inner mines through an old train tunnel and found gigantic caverns where marble had been subtracted block by block from the mountain. In them, engineers, heavy equipment, and semis work, cutting and removing the marble in perfect geometric blocks. As a result, these chambers are beautifully minimalistic and with four hundred meters of stone above and below them sublimely unsettling. Our guide was an older Italian gentleman who told how during World War II, when the Allies were bombing the industrial zone of Carrara, many of the town's families would sleep in the caves. It would so quiet that they could not hear the planes above or the bombs exploding in the valley. There are pictures in the Facebook album "Carrara".
The next day, we traveled over the Apennines to Ravenna in the Emilia-Romana region. In the 5th and 6th centuries, as the Roman empire decayed and fell prey to invasion, Ravenna was a strategic city for Italy's various rulers, specifically because its rich land and Classe, its Adriatic port, which connected it to the Eastern Roman Empire in Constantinople. Western Roman emperors, Ostrogoth kings, and emperors from Constantinople won and lost this city, building monuments to Christ during the time they held it: San Appolinare in Classe, San Appolinare Nuova, Santa Placida, San Vitale, the Battistero di Neoniano. Many of the buildings are in form basilica or cruciform, which are cheap to construct even on a grand scale. San Vitale was particularly beautiful; it is an example of how architecture can shape space to the point that it begins to seem mystical, which was the point. The emperor, Justian, who never in fact visited the church, and the clergy were the only people allowed in the center of the church, emphasizing Justian's place in the great chain of being, the emperor who connects his rule with the rule and will of the Lord. Circulating through the side aisles, laymen gleaned broken views of the clergy and rituals through massive piers encrusted with sheets of marble that gave a Rorschach effect. Even today, dim light enters through hidden windows, and the mosaics of the high chapel catch and refract it into shimmering views of kings, saints, Christ, and paradise. San Vitale is truly one of the world's most beautiful buildings.
Besides visiting the churches, we paid homage to Dante at this grave. Florence has built a tomb for him in Santa Croce and wants his bones, but Dante's life ended in Ravenna, specifically because Florence exiled him. There are pictures in the Facebook album "Ravenna".
The next day, we traveled over the Apennines to Ravenna in the Emilia-Romana region. In the 5th and 6th centuries, as the Roman empire decayed and fell prey to invasion, Ravenna was a strategic city for Italy's various rulers, specifically because its rich land and Classe, its Adriatic port, which connected it to the Eastern Roman Empire in Constantinople. Western Roman emperors, Ostrogoth kings, and emperors from Constantinople won and lost this city, building monuments to Christ during the time they held it: San Appolinare in Classe, San Appolinare Nuova, Santa Placida, San Vitale, the Battistero di Neoniano. Many of the buildings are in form basilica or cruciform, which are cheap to construct even on a grand scale. San Vitale was particularly beautiful; it is an example of how architecture can shape space to the point that it begins to seem mystical, which was the point. The emperor, Justian, who never in fact visited the church, and the clergy were the only people allowed in the center of the church, emphasizing Justian's place in the great chain of being, the emperor who connects his rule with the rule and will of the Lord. Circulating through the side aisles, laymen gleaned broken views of the clergy and rituals through massive piers encrusted with sheets of marble that gave a Rorschach effect. Even today, dim light enters through hidden windows, and the mosaics of the high chapel catch and refract it into shimmering views of kings, saints, Christ, and paradise. San Vitale is truly one of the world's most beautiful buildings.
Besides visiting the churches, we paid homage to Dante at this grave. Florence has built a tomb for him in Santa Croce and wants his bones, but Dante's life ended in Ravenna, specifically because Florence exiled him. There are pictures in the Facebook album "Ravenna".
18 January 2010
il apartamento
I live on Via de' Bardi, south of the Arno between the Ponte Vecchio and the Ponte alle Grazie. The apartment building once was a palazzo with quarters that were converted into a clusters of smaller apartments. In the hallway and kitchen groin vaults the high ceiling, which are flat in the rooms. In my room, the woodwork that supports the upper floor is exposed. A massive central beam supports smaller square planks that run from wall to wall. In between them, there are rows of sculpted porcelain flowers with golden centers and filaments, and the exposed ceiling is painted burnt red, matching the terracotta tiles on the floor.
The apartment is not large, and in the kitchen, the stone fume hood of a lost grand fireplace overshadows the oven and stove. A terrazza is attached to the kitchen, and during warmer months, my flatmates dry their laundry and leave planters of herbs and flowers there. My window looks out onto the terrazza, and I look forward for warmer months when I can leave it open. Above my bed hangs a mosquito net. There is no air conditioning.
I live with two Italians, Francesco and Silvia, who are warm, funny, and hospitable. I am rarely home during the day, and sometimes I eat dinner with Silvia or Franci or watch TV with them while they smoke cigarettes if I arrive home after they have eaten. They love each other and call each other by pet names like a married couple; Silvia has a boyfriend who lives in Genova, and Franci is gay. They keep the apartment spotless, and at night, it is so quiet, that you can hear the silence humming like electricity.
I speak Italian well enough that it is the only language we use; however, I need to improve it. I am not able to fully communicate, which, for me, is awkward. Nota bene, in Italian, there is not a word for awkward, so don't bother trying to say you feel awkward. You will end up saying I feel silly or funny, confusing statements that only make things more awkward. It's a vicious cycle. Moreover, in Mediterranean culture, awkwardness is not as funny as in the States; it's just awkward. Woody Allen would be all the more miserable and all the more funny here.
I have found the best way to handle awkward situations is wine. I learned that trick at Sewanee. The first night in Florence, I was disshevled, jet-lagged, and exhausted, and Silvia, Franci, and I had dinner as new flatmates. We drank two bottles of wine, got tight, and then mutual friends of ours came over. More wine was produced, I was speaking beautiful Italian, and soon everyone was dancing in the kitchen. We shagged, pretzeled, and attempted dance moves from Lady Gaga, Russian polka, and Dirty Dancing. Sober or not, do not try to lift women over your head, especially girls you have just met or girls debuting at the Assembly. It won't work as you imagined it. Nonetheless, my flatmates and I bonded that night, and it has been a true pleasure living with them.
The apartment is not large, and in the kitchen, the stone fume hood of a lost grand fireplace overshadows the oven and stove. A terrazza is attached to the kitchen, and during warmer months, my flatmates dry their laundry and leave planters of herbs and flowers there. My window looks out onto the terrazza, and I look forward for warmer months when I can leave it open. Above my bed hangs a mosquito net. There is no air conditioning.
I live with two Italians, Francesco and Silvia, who are warm, funny, and hospitable. I am rarely home during the day, and sometimes I eat dinner with Silvia or Franci or watch TV with them while they smoke cigarettes if I arrive home after they have eaten. They love each other and call each other by pet names like a married couple; Silvia has a boyfriend who lives in Genova, and Franci is gay. They keep the apartment spotless, and at night, it is so quiet, that you can hear the silence humming like electricity.
I speak Italian well enough that it is the only language we use; however, I need to improve it. I am not able to fully communicate, which, for me, is awkward. Nota bene, in Italian, there is not a word for awkward, so don't bother trying to say you feel awkward. You will end up saying I feel silly or funny, confusing statements that only make things more awkward. It's a vicious cycle. Moreover, in Mediterranean culture, awkwardness is not as funny as in the States; it's just awkward. Woody Allen would be all the more miserable and all the more funny here.
I have found the best way to handle awkward situations is wine. I learned that trick at Sewanee. The first night in Florence, I was disshevled, jet-lagged, and exhausted, and Silvia, Franci, and I had dinner as new flatmates. We drank two bottles of wine, got tight, and then mutual friends of ours came over. More wine was produced, I was speaking beautiful Italian, and soon everyone was dancing in the kitchen. We shagged, pretzeled, and attempted dance moves from Lady Gaga, Russian polka, and Dirty Dancing. Sober or not, do not try to lift women over your head, especially girls you have just met or girls debuting at the Assembly. It won't work as you imagined it. Nonetheless, my flatmates and I bonded that night, and it has been a true pleasure living with them.
la prima lezione
First day of class. Professor Hatfield took us to Villa I Tatti, where Michael, the director, gave us the grand tour. I Tatti is nothing short of a perfect library. It houses books on two fields: the history of music the Italian Renaissance. It's Renaissance collection covers all disciplines but is concentrated in history and art history. It is focused and immaculate, and I would be surprised if I were not able to find any book I could ever need there. Importantly, it is open-shelf, a rarity in Italy. Stealing or vandalizing books is a common problem in Italian libraries.
Beyond its collection, the villa itself is interesting. Bernard Berenson created it by acquiring a Tuscan farmhouse in the late 19th century, and over fifty years, he renovated and added wings to the original villa, barn, and quarters. Now the villa houses hundreds of thousands of volumes, while offering views of its formal Renaissance revival gardens. Eastern sculpture and minor or unattributed Renaissance paintings decorated the halls and rooms, and the freshly cut flowers in the common rooms make the library smell like jasmine and honeysuckle. The fifty or so staff and fellows are served lunch and dinner daily, and many of them live on the Villa's seventy acres.
I went to church yesterday at Saint Marks, the Anglican church on Via Maggio. The service was high Anglican; the acolytes burned incense and rang little bells at important points. It was cold. Heat and air conditioning are considered luxuries and not necessities -- I would like to thank my mom for raising us like Italians; there was no adjustment. After church, I met parishioners and was invited to lunch with two of them. We spent over four hours arguing politics. We discussed American foreign policy, Muslim immigration in Europe, the corruption of democracy, and lessons from 20th century Italy and America. If anyone plans to visit Europe, expertise in these subjects is a must; they come up daily. Lunch went well, except that my host was fervently anti-Italian. He was Italian and admitted he was ashamed to be so. He disliked the people, the chaos, the lack of opportunity, the ineffectual and misguided national and local government, and nearly everything else about his country. I later learned that as a young man, he had wanted to teach university, but when the university system offered him a position, because it could not pay him until he had taught for ten years, he never was able to accept a post. He worked as a policeman and substitute teacher and has nonetheless wrote and published an enormous volume on 20th century Europe (he is working on the second). He was a diehard Anglophile, attending Saint Marks on Sunday, clinging to the idea of the English world as a bastion of civility, order, and intellectualism. He later told me that the minister at Saint Marks had offered him a summer at a bed and breakfast that his family owned in Cork. But the man responded that he never wanted to visit England or the United States. If he visited and could not to remain in an English speaking country, if he had to return to Italy afterwards, he said that he would take his life. What an ineffectual dream he clung to, one he would purposely avoid fulfilling, so that he might always keep his pride and anger stoked. His days have escaped him.
My quest to buy a bicycle failed again after another crosstown trek. I found the new location of Cooperativa Ulisse, but this week, the police brought in paltry haul. They did not have men's bikes, only women's.
Need to figure out what prova to do. A good prova can lead to a position as a teacher's assistant (TA) next year, which I hope to earn. TA's can stay on for years, taking and effectively teaching courses, pursuing research interests, and building relationships with art historians and professors in Florence. No progress yet on the Symposium topic, but we have some time. I am truly thankful that this year's Masters students all respect and like each other. When this not the case, it poisons the well.
Tomorrow, an early morning at the Uffizi with the cohorts, a lecture in Piazza Signoria on republican architecture, and then conservation and technique class.
Beyond its collection, the villa itself is interesting. Bernard Berenson created it by acquiring a Tuscan farmhouse in the late 19th century, and over fifty years, he renovated and added wings to the original villa, barn, and quarters. Now the villa houses hundreds of thousands of volumes, while offering views of its formal Renaissance revival gardens. Eastern sculpture and minor or unattributed Renaissance paintings decorated the halls and rooms, and the freshly cut flowers in the common rooms make the library smell like jasmine and honeysuckle. The fifty or so staff and fellows are served lunch and dinner daily, and many of them live on the Villa's seventy acres.
I went to church yesterday at Saint Marks, the Anglican church on Via Maggio. The service was high Anglican; the acolytes burned incense and rang little bells at important points. It was cold. Heat and air conditioning are considered luxuries and not necessities -- I would like to thank my mom for raising us like Italians; there was no adjustment. After church, I met parishioners and was invited to lunch with two of them. We spent over four hours arguing politics. We discussed American foreign policy, Muslim immigration in Europe, the corruption of democracy, and lessons from 20th century Italy and America. If anyone plans to visit Europe, expertise in these subjects is a must; they come up daily. Lunch went well, except that my host was fervently anti-Italian. He was Italian and admitted he was ashamed to be so. He disliked the people, the chaos, the lack of opportunity, the ineffectual and misguided national and local government, and nearly everything else about his country. I later learned that as a young man, he had wanted to teach university, but when the university system offered him a position, because it could not pay him until he had taught for ten years, he never was able to accept a post. He worked as a policeman and substitute teacher and has nonetheless wrote and published an enormous volume on 20th century Europe (he is working on the second). He was a diehard Anglophile, attending Saint Marks on Sunday, clinging to the idea of the English world as a bastion of civility, order, and intellectualism. He later told me that the minister at Saint Marks had offered him a summer at a bed and breakfast that his family owned in Cork. But the man responded that he never wanted to visit England or the United States. If he visited and could not to remain in an English speaking country, if he had to return to Italy afterwards, he said that he would take his life. What an ineffectual dream he clung to, one he would purposely avoid fulfilling, so that he might always keep his pride and anger stoked. His days have escaped him.
My quest to buy a bicycle failed again after another crosstown trek. I found the new location of Cooperativa Ulisse, but this week, the police brought in paltry haul. They did not have men's bikes, only women's.
Need to figure out what prova to do. A good prova can lead to a position as a teacher's assistant (TA) next year, which I hope to earn. TA's can stay on for years, taking and effectively teaching courses, pursuing research interests, and building relationships with art historians and professors in Florence. No progress yet on the Symposium topic, but we have some time. I am truly thankful that this year's Masters students all respect and like each other. When this not the case, it poisons the well.
Tomorrow, an early morning at the Uffizi with the cohorts, a lecture in Piazza Signoria on republican architecture, and then conservation and technique class.
13 January 2010
gio 14 gen
Drank wine with the Middlebury crowd and fell in love with a waitress who wore purple argyle and a retainer. When I get a dog, I am naming it Figaro.
12 January 2010
Poggio a Caiano and Camignano
Visited Poggio a Caiano to see the Medici villa and Carmignano to see the Pontormo Visitation.
The Medici villa contained a variety of frescoes from Portormo, other Mannerists, and eighteenth century artists who renovated the piano terra, which I assume was a working agricultural hub for the Villa and its tenuta during the 16th century. I do not like most Mannerist art and had gone to see the villa's gardens, which were unfortunately closed. However, I was able to see them from the villa's terrazzo and windows. It was a sunless day, and mist hung beneath the branches of the pines, willows, and cedars. Clouds cloaked and shifted through the surrounding hillsides, their hazy opalescence dissolving into the green olive groves. It was cold, and later I took a walk in Carmignano, smoking a toscano and admiring the subtle January day.
In the courtyard of the Medici Villa, a group of Chinese had gathered to take photos and videos of two newly weds and the wedding party. They all wore Western attire: tuxedos and enormous white gowns that gathered the dirt and lichen from the paving stones. The groom sported a large Louis Vuitton beltbuckle and crushed satin lapels. For hours a cameraman and a photographer took footage of the couple in between their phone calls. The groom looked miserable, the bride of honor looked chilly, and the bride herself determined. Her hair sparkled with spray-in diamonds. At the villa's gates, they posed in front of their white limo, the bride beaming, the groom now desperate. When they drove away, the cameraman chased the limo down the street to capture every moment.
After our trip, I walked home from the bus station at Santa Maria Novella. I bought a copy of Bagheria by Dacia Maraini, which I need to begin before the semester does. In a few hours, I'll cook dinner. I don't know if I will see my roommates tonight, since the Pitti Imagine Uomo fashion show began today (http://www.pittimmagine.com/it/fiere/uomo/). Ferragamo probably resembles a kicked ant pile.
08 January 2010
sono a Firenze
I left DC yesterday, flying to Florence with Caitlin, a friend from my Master's program. The flight was a long vigil, and dawn found us in Europe. When we arrived in Florence, we waited for a bag of Caitlin's that never appeared. Once the carousel stopped, the baggage claim area had emptied except for the line of unlucky people at the Lost and Found desk. While Caitlin waited there, a police officer strolled in with a German shepherd, and the airport staff greeted them warmly. The officer let the dog off the leash, and it leapt about, eliciting affection from the staff. Soon another officer with another German shepherd arrived, and they followed suit. I watched the bomb-sniffing dogs playing while the officers and staff chatted and laughed. I was good to be in Italy.
I met my new roommate, Silvia; we drank tea and talked. I unpacked and left the apartment to buy soap at a nearby farmacia. It rained on the walk back. The cobblestones shone, and the swollen Arno churned brown.
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