Tuesday, March 13, 2007

Almost Home

If it was winter in Tamil Nadu, it's effing WINTER up here. Especially in Dharmsala, which is in the mountains. We came with our South Indian clothes and had to immediately buy a bunch of funky wool-wear against the all too Seattle-like rain and cold. We called ourselves the Eskimo fashion show. So. I got to see the Himalayas. I got to see the Dalai Lama speak three times. He came within five feet of me. I got to march for the freedom of Tibet with a bunch of monks and refugees and refugee monks. I got to talk to Tibetans who had to walk over the Himalayas to escape the awefulness and destruction that is Tibet right now. It takes at least a month to walk over those imposing mountains. Many people die in them. I got to do all these things. It was wonderful an amazing and all sorts of beauty as usual. Now we are back in Delhi, tired and sad from a long and rather hellish bus ride. One of our group found out about the death of her father last night, so we are trying to get her home. Please send us your good vibes. Send a few vibes to Tibet too, if you can. I can't wait to be home, I will see you all soon.

Much love,

Julia

Tuesday, March 06, 2007

P.S.

Do something nice for the environment today. Turn off a light, ride a bike, pick up a garbage, choose to go without that bag of gummy bears, save the world. Something. You have to live here. So do we. Thank you. This has been a public service announcement.

Monday, March 05, 2007

Just Remember



I know I’ve painted a rosy picture of my time here, and it has been amazing, but I don’t want to forget that I am living like a queen in the poorest state in India. This is a place where emaciated animals roam, where sewage flows in the streets, where large families live in one room keet huts. This is a place where the celebrities are plump by American standards, because being skinny is a sign of poverty. This is a place where jewel-like plastic bags litter the street and are burned, poisoning the air and ruining people’s lungs. This is a place where a good husband consists of one who has a job, doesn’t drink, and doesn’t beat you. This is a place where disease runs rampant, and many children die of malaria before the age of five. This is a place where little kids are abused in school if they can’t come up with tuition, and many aren’t allowed to go to school at all.

This is also a place where I could send one student to university for a year with a hundred dollars. With fifty I could help a battered woman start her own business. For twenty I could send a dentist to look at the teeth of a whole school. With ten I could pay one small child’s tuition at the government public schools. With twenty-five cents, I would make sure one person was safe from malaria for one year. If I were to stop buying frivolous things, I could probably buy one family a house with a real roof, so that they could better survive the monsoon disease-free. If I decided I didn’t need trinkets and souvenirs, I could get every village kid I know a new cycle or a school uniform or all their textbooks. If I decided that I could go without lunch every day, I could plant a hundred fruit trees to help clean the air and feed people who go hungry.

I won’t go without lunch, and I will bring people presents, but I’m just saying. I’m just saying. I just need to remember who I am, and who is around me, and be grateful for the people and the institutions in Auroville that are trying to help these situations that I see and care about. Our program has a surplus, and we are donating money to some places, and that makes me feel good. A lot of money actually. But we can also help in our daily lives, all the way over there in the great land of America. We can still live like royalty, but we can try not to poison the air and the water, we can try not to buy foods that have been all pesticidey, we can try not to buy products that were made in sweat shops, we can try to ride our bikes sometimes and use cloth grocery bags sometimes. We can just try to live in a sustainable manner, because our actions and our use of our consumer powers show what we believe in. Maybe it can even turn our own country in a new direction, and this will help the countries like India which have been left behind the industrial revolution, like India which depends on us to buy their exported things. We can dictate the conditions under which those things are made if we support free trade products or choose to only buy organic cashews or something. There are things we can do without even changing how we live at all.

I have to leave this place soon, and I don’t want to. I can’t wait to be home, but I don’t wish to leave. South India is amazingly beautiful and diverse and full of culture and light and spirituality. It is also full of people who are trying to make a difference. I will miss this place. Thanks to everyone who helped get me here. Thank you so much.

Wednesday, February 28, 2007

Pictures


Okay. I will try to put some pictures in. Happy Birthday to Auroville.

Tuesday, February 27, 2007

the numbers



the number of degrees the temperature has
gone up this week: 15

the number of gallons of sweat I sweated today: 100

the number of showers I took in the last ten days: 0

the number of days I went without food: 2

the number of times I was hungry: 0

the number of new people of great amazingness
I will know in Seattle now: 14

the number of pairs of clean underwear I have: 0

the number of smiles in the last ten days: a million

the number of tears: a million

the number of nights I slept outside way
up on some rocks under some stars: 10

the number of sunsets and sunrises I saw: 20

the number of mosquito bites on me: a million and one

the number of years I have now: 20

the number of people in the world who can say
they emerged from two days of solitude in a tree-
cave on their 20th birhtday: 1

the number of days I have left in this place: 18

the number of times I wish to thank the universe
for all this: infinite

Saturday, February 10, 2007

School




I am a teacher at a school in India and it is crazy. School is loud. There is always shouting in a mix of English and Tamil and Tamglish and a general confusion. But so much life. So little boredom. This week we went on a field trip to Sahdana Forest, a farm 5 km away from New Creation Bilingual School. The 17 children in our class borrowed bikes from the some of the teachers and made a raggedy line down the dirt road, spread out over almost a kilometer. Their teacher, Parumal, rode with two kids on the back of his moped up and down the line of us, checking on and cajoling everyone. Each bike had one kid pedaling and one sitting precariously over the back wheel. When we got onto the main road with all the cars zipping by, and I looked down the long line of children in their purple uniforms and slow, wobbly riding and complete lack of helmets and attention to the traffic, I had a passing thought of how no American mother would ever sign a permission slip for such a field trip. We got to the farm and learned how to put mulch around trees in preparation for the hotter months. Ravi and Iyappan, the class wiseguys, stole my camera and went wild taking pictures of each other and me and the trees and the sky and everything else. We all went and had a green banana for breakfast, and then some of us found the mud hole and hopped in in our clothes to cool off. The water was completely opaque, the color and thickness of milk tea. The mud at the bottom was slick and smooth and jelly-like. It was glorious. The ride home was as disorganized as our previous journey, with the addition of some sopping clothes and a flat tire for me. It was the good kind of day.

Dearest everyone. From the 16th to the 26th I will be in Hampi. I will live outside on some rocks. Sometimes I will live in a cave. I will go on a 40 hour water fast called a sacred solo where I won’t talk to anyone or see anyone or hear anyone. I will not have any internet or telephone whilst I am there. Please do not be disturbed when you don’t hear from me during this time.

Friday, February 02, 2007

my feet



i know that when i get back i will find it difficult to remember not to remove my shoes before coming into a house or going in to a class. i love being barefoot. i love my dirt orange toenails. i love how the fish nibble at my skin when i dip my feet in the pond here. i love how sometimes my feet trip over the ant moat on my way up the ladder to my capsule. i love how i still have to take off my shoes to enter the capsule, which is pretty much just some elevated outsideness made of sticks and rope. i love how i kick at the mosquito net with my feet from the inside to get the bugs off and to scare the rat in the ceiling into shutting up for a while. i love how my feet are started to get wider from doing yoga.

i miss you.

Wednesday, January 24, 2007

my hands

from farming i can see changes all over. my feet are missing skin, my toenails have permadirt, my ankles are ant-bitten. my arms are scratched and my neck sports a burn mark. i even have a cliche farmer's tan. all just little things. but my hands, the change in my hands seems to hold the greatest significance. i have always had elegant hands. long fingers, soft skin, hands that betray an affluent lifestyle. now they sport healing blisters, scabby cuts on the fingers, jagged cuticles, scuffed skin. i no longer have nails, and what is left is brown. the beginnings of working hands.

now that pongal is done and finished, school is back in session. yesterday i met my class of tamil village children. they are lovely and smart. i am helping them with their already amazing english skills. also with their self confidence. it is intense. you can see the influence of the caste system, you can see the influence of the western world, you can see the influence of ingrained traditions. i will have to work hard in a new way now.

undoubtedly my hands will turn back into affluent hands. the scabs will fall off and the nails will grow back, and i won't even have a scar to show for my work. but they will remember. for later, when i want to be a farmer again.

Monday, January 22, 2007

Have you ever

Have you ever
climbed a holy mountain?
climbed a mountain at 4 a.m.?
climbed a mountain in the dark?
climbed a mountain in complete silence?
climbed a mountain barefoot?
climbed a mountain among crazy monkeys?
climbed a mountain to see the sunrise like heaven and the underworld have met in an explosion of red but green but blue over a sea of cloud that stretches in every direction so that no matter which way you turn you feel more awake than before?

I have.

Neener neener.

Wednesday, January 17, 2007

Beebs,

Happy Pongal.


For those who are hard core, here is a site that we take it in turns to update day by day:

http://auroville07.greatestjournal.com

This site is not for the faint of heart. Some of us are rather long winded. I do miss you.

Julia

Tuesday, January 16, 2007

do you ever

Do you ever feel like you can see into the past? I feel this when I stand under the ancient banyan tree in the center of Auroville. It is a forest in and of itself, this tree. And looking out through its many trunks, I fancy that I can see this flat land as it used to look, a desert of red dust for miles and miles. Only the tree stood here then. The contrast between this vision and the jungle that now surrounds the banyan tree for miles and miles is startling. I can feel all the hours and days and people and work it took to make this place. And it humbles me.

Do you ever feel like the earth is alive even more vividly than you are? I look at the ground here and it is in constant motion. Ants of all sizes and colors, three distinct kinds of centipede, four types of scorpion, crickets, grasshoppers, frogs, geckos, and the wind in the scrubby grass. I look at the air, and it too is alive. More varieties of butterfly than I can count, flies, mosquitoes, brightly coloured birds, and the energy of the red dust dancing in the sunlight. It makes the ground and the air of home seem sterilized and dead. There is wisdom in the earth here.

Do you ever wake up and not know where you are? I seem to do it all of the time now. Not just from sleep, but from waking life. I will suddenly come to the profound realization that I am not at home, but rather in India. So profound will that fact seem to me that I will feel the need to tell someone. I am learning to accept the incredulous reactions of others that inevitably result from such an exchange.

Do you ever have flashes of consciousness? Where you realize that the moment you are experiencing is happening right now? This seems to happen to me more frequently lately. Tonight I climbed the water tower where the monsoon rainwater is stored through the dry season to watch the sunset, and the whole sky turned to water and fire. It occurred to me that I was alive, and more importantly it occurred to me that I was living.

Tuesday, January 09, 2007

socks

dearest parents,

i forgot to tell you. do you remember how in the airport you were worried that i hadn't packed any socks? well, please let lay all your worries to rest. they gave me some green fuzzy socks on the airplane. so everything is alright.

love,

julia



Guess what. I'm a farmer. This is interesting because affluent people do not farm. Less than 1 percent of the American population is involved in agriculture in the US of A. 100 years ago it was 70 percent. If I had not come here, I never would have experienced how good it feels to get up early in the morning and get really dirty doing something constructive. It is true however that I am not a conventional sort of farmer. Today I mixed termite dirt and cow poopie with water with my bare feet. This made a sticky mud stuff that I used to plaster bricks together to make an oven for bread. It was beautiful to build something. I also weeded the tomatoes. Yesterday I made peanut butter with a bicycle. Figure that one out.
I think the most interesting thing about this place is that it is contained. Perhaps that's not the right word, but it's the one I can think of. What I mean is that when I turn on the tap for water I know where it came from and how it was purified. When I get lunch at the Solar Kitchen I can ask the cooks where the curd or the squash came from and they can tell me which farm. And then I can go visit the farm. And help plant more squash or feed the cows or whatever. No one ever really wonders where their food comes from in the states. If you ask the cashier at the grocery store they can't tell you. And there's no way you can go lend a hand to those who supply you with food.
But. This is not the real India. So.

Sunday, January 07, 2007

The info

This is an address where I might be for a while:

My name
American pavilion
Auroville
Tamil Nadu, India 605101

If anyone should need a number to reach me in case of emergency my parents have one. You can call them.

I am overwhelmed and cannot write coherently as of yet. This bothers me. I will try again at another time. Life is dynamic for those who can afford it, no?

Tuesday, January 02, 2007

Arrival

I didn't get blown up on New Years for those of you who were worried. I made it to India, without hassle and without sickness and with a lot of really nifty and intriguing people. It's amazing here; cows and dogs wander all around and I saw five different kinds of butterfly just this morning and my bedspread is tie dye and everything moves more slowly and I drink and shower with monsoon water and we found a snake in the bug moat around my house and the composting toilets aren't gross at all and the food is exciting and the colors are everywhere and I think I'll love it here. People wait for the internet, so I must go, and there will be more when I've been here a bit longer and know what I'm talking about.

Saturday, December 30, 2006

bangkok is

twelve minutes left on my internet timer
and that nasty sewer smell every few feet
and tuk tuks that go crazy and happy
and giant glittering temples of gold
and cheap cheap anything you want
and water purifying in the hotel room
and not too much jet lag which is good
and being excited about life alla the time
and having to leave here real soon
and a happy new year to everyone
because i miss
a lot

Wednesday, March 08, 2006

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.

Monday, March 06, 2006

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.

Saturday, March 04, 2006

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

Tuesday, February 28, 2006

Silence and Belief

San Quattro Coronati

You walk in, and there is sound. A constant stream of water cascades into a pool below, and the slow rhythm of footfalls crunch on white gravel. It’s perhaps the most silent sort of sound you’ve heard in a long time. Slowly you are put in mind of all the other sounds of Italy, things you meant to write down but never did, things you noticed and forgot. You think of the sound of the little shops in the campo opening their graffiti-covered metal doors in the morning, swish, bang, all in succession. You think of the sound of a thousand birds that perch briefly in the trees above the cat sanctuary, calling out to each other in one great frenzied symphony. You think of the sound of a group of men arguing at the bottom of a grand marble staircase, which, by the time it reaches the top where you stand, sounds like ethereal Gregorian chanting. You think of the sound of the bells of a hundred churches tolling all at once.

San Carlino alle Quattro Fontane

You walk in, and there is light. You can see a square of luminous clouds, shining bright off of the upper walls, but the light dims as it reaches you, as if passing through a sieve. You sit in the shade and marvel at the light of the sky right above you. And again there are the memories, this time of other moments you considered the light of Italy. You think of the light of the stalls in the Campo’s Sunday market after the sun goes down, shining out from under white canvas roofs. You think of the light Bernini hides so well in his chapels, illuminating his sculptures just right with what seems to be an impossible, spiritual light. You think of the light that reflects on the river at night, making it appear black and gold instead of the murky green-brown it is in the daytime. You think of the light that comes from the inside of Caravaggio’s paintings, forcing twisted limbs and dirty hands and feet out of the blackness toward you.

Parco Savello

You walk in, and there is space. A wide square of grass and straight sandy paths between rows of orange trees lead you toward an overlook of the city. Your vision suddenly soars up and out over the city of Roma. There is so much room to move in the space above the crowded city. Spaces that moved you from the previous weeks come sifting into your memory. You think of the space of St. Peters Basilica, an enclosure so huge it boggles the mind, and all attempts to fill the void with monumental artwork completely fails to clutter the emptiness. You think of the space of the tombs of Tarquinia, so inviting and full of life in spite of being underground. You think of the space of the pantheon, perfect in its symmetry, the atmosphere being funneled up to the huge hole in the ceiling and out into the open air. You think of the space of stepping out on the balcony overlooking the courtyard outside your bedroom, where laundry hangs from the windows across the way and rooftop gardens lead your gaze to the clouds overhead.

You walk in, and there is peace. You walk in, and there is suddenly time to think. With time to think you remember all the times you found peace in your everyday wanderings. The sound, light and space of these religious spaces reinvent your perceptions. You walk in, and the walls welcome you. You walk out and the city speaks to you. You walk out, and you see the rhythm, the illumination, the gaps and bits of breathing room of the city. You walk out, and perhaps you start to notice the peace of Rome, amidst all the dirt and noise and motion. I don’t know what could be more spiritual than that.

Saturday, February 25, 2006

Big Fat Project Paper. Yay.

Aqueducts, Piazza Navona and Bernini’s Fountain of the Four Rivers

Fountains, Aqueducts: Water as a tool of propaganda: Bernini’s Four Rivers Fountain in Piazza Navona

Water, to the ancient Romans, was more than just an ingredient for survival. It was an essential part of social life, an element of political sway, and a symbol of the great power of the city. Water shows its significance in Rome quite early on. Even in the story of the founding of the city water plays a major roll; Romulus and Remus float to safety on the Tiber where they were supposed to be drowned. There is also a large amount of evidence, both through documentation and physical ruins, to describe just how much the Romans loved their baths and fountains. At its peak, Rome supposedly contained over 1200 fountains. At Ostia Antica, the ruins of the huge bathing complexes demonstrate that the average Roman spent a large portion of his day bathing, doing business and exercising at the baths. On top of this, it has recently been proven that there could indeed have been mock naval battles held in the Coliseum for the entertainment of the populous. Clearly, water was essential to the ancient Roman on many levels.

Because of this perceived necessity of great amounts of water, Romans were very proud of their ability to bring water to their city, sometimes from over sixty miles away. They considered it a right to make lavish use of their laboriously obtained water. At the height of the Roman Empire, the people of Rome were using 250 million gallons of water a day. That is roughly 150 gallons of water per person per day; a large number compared to the 100 gallons used by the average American in a day. Such an end obviously required great means.

Great means (Roman style) consist of sophisticated structures called aqueducts. The Romans have used aqueducts since the 4th century B.C. to bring water into the city to augment the supply from the Tiber and Rome’s underground springs. At one point there were eleven aqueducts servicing the city, with a total length of 260 miles. Despite the modern notion of aqueducts consisting of giant stone arches supporting miles of waterslide-like conduits, only thirty miles of these ancient aqueducts were above ground. Because it was more cost-effective, the pipes carrying the water from fresh sources outside the city were built largely underground. The water was moved without pumps or any outside energy, letting gravity do all the work. Even in moving water up hills, gravity-created water pressure was used. These simple, majestic devices went from being a luxury to being a necessity in the mind of the average Roman, and the indulgent bond between Romans and water caused water displays to become a symbol of status. It became a trend for powerful people in Rome to build aqueducts for their city to solidify and legitimize their standing. People who built aqueducts (Marcus Agrippa, Emperor Augustus, Emperor Claudius and Emperor Trajan are a few examples) made sure that the structures appeared above the ground as they neared the city so they could be seen by the people and connected to their creator. What better gift could one give a populous so enamored with water?

Unfortunately this time of luxury did not last for Rome. Nearly all of the Roman aqueducts were left to fall into disrepair or were cut by the Goths during the Sack of Rome in the early 5th century. The one remaining aqueduct, the Aqua Vergine, supplied the entire city, or what was left of it, up until the end of the Middle Ages. The remaining people of Rome, who had been a million strong in the days of the Empire, retreated to a bend in the Tiber, repairing the Aqua Vergine just often enough to supply their sadly reduced population. In the words of Hibbard, Rome was “shrunken like a nut within the shell of her ancient walls.”

This lamentable water situation lasted until the fifteenth century when, finally, Rome’s savior arrived. Ironically this knight in shining armor came in the form of the church. The papacy had been at odds with the people of Rome throughout the medieval years, with popes being sought out and expelled from the country. However, there came a change in the Roman attitude toward the papacy with the election of Pope Nicholas V in 1453. At the time of his rule, the people of Rome had an idealized image of the grandeur of antiquity. They wished Rome to regain something of her old dignity and power. Thus, in the same year he came to power, Pope Nicholas V began the process of Rome’s journey into the Renaissance by repairing and extending the Aqua Vergine, the lifeblood of Rome. This allowed the population to expand and grow within the walls of the city. Yet this expansion was not the only effect of the restored aqueduct. A change was beginning to be made in the minds of the Roman people. The connection between water and power, which had been so strong in antiquity, was suddenly being used within the context of Christianity. This transition was a smooth one. Through bible stories like Noah’s Ark and the Baptism of Christ, Christianity itself uses water as a powerful symbol. Catholics everywhere use water to cleanse themselves as they enter churches, giving water a connotation of purification. The papal building of the aqueduct was therefore an ingenious move on the part of Nicholas V. The new abundance of water made accessible to the common people through fountains along the new aqueducts effectively connected Christianity and the papacy to the grandeur of ancient times. The Pope looked like a savior to the people of Rome.

Thus began a new age of papal rule in the Eternal City. Popes would use an association with water to win the favor of the people time and time again. Pope Sixtus V, Pope Paul V and Pope Pius IX all built aqueducts during their respective reigns, and the six aqueducts that are still in use in Rome today were built or refurbished by popes. One of these, the Aqua Paola, feeds what has been called the most famous fountain in Rome, Bernini’s Fountain of the Four Rivers.

This fountain was commissioned by Pope Innocent X, another pope who wanted to create a display of water to benefit the people of Rome. He chose to place his fountain in the middle of one of Rome’s oldest and most popular secular meeting places, Piazza Navona. The site of the piazza has been used as an assembly area since 86 A.D. when it became Emperor Domitian’s stadium. Outside of the normal races and games held in such a stadium, Domitian put on mock sea battles because the area was easily flooded. Being built directly on top of its ruins, the current piazza takes the shape of the ancient stadium. From the late 1400’s to the late 1800’s there was a daily open market that filled Piazza Navona with people, and beginning in the 1600’s there was a summer weekend tradition of flooding the Piazza and allowing all of the prominent families in Rome to splash through the water in carriages. By the time Pope Innocent X came to power in 1644, this was the most important assembly space in Rome. It was an ideal place for his family, the Pamphili, to have their palazzo, and the perfect place to erect a monument rife with meaningful symbols and propaganda.

Such a project would require a skilled architect to complete. Gianlorenzo Bernini, the most prominent sculptor at the time, would normally have been the obvious choice for such a project. However, Bernini had fallen from favor with the death of his principal patron, Pope Urban VIII. Pope Urban had been quite unpopular toward the end of his reign because of some questionable habits concerning overspending, and the new pope wanted nothing to do with him or his favorite architect. Thus when Pope Innocent began looking at designs by various architects for his fountain, Bernini was conspicuously left out of the running. Obviously the wily architect did manage to become the sole designer for the fountain. There are several distinct stories regarding Bernini’s eventual success at getting the commission, but all accounts agree on the basics. It seems Bernini made a beautiful design for the fountain, perhaps of solid silver, which was spirited into the palazzo by a member of the Pamphili family and placed somewhere where the pope would see it. The pope is reputed to have said upon seeing the statue; “If one does not wish to carry out Bernini’s designs, one must not see them.”

The design which so amazed the Pope is said to be one of Bernini’s finest works for several reasons. The fountain is adorned with statues depicting four reclining river gods set up at equal intervals around the circumference of the structure, forcing the viewer to walk all the way around the fountain to see all the figures. The four rivers represented signify the four continents known to geographers of the time. Around the base below the gods are carved animals and plants to help the viewer identify the continents represented.

Europe is represented by the Danube River, who twists in toward the fountain to support a large papal coat of arms displaying the Pamphili family iconography with his hand. This symbolizes Europe being the support and home base of the Catholic Church. There is a horse beside this god to help identify it with Europe.

Asia is associated with the Ganges river god, who is seen here holding an oar to demonstrate the navigability of the river. An exquisite palm tree, one of the only figures on the fountain actually carved by Bernini himself, helps to identify this god with Asia. A serpent beneath the feet of the river god further represents the Ganges.

The Nile, the main river of Africa, is symbolized by this statue, whose head is covered by a cloth. The statue is said to be portrayed in this way to signify the unknown whereabouts of the source of the Nile at this time. There is a lion below this statue to help associate it with Africa.

The Rio De la Plata is the river that represents the New World. Not much was known about this area of the world at the time, so the river god is depicted as a bald black man, with an armadillo as a defining animal. The armadillo looks a lot like a spiky teenage mutant ninja turtle because in Europe at the time not much was known about what the animal might look like. The river god is shown clutching a bag of gold coins to symbolize the riches that were being found in the Americas at the time.


Another reason the fountain has been hailed as Bernini’s best work is the striking feature in the center of the four statues. The fountain is surmounted by a 54 foot Egyptian obelisk of red granite, taken from Circus Maximus. Pope Innocent X had the obelisk brought to be a part of the fountain because obelisks were a popular symbol of the triumph of Christianity over Paganism. Obelisks also were used in monuments as symbols of the sun or holy light, because of their tendency to look as though they reached infinitely into the sky. This highly meaningful piece sits upon a chunk of local travertine rock cut to look like raw stone from which all of the figures on the fountain are carved. Bernini was such a talented architect, though, that he added a twist to this travertine base. The middle of the rock underneath the obelisk is carved out in two intersecting arches, leaving the obelisk looking as though it is suspended almost unsupported in the air. Bernini’s technique caused quite a sensation when the fountain was unveiled. Being the jokester that he was, Bernini’s response to the criticism that the fountain was unstable was to tie four strings to the top of the obelisk and attach them to the surrounding buildings for “added support.” Publicity stunts of this nature helped rocket Bernini back into the position of popularity as papal architect that he had enjoyed under the last pope.

On top of being a means of regaining favor for Bernini, the fountain was also a powerful tool of propaganda for the Pamphili Pope. The Pamphili family was the clear patron of the project because atop the obelisk, in the place of the most prestige, Bernini placed a single dove. This was the symbol of Pope Innocent’s family, as well as the symbol of the Holy Spirit and the symbol of peace. This extra tool, taken with all of the other aspects of the fountain, would have been a very potent symbol to the Roman people. The four continents of the world were united in one monument beneath a symbol of triumphant Christianity surmounted by the Holy Spirit and the family of the leader of Christendom. The overall effect of the fountain would have been one of triumph for Rome and for Christianity, especially over Paganism. The people of Rome would have recognized the symbols of the power of the Pamphili family through the use of the dove and the coat of arms. Pope Innocent was very pleased with the fountain, and rightfully so, because it sent such a strong message for his family, for the Church, and for Rome.

Today the fountain still has a strong impact on those who see it, even without the context of the politics of the 1600’s. It is heralded as one of the must-see monuments of Rome, because of this power to transcend time. The fountain is fascinating to viewers still because it remains in one of the most popular piazzas in Rome. Today Piazza Navona is a place for tourists and locals alike to stroll day and night, get a bite to eat, and perhaps buy a watercolor painting of the fantastic Fountain of the Four Rivers. The fountain also has a tendency to come alive to the viewer, engaging them. To see the fountain, a viewer must walk all the way around it, and each figure that they come across is full of life. Each of the four river gods are twisted and full of action. The horse seems in the middle of a panicked escape, startled perhaps by the lion that is leaning down to drink. Even the palm tree exudes life, seeming to sway in the wind. Although the political context of the fountain is fascinating and enlightening, I think the fountain stands on its own exceptionally well, heedless of time.

Bibliography

Chessen, Kaia. Piazza Navona: Palaza of Rome. http://depts.washington.edu/hrome/

Authors/kaiac/PiazzaNavonaMallofRoma/pub_zbarticle_view_printable.html

Evans, Harry B. Water Distribution in Ancient Rome. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. 1994.

Flood, Sara. Aqueducts and the Trevi Fountain. http://depts.washington.edu/hrome/

Authors/floods/TheTreviFountain/pub_zbarticle_view_printable.html

Hibbard, Howard. Bernini. Penguin, 1965.

Mac Veigh, Mrs. Charles. The Fountains of Papal Rome. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons. 1915.

Morton, H.V. The Fountains of Rome. The MacMillan Co.: New York, 1966.

Taylor, Rabun. Public Needs and Private Pleasures: Water Distribution, the Tiber River, and the Urban Development of Ancient Rome. Rome: Via Cassiodoro, 2000.

Wittkower, Rudolf. Bernini: the sculptor of the Roman Baroque. London: Phaidon Press, 1997.

Friday, February 24, 2006

Compleanno



today was my birthday. i got lots of cards (both digital and analog,) some flowers, a cupcake, a free dinner, a freshwater pearl necklace, seeing the inside of the coliseum for the first time, and being in italy for three months. i think that means my life must rock.

why i want to be home right now-
i miss my mommy, my daddy, and my sistah.
the water tastes better there.
there are probably a ton of pro choice rallies about to happen that i should be at.
theraindropstheraindropstheraindropstheraindrops.
i miss sushi. and mondays.
people there don't speak in a language i don't understand at a speed i can't comprehend.
there are people i need to see and talk to right this instant that are really much too far away.

why i love being in italy right now-
i get to experience things made by bernini in person (so i can walk around them.)
i get to turn nineteen at the coliseum.
italian soccer is exciting.
flea markets are super exciting.
i never have to sit in a classroom.
caravaggio is startling and i love him.
nothing here is mediocre.

Monday, February 06, 2006

The Other Day


The other day I was in the campo on my way to try out the gorgeous black-purple gelato that I had been eyeing all week when I was stopped dead by a sight I have always wished to witness live. A man, absurdly thin and limber-looking, dressed in black from head to toe, was kneeling on the cobblestones in front of the statue of Giordano Bruno, his face painted stark white. Behind him was a large black speaker from which ethereal, wavy music drifted, whilst he plied his trade. He worked as though completely ignorant of his audience, turning his startling blank face this way and that. With gloved hands he felt the air, making it seem as though he was completely encased in a box no one could see. Who knew that mimes really do paint their faces and pull the stereotypical helpimtrappedinaglassbox routine? Who knew?

The gelato turned out to be blackberry, as well as wonderful, by the way.

Michelangelo's Statues



Michelangelo’s statues of Moses and of Christ with the Cross are strikingly similar in posture. Assuming that they are both supposed to be placed in niches and viewed from the only angle available to someone in front of them, the two are in almost the same pose. They both have their heads turned to the left, so that the viewer sees only their profile. Each figure uses its right arm to hold the main object of their story, the tables and the cross respectively. The index finger of the right hand is the most prominent finger in each statue; Moses uses it to hold his impressive beard and Christ points his upward, toward heaven. Their left arms are bent and held across their bodies, showing muscle definition and veins. In both statues the left leg is back behind the figure, while the right leg, which is extended forward from the body, implies action. Viewed side by side the two figures are posed in a way that draws attention to the articles they are holding, and that also implies an action that is about to happen, (or in the case of Moses, may have just happened.)

Despite these similarities, though, the two figures exude a very different sort of tone to the viewer. Moses, who is meant to be looking at his people dancing around the golden calf, is obviously angry, with a scowling countenance and very tense looking limbs. The veins on his arms pop out noticeably and he looks as though he is about to spring up or is in the middle of sitting down. He holds the tables, which he smashes in the bible story, precariously under his arm, and he looks as though he is using his own left arm to restrain himself. Moses is monumental and daunting. He even has horns on his head, meant to represent rays of light, which are quite imposing. Christ’s figure, on the other hand, if viewed from the correct angle, seems rather slight and very graceful, (if viewed from the wrong angle he is kind of chunky and has a big bum.) He holds out the objects of His Passion to the viewer, but in a sort of reflective manner, as though He simply wishes us to consider them and contemplate their meaning. The cross is not nearly big enough to be anything more than a symbol, and Christ is not monumental, merely life size. He looks not at the viewer or at heaven, but toward the main alter of the church, suggesting that the attention of the viewer should be there as well. On the whole, the figure of Christ is much less imposing than that of Moses.

These differences speak of the different characters of Moses and Christ. Where Moses is supposed to have smashed the words of God in anger at seeing the people he led doing the opposite of what he told them, Christ is supposed to have looked upon his people in love although they weren’t doing things at all correctly. Obviously Michelangelo wanted these different personalities to come through in his work, and so each clue to the figures’ characters was a conscious choice. Overall, both statues are excellent at getting their respective points across.

Sunday, January 29, 2006

Firenze

Im in florence
There is no apostrophy on this keyboard
My name is Giulia in Italian
Leather markets are cool
Basalmic vinegar is yummy all by itelf and apparently on icecream
Nutella waffles are heaven on a stick without the stick
I pretended to go to Pisa today
I miss my kitchen
I went up in a dome called duomo yesterday
My internet time is gone

Sunday, January 22, 2006

Another List


-Today someone was playing a didgeridoo in the Campo.
-I can spell didgeridoo. I think.
-I have discovered the best thing in the world. It's Nutella.
-I ate a Nutella cake last night.
-I can finally say Trastevere without messing it up.
-I had a (really short) conversation all in Italian the other day.
-It has only rained once here. Ha. You're jealous. Yes you are.
-Dane Cook came all the way to Italy with me.
-Sometimes I walk along the Tiber. The real live Tiber River.
-Indian food is really freaking good here.
-You're reading my blog. That's pretty nifty.
-I got to see so many amazing knockyouonyourbum churches this week that I am still a bit faint.
-I get to go to Florence in two days.
-I went to the flea market again this morning and no one tried to pick my pocket like they did last week.
-I say euro correctly. Most of the time. Ayooroh. Or something.
-I bought a hundred stamps today. I'm not even kidding. A hundred.
-Mass in Italian is beautiful.
-If you ask me what time it is I will never be able to tell you. Ever.
-If you ask me what the oldest church ever dedicated to Mary is I will be able to discuss it at length.
-I like dancing, and I'm allowed to do that here.
-Italian guys are crap at dancing. It's funny.
-Sometimes I just walk around. And that is not a boring thing to do.
-Right now you are contemplating the comment you will leave me at the end of this entry.
-I am so pro at haggling now.
-I am also pro at walking on cobble stones.
-I saw a relic this week. Like Indiana Jones.
-I'm sitting in the sun right now.
-Three weeks was long and short at the same time.
-Our dishwasher is broken. I could be doing dishes right now. I'm not, but it's out there as a possibility.
-I'm gonna go get ciocolata calda right now.

Saturday, January 21, 2006

Reading a Roman Portrait


I remember when Mother had her sculpture done. She spent hours making sure her hair looked just as though she hadn’t spent hours on it, choosing a simple style with no fancy curls or wire reinforcements. She spent quite a bit of time in front of the polished metal mirror simply gazing at her reflection. When I asked why she did this she told me she was making faces. There didn’t seem to be much variation in her expression from one moment to the next, but I didn’t wish to mention my observation. She said she was trying to convey a sense of gravity and sternness, and that this would come across in the lines upon her forehead and in her furrowed brow. She paid extra attention to her mouth, making sure her smile was just right. She wished to show dignity and mercy at the same time, and eventually worked her face into a curious half-smile that brought out the heavy lines in her cheeks. The overall effect was one of confusion, the upper half of Mother’s face conveying one message, the lower half another.

I have the habit of being much too curious and forward for my own good, and this usually gets me into trouble. Nevertheless, I ventured to ask Mother if she would have the sculptor make her portrait with the ears more even than her own. She has always been rather conscious of the fact that her ears are not level with each other. However, she replied forcefully that she wished to be portrayed exactly as she looked, right down to her sagging skin and the lines in her neck. She wanted no alterations or fanciful “stylistic choices.” It was a new fashion, she said, to look like a normal person in your portrait, to look as though you had lived a bit. Since Father was the most successful man in the area at the time, Mother wished to look as though she was worthy of him. The lines of her face would tell all who visited the front room, whether just to take a rest from the heat of the summer or to meet with the head of the household, that she had greeted many guests and entertained many important people in her day. The knowing half-smile would show that she was a welcoming and understanding hostess, able to balance her children and her demanding social obligations with skill.

The experience made me contemplate the preservation of my own memory someday through a funerary sculpture. Mother had thought so hard about how future generations of people would think of her, about how much they might be able to read from her portrait. We survive forever only through memory, and she wished to be remembered for her best features. But only features that she could truly claim as hers. It is difficult to imagine the people of the future looking at her carefully constructed marble face to see the person that was so dear to me. Perhaps in the future the people will look at her lined face and her sunken eyes and think her ugly or old. Perhaps they will look and think of her style of hair as odd or completely out of fashion. Perhaps they will think her overly masculine looking. Perhaps they will see her simply as a sculpture and not a person at all. But it is certain that her countenance will be contemplated, and her memory will therefore live on. And as long as there is memory, there is life.

Monday, January 16, 2006

Roman Fever

If you happen to be looking for drama, you would do better to read something by Edith Wharton than to watch, say, a modern soap opera. Here I could give a shout out to her novel Ethan Frome, but considering my location, the topic of discussion today is, of course, Roman Fever. No underpaid soap opera writer could come up with a premise this good and cover it in such an efficient manner.

Cue ridiculously dramatic opener music.

Enter Mrs. Slade.

She is a vibrant woman, dark, tall and beautiful.

Enter Mrs. Ansley.

She is paler, shorter, less vibrant than her opponent.

Outwardly the two may seem unevenly matched, yet they will duke it out like gladiators without ever leaving their chairs, and they will go for several rounds. How fitting that their chairs look out over the Colosseum from a rooftop restaurant above the Palatine and the Forum.

Cue majestic, sweeping footage of the Roman Forum. Cue majestic, sweeping music.

The Forum is an ideal setting for this particular story to take place. Rome is, after all, the city of amore. The history of the Forum itself, going back as far as the history of Rome itself, is rife with intrigue and drama. Mrs. Ansley thinks of the scene below her as “the great accumulated wreckage of passion and splendor at her feet.” This refers to the literal ruin she sees before her, as well as the remembered ruins of her past, and the past of her companion. Just as the Forum and the Colosseum still retain an air of majesty and dignity from a distance, at a glance Mrs. Ansley and Mrs. Slade look quite composed. Up close they are on the edge of ruin, each holding on to a secret that could tear the other down.

Undoubtedly both women can see the triumphal arches of Titus, Septimius Severus, and Constantine from their vantage point. This is the site where generals of old paraded their victories to the populous of ancient Rome, showing off the spoils of concluded battles, carting their shamed and defeated opponents through the streets to be seen by the triumphant victors. It is no coincidence then that both women end up revealing their own triumphs against each other in this setting.

Cue footage from a gladiatorial match.

Mrs. Slade lands the first blow, seeming to cripple her opponent. Things look very bad for Mrs. Ansley as her false memories crash around her. She is a broken woman, and all seems lost for her. Then suddenly, with three words, Mrs. Ansley, still injured, lands the ultimate blow, and the battle is over, leaving Mrs. Slade devastated in the heart of Rome.

Cue musical crescendo and clashing of cymbals.

Credits roll.

Cut.


For those of you who haven't read this story, you should do it.
http://classiclit.about.com/library/bl-etexts/ewharton/bl-ewhar-roman.htm