Impressions

I've always found sculpture something of a miracle. How does an artist turn a hunk of stone into a human body so real that I stand staring, waiting it to breathe? How does he create the swirl of garments in movement, the delicate lift of a finger, the desperation on a mother's face as she tries to keep her daughter from being seized (third picture, Mom's in the lower corner), the cruelty of the abductor?

Standing in the vast beauty of St. Peter's or Santa Maria Maggiore in Rome or the Duomo in Florence, I tried to imagine the process of creation that made these structures possible. So many types of work: clearing the land, moving and shaping the stones, raising the edifices--over decades or centuries--and then the ornamentation, using every decorative art known. Thousands of artists and artisans and craftsmen whose names we'll never know, as well as Michelangelo and Bernini, must have given their entire lives to this work; whole towns must have been supported by it. Is there anything like this process going on today, any buildings that incorporate so many arts and skills?

The variety of patterns and textures in the museums and churches stunned me. Sometimes I would just stare at an intricate design on a floor for five minutes, and then move a few feet to a different pattern. Then I would raise my eyes to a fresco framed in seven layers of gold or marble. I never knew marble came in so many patterns and colors. I never knew that much marble existed. (I can't find the right pictures to show this--see the niche of St Peter above.)

Church

So why is an infidel like me buying rosary beads in the gift shop of the magnificent Santa Maria Maggiore basilica in Rome? The guidebook calls it "a place where art and spirituality are combined in perfect union," and it certainly managed to bring out what's left of the spiritual in me.

To visit Italy is to be steeped in Catholicism, as I was for my first twenty years. Few of the hundreds, maybe thousands of religious images I saw--crucifixes, statues, paintings, frescoes, bas-reliefs, altarpieces--were new to me. The subjects varied little: Biblical stories, like those in the Sistine Chapel. Jesus on the cross, the sad, sunken body that had given its all re-created in so many artistic styles. Static tableaux of groups I came to call The Usual Suspects--Madonna and Child flanked by John the Baptist and two or three other saints. Martyrs enduring various forms of torture (one altarpiece included, besides the crucifixion itself, scenes of Christians being flayed, boiled, scalped, and grilled). Pietas, all terribly moving no matter the quality of the art.

But familiarity did not breed contempt, and my usual cynicism about religion in general and Catholicism in particular was no match for the jaw-dropping, humbling splendor of the art and the faith that inspired it. While less noble motives than pure faith were clearly at play in the creation of much of the architecture and art, I always felt the underlying presence of belief in God and the saints, the desire to worship through the creation of beauty, the humbleness and hope that arise from visions of a sublime, eternal world beyond our mundane existence. Did it make a believer out of me? No. But it renewed my faith in belief, if that makes any sense. And it got me to buy a rosary. Will I next return to the confessional? Don't hold your breath! (But I wouldn't mind having this one as a piece of furniture.)

See http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bDV_xhqkHLI for a better slideshow of the Basilica, one I will return to when I need to feel again the peace and beauty of this place. We still need to do much sorting and editing of our own photos. Can't find the ones I want of this place.

Tuscany Sat-Mon (phase 2 of trip--will get back to Rome)

Saturday morning we taxied from our hotel to Termini, the main train station. The same trip in reverse on Wednesday morning had taken 15 minutes of constant turns and cost 22 euro. This time, we arrived at the station in 5 minutes and burst out laughing when we were told the fare: 5.20. We were the tourists Rick Steves tried to teach us not to be.  Live and learn.

The train trip to Terontola where Dave and Karen met us was fast and easy. In the lovely rural area where perfect roses bloom everywhere and olive trees march across the hillside, we began to relax and feel our blood pressure drop. The house we are renting is an old stone barn beautifully modernized. It's part of the property of Caroline and Pino Nobile and their children and dogs. Their house is the taller one below, ours the one-story building, beautifully restored from a barn. There are no other houses nearby, just gardens and patios and fields and a pool area where I plan to loaf in the sun tomorrow, our resting day.

After unpacking Karen and Dave took us to the nearby town of Cortona, perched like so many on the upper side of a mountain. After driving up a steep, narrow, curving road to a parking lot halfway up, we climbed a series of steps, ramps, and even escalators to reach the charming town at the top. It reminded me faintly of a ski village, except the village is at the summit, and the buildings are all medieval. But they are full of beautiful modern products: leather goods whose perfume lures you inside, artworks you want for your walls at home, local wines and cheeses, etc. Since it was only our first day I didn't buy anything, but I'll be back! Instead we had a two-hour lunch, strolled some more, and returned home for a relaxing evening catching up with the Coales.


After five days of perfect weather, yesterday, Sunday, promised rain but we headed for Lake Trasimeno anyway and booked a ferry for Isola Maggiore  (Major Island? Big Island?) where we had a quick look at a display of local lace and found our restaurant just as the rain began. Another long, laugh-filled meal practicing Italian on the patient wait staff and trying to figure out Italian bathroom ettiquette (men and women often share the same sink area, and if it's very small, as it was here, there is much bowing and gesturing and back-and-forthing when one person is at the sink and another emerges from the stall. Why am I writing about this?!)  We took our soggy selves home for naps and tomato-bread soup. (I had found the recipe earlier on the website here--ask me for it later!) We watched "The Name of the Rose" in Italian, with English subtitles of course, and found it as gripping and gruesome as it was 20 years ago.

Assisi

Today (Monday) we drove to Assisi where we again enjoyed magnificent views from the mountainside basilica as well as amazing Giotto frescoes and woodwork inside. Even I can find room in my jaded heart to feel awe that I am standing in front of chairs where popes and cardinals sat and made decisions hundreds of years ago. I can also appreciate the irony of having something so grand built to honor St Francis, who eschewed wealth and goods to live among the poor and the animals.

Then on to the larger town of Perugia, a memorable lunch (look for the Caffe di Perugia if you get there), and two hours of viewing several centuries of medieval frescoes and altarpieces. I had thought that my years of being immersed in all things Catholic, including art, might dampen my interest in static images of Madonna e Bambino e the usual suspects (Jesus on the Cross, John the Baptists, et al), but seeing these images up close and in amazingly (often restored) brilliant color blew me away. Watching the progression of skill by dozens of local artists over several centuries portraying the same subjects with varying faces, emotions, and finally, scenery and action, provided a crash course in the development of Renaissance art. How amazing that all this has lasted so long and still enriches us today. As Ray asked, what part of our disposable society will be in museums 500 years from now?

And then, after marveling at our luck in getting a close-up parking space, we returned to the car to find a ticket. But who cares?

Images of Perugia, including the graffiti that scars buildings everywhere in Italy:

Rome Wed-Sat

Turns out that when I thought I was training for last month's 10K walk, I was actually getting ready for Rome, the city of eternal walking and getting lost, where no via keeps its name or goes in a straight line for more than two blocks. Our hotel was on a three-block street that had two names. I got lost every time I walked out the door. Not that it really matters once you give up the idea of destinations and just enjoy wandering the narrow streets. I love the warmth of the buildings--not tall gray concrete and steel but warm stucco punctuated by the occasional ruin. All the buildings are about 6 stories tall, with a few church domes or pallazzi rising above the fray. Sadly, graffiti runs rampant, scarring the loveliness.

 (to be continued)