City of Contradictions

Pier Paolo Pasolini, an Italian director, screen writer, essayist, poet, critic and novelist, lamented: “What is Rome? Where is the real Rome? Where does it begin and where does it end? Rome is surely the most beautiful city in Italy, if not the world. But it is also the most ugly, the most welcoming, the most dramatic, the richest, the most wretched … The contradictions of Rome are difficult to transcend because they are contradictions of an existential order. Rather than traditional contradictions, between wealth and misery, happiness and horror, they are part of a magma, a chaos.”

Ah, Roma. A city of romance, majestic buildings, high fashion. A perfect brochure description of a beautiful modern city blended in with its own rich history. Once you get here though, you begin to notice that some things don’t quite line up with the brochures.

On the building next to a beautiful Medieval church some Italian youth has scrawled a rather frank message regarding a blunt word coupled with the name of a certain political leader. A woman in Gucci snakeskin stilettos clomps resolutely past a woman with one leg who holds out an empty cup and a sign that says “grazie.” Smartly dressed policemen stand about with a sort of sharp, useless air about them, but then when there is a riot in the Campo de Fiori, they are nowhere to be found. One must walk past at least one beggar dressed in rags to get into each church, all of which are covered in enough rich gilding to get thirty beggars off the streets. On a Sunday, it is possible to find both a one euro leather jacket at Porta Portese and a tiny five thousand euro clutch purse at Prada. There are large concentrations of nuns and monks wandering around near the Pantheon, all very pious looking in their humble robes, but one only need turn a corner to realize that they are all there to shop on the street that sells glitzy, designer nun-and-monk-wear. Turn on the TV and there are American movies, soap operas, TV series and sitcoms dubbed in Italian, commercials involving American products, American music videos playing nonstop, and yet walk around the city in typical American attire (i.e. white tennis shoes and a Columbia jacket) and get hissed at by an Italian who is more into American TV than you are. Everyone who lives in Roma takes the bus or drives a tiny, economical car or motorbike, and yet there is nowhere in existence to recycle paper or bottles or cans. All Italians care very much about their bodies and you will rarely see an overweight or unhealthy looking one, but absolutely everyone smokes cigarette after cigarette. Chaos indeed.

To separate the divergent bits of Roma from each other would be like trying to separate dirt and the dust of crushed lapis lazuli. Impossible, and in the end, pointless. The filth is made all the more beautiful for the addition of the precious stone and the contrast of the blue against the dark brown makes the lapis all the more stunning. I would say the “real Rome” is not difficult to find, for the real Rome is both the beauty and the ugliness of her streets and buildings and people. The real Rome is that chaos.

Caravaggio

I remember that my arms ached for days, even after the painting was finished. It felt like such an awkward posture, my elbows splayed out to either side like that, my shoulders hunched. I pictured myself looking like some sort of discomfited bird posed like that, my puffy sleeves of blue taking on the look of over-bright plumage. But of course one should never question the artist, even an artist so new in the art world as Caravaggio. He was overly forceful, even rude, to those in his employ, but they all obeyed his wishes without question. Why should you question the decisions of a man whose painted figures always came out looking just how he wished them to? He chose his models, seemingly at random, off the streets of Rome and they always came out looking just as graceful, awkward, young, old, beautiful or ugly as he wished them to. He had noticed me when I was only fourteen years old, a wild boy, free in a wild city, and had pulled me from my nightly prowls to pose as his Narcissus. He said it was because of my extraordinarily pristine features, but I think perhaps he had other reasons as well. There were a hundred youths in Rome with features just as fine as my own that he could have sought out. I think perhaps he sought me in particular because he knew of my childish exploits. I believe he had observed me in my pursuits of the beautiful daughter of the local backer, whose shop was visible from the window of his studio. I loitered secretly outside the shop quite often, gazing through the window at the girl of my fancy. I did not suspect that he had seen me at my game until it came time for him to sketch in the expression on the face of Narcissus. When I came in that morning to take up my usual, awkward position on the floor, Caravaggio announced that I would have to hold not only my position but my expression. He told me to look at the floor as though I were in love with it, but the expression that resulted proved to be, in his words, “wretchedly unsuccessful.” Hurt, I suggested that perhaps another model would be able to live up to his wishes rather better, to which he replied that he knew I could make the face he wanted if under the correct influence. He snatched a blank sheaf of paper off one of the cluttered tables in the room and with his pen sketched furiously for a mere thirty seconds, then put what he had drawn on the floor where my gaze should fall when in my Narcissus pose. I looked down to study this new addition to my environment and found a perfect drawing of the baker’s daughter. I was transfixed by the perfection of the artist’s rendition of my love interest for the few minutes needed to draw in the features of his Narcissus.

When I was allowed to see the painting some weeks later, I was first made to giggle by the foolish look of adoration that was seen as if in double vision on Narcissus’ face and that of his reflection. My mirth stopped abruptly, though, when I noticed the closeness of the action to come. Caravaggio had painted the small moment right before Narcissus drowns in the pool bearing his beloved reflection, and though the expression of the boy in the painting was foolish, I could see that the thing about to happen was not something to cause laughter. The black background forced the boy, an eerie vision of myself, into the room with me, and at the same time obliterated any hope of salvation from his obvious fate. I still felt the laughter of the moment within me, but also the fear of the moment to come. Such was my first experience with the master of captured emotions and captured moments.

Although Caravaggio often used the same models over and over again, it was many years before he chose to use me in another painting. Actually, it was unusual that I should have seen him again because of his banishment from Rome. Having been a fan of his work ever since I had posed for him as a child, though, I went to give him my regards when I was in Naples on business. He appeared very different from when I had last seen him so long ago, but he greeted me warmly and had me pose briefly as one of the three tormenters in the large painting of the Flagellation he was working on to be the altarpiece in a church. He was putting the finishing touches on the arms of the man on the left, and so I stood and chatted with him a bit while holding my arms outstretched with my muscles strained for almost an hour. Through our conversation I thought there were hints of distress at being away from Rome, of being in exile that I had imagined were also in his face. He allowed me to see the almost finished painting before I left, and seeing that the only thing left to complete was the face of Christ, I asked if he knew who he would be using to model for the expression of Jesus Himself. He told me that although the awful expressions of the tormenters were from life, he would need no model for Christ.

A few years later when I was back again in Naples, I made a point to visit the church where Caravaggio’s Flagellation was displayed, and I saw immediately why he had needed no model. Christ’s face was showing a nearly indescribable emotion as he twisted out of the darkness surrounded by the men who would commit the act. Again he had chosen to show the moment right before the action, and the image was startling, but what caught my attention most was the face of Christ. I saw immediately why he had needed no model. The face was perfect, as it should be for such a subject, but what was portrayed was more an emotion than a describable expression. Although it was not a self portrait, and the expression was not even fully visible, I knew Caravaggio had used his own emotions as inspiration. There was a power there that could not come from mere observation of pain. It could only come from the loss of something as beautiful as the compassion of men, as vital as the city of Roma.

The Melancholy of the Antique World

Flaubert wrote, “The melancholy of the antique world seems to me more profound than that of the moderns, all of whom more or less imply that beyond the dark void lies immortality. But for the ancients that ‘black hole’ is infinity itself; their dreams loom and vanish against a background of immutable ebony. No crying out, no convulsions—nothing but the fixity of the pensive gaze…”

The Roman Forum looks like a ghost town. Only the foundations of what were once grand buildings remain for us to ponder. We can read the stories of the ancient Romans through their iconography, see their lives in their carvings and architecture. We see the crumbling memories of the people from so long ago and feel melancholic about the loss of their civilization, of their history. This feeling of loss is even more profound in the abandoned city of Ostia Antica. We can feel the footsteps of the ancients that once walked the straight cobbled streets, we can hear the voices that once chatted and cheered in the baths and at the stadium, we can smell the heady reek of the market that once operated with its mosaic signs built into the ground. But there is nothing to see of the verve that was there so long ago. It is a gloomy feeling. To think that there was so much life here, and now there is nothing but bits and pieces of monuments, the shell of an entire city abandoned.

It is true that the ancients did not have the hope we have now of a life after death. There was no loving and forgiving God Almighty, no heaven or hell to look forward to (or fear.) There was no afterlife at all to work toward, at least not in the sense that we live by today. They did indeed see a universe of “immutable ebony.”

And yet on their monuments and arches we see no messages of despair. They are triumphal arches, in their very name testaments to the hope and the resilience of the ancient Romans. To be remembered by posterity was their idea of afterlife. Perhaps there were no divine rules about sin to inspire people to refrain from doing evil in ancient times, but to be remembered in a negative light was as good as Hell for moral motivation. We look upon the relics of the ancient past, crumbling and decaying, and we see only structures without life, of no use to those who built them. These monuments, these arches, these temples, these baths and theatres and mosaics have a certain power over us. They exude a sadness that we cannot quite place. And yet, it is us, the people of today, who are feeling the melancholy, and it is them, the people of the past, who are being remembered. And so the ancients get exactly what they so desired when they wrote their histories in stone and statue and mosaic; we give them an afterlife in our thoughts, their dreams still looming against that dark background of ebony that we moderns so fear. Yes, there is melancholy in the antique world, but it is wholly ours.

Smoke

The other day a few of us went out to a hookah place near the Campo. My first hookah experience. We ordered tea and a cherry pipe and sat around on pillowed couches. The tea was amazing. I was not so amazing at using the pipe. Smoking must not be my thing. I loved the smell of it though. It put me in mind of the sweet pipe smoke that old, steriotypicalitalianlooking men around here seem to enjoy. Next time I want to try jasmine tobacco and lemon tea.
This morning I went to St. Peter's for mass. My first Catholic mass. I had expected ritual, but not quite to this extent. It was like a sort of dance, one of the ballroom dances from before our parents' time that had a hundred intricate steps to memorize. But it was also like the dancers weren't quite sure of their steps. Things seemed sort of unrehearsed and sloppy. The choir was not very awe inspiring, and the leader of the mass wasn't sure of the words. No one really knew when to stand up or sit down or kneel or whether they should sing "Amen" or speak it. For some reason that surprised me. I'm not sure why. I think I had imagined it as a much bigger deal, a more important performance, than it actually is. I have to say though, that the smoke was impressive. All of the priests in magenta robes entered in a dramatic cloud of incense that smelled of musk and flowers. It outlined the rays of sunlight coming in through Bernini's amber-colored window and swirled all the way up to the impossibly high ceiling as I tried to sightread Credo along with the choir. Patrem omnipotentem factorem caeli et terrae visibilium omnium et invisibilium. Hearing Pope Benedict speak, a tiny figure waving from up in his window, finished up the experience nicely.
I just got back from a soccer game. My second one. 'Twas crazy this time. They must have over sold the seats or something, because I sat on the stairs with a ton of other people. It was exciting, though, because everyone was so into it, and there were funny songs to sing, most of them involving the word bastardi in reference to the opposing team. To the tune of a White Stripes song no less. There were also songs to the tunes of Guantanamera and the Ants go Marching. Go figure. In this case, the opposing team was Milano, and they got a lot of very loud fireworks thrown at them in their little cheering section. Unfortunately it was a tie, which made it feel sort of like a waste of sitting through two hours of second hand smoke. The air was thick with it, the smoke of a million cigarettes mixed with the smoke of the flares and M80's. I think someone even started a fire in the stairwell on the other side of the stadium. Unfortunately, since it was a tie, we didn't get to sing the Roma Roma Roma song at the end.
We walked home in the rain, and my hair is dripping with it. I can hear the raindrops pounding outside on the porch, bouncing off of the metal chairs. All the smoke is being cleared from the air for tomorrow. Buona notte.

Bernini's Chapels

Dear Signore Bernini,

I went back to the Cornaro Chapel this morning to study your Ecstasy of St. Teresa in more detail. I have to admit to you that I was extremely worried about this particular project. Certainly there was no better man for the job, however, the complexities of the situation surrounding this commission make it a dangerous task for any architect. I must say, though, that I am quite pleased with the finished product. In combining the death of St. Teresa with her most famous contact with our Lord, you have made this a very intimate statue. It is both startling and impressive, and again, as when I first saw it, I felt as though I was watching something private, and felt fortunate and honored to be privy to such a holy scene. Putting St. Teresa up above the churchgoers who will gaze upon her and setting the scene in the clouds helps to facilitate this feeling. There are many ways in which the Reformers who are trying so urgently to topple our way of worship could use the sainthood of Teresa against us. I thought it impossible, but you have shown the feasibility of use cold stone to convey the message of the Church in such a way as to encourage our children of God and at the same time avoid giving more ammunition to the Reformers. The way St. Teresa lays upon her back as though she had just been thrown there is ingenious. The ceaseless motion of her cloak shows her to be in the middle of the action of seeing her vision. She is defeated by the glory of God, unable to participate physically in her experience, able only to feel the love of God through the spear of the angel standing above her. The angel himself is a masterpiece. On his face worshipers will easily see his benevolent pity for Teresa. He holds his weapon with a grace that shows him to be divine, a messenger of God. Their union is obviously holy, in another realm out of the reach of the viewer.

You will of course have heard that your depiction of Teresa has already been criticized for her facial expression. I write to tell you that this does not worry me. Though some overeager reformers may find Teresa’s face and posture alarming and perhaps inappropriate, all I see is the most devotional of scenes. You have facilitated our arguments for the support of this controversial saint by making the lines of her body lost and invisible beneath her clothing, and her face lovely and pristine, but not feminine. She is hardly a woman at all, but rather a child of God experiencing a miracle. Those who gaze upon the statue will have no doubts as to its meaning. The depictions of learned men who look down upon the viewer from the sides of the chapel are also an ingenious touch. They peer through the walls, the interior of St. Peter’s behind them, showing their approval of the statue and therefore the support of the papacy. I assure you this assumed support is indeed there. The side figures will also show the pious who visit the chapel how they should react to the statue. The men are deep in discussion, obviously removed from the realm of St. Teresa and her angel. Those who see this example will know that they are to look upon and ponder the life of Teresa, but not emulate it. They are to witness the miracle and discuss it, but not expect the experience for themselves. The reformers can have no grievances with this piece.

Again congratulations and I hope your current projects are going well. May the peace of God be with you always,

Pope Innocent X

Dear Signore Bernini,

I thank you for finishing my great aunt Ludovica’s chapel in such a timely manner. I realize I did not offer you the grandest space in which to work, however the finished product has turned out beautifully. The statue itself is wonderfully intimate. It is a holy moment to depict, yet one can tell that it is an earthly situation. Ludovica is down on the level of the viewer, and a marble cloth at the front of the niche invites the onlooker into the scene. The way you took such a tall yet shallow area and placed the statue in the very bottom at first looked to me like a waste of precious space, not allowing enough emphasis to be placed on the main subject. But now I see the value of placing the experience of Ludovica in the realm of the witness. The extra space above serves a further function, making room for the wonderful painting of the Virgin, Child and St. Ann. The painting is not a continuation of the statue, but rather a contrast to it. It shows a more heavenly realm, and it gives much more light, color and space to the niche. The marble heads of the angels that angle down seem to connect the contrasting statue and painting. I could not be more pleased with the result the chapel gives. As if that were not enough, you have outdone yourself with the lighting. The dramatic angle of the light hitting the statue from one window rather than both is an effect I have already received many compliments on. You honor my family and my blessed aunt in the chapel you have brought together so well. If Blessed Ludovica becomes a Saint soon, (which I tell you in confidence that she most probably will,) I will have you to thank for bringing the faithful this representation of her suffering to remind them of her works. Again I thank you.

Sincerely,

Cardinal Albertoni