WickedEye's Quotient

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Labels: art, diary, flickr, photos, travel

travel (v.)

c.1375, "to journey," from travailen (1300) "to make a journey," originally "to toil, labor" (see travail)

travail (n.)

"labor, toil," c.1250, from O.Fr. travail "suffering or painful effort, trouble" (12c.), from travailler "to toil, labor," originally "to trouble, torture," from V.L.

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This is by way of a personal update, partly because nobody Stateside really knows what’s been going on and partly because what I went through to get to Bangalore really does deserve a bit of a tell (I haven’t yet given it its due).

I left the Nashville @ 5:30 pm on a Saturday, got to JFK at 10 pm, and learned- after an hour-long wait in line- that Delta had lost my bags and further, that they would not arrive in time to make my 7:30 am flight. I therefore, after filling out the appropriate paperwork and finding my way to the international terminal- by which time it was 1 am- settled in to wait. (This involved, as I previously noted on my Facebook and MySpace statuses, sitting on the floor and jacking a plugpoint that rightfully belonged to a self-check-in machine.)

When the Virgin Atlantic counter (on which airline more at some other time; in the meantime let the following tale speak for itself) opened at 5 am, I trudged over to check in and was informed quite rudely that I couldn’t take on my cabin baggage, so I zipped it apart and requested that she check the duffle portion to Heathrow and not through to Mumbai. She asserted that she had and handed me my boarding pass, upon which I made my way though Security and onto the plane.

There I and some 300 other passengers proceeded to sit stationary for 3½ hours while being assured every few minutes that we would soon be ready for takeoff. Naturally, we arrived at Heathrow 3 hours late, and I (and practically every other passenger on the plane) missed our connections. We therefore, at 11:30 pm, trooped first through Security, then through an hourlong line at the Virgin Atlantic counter. At the end of the wait we were all informed that no, Virgin would not be providing a hotel or food, and I personally learned that the next available flight to Mumbai was at 9:50 pm- the following night.

Thankfully during the flight I had made friends with a charming and very lovely woman named Monet, who told me that she was renting a room and that since she’d be paying for one anyway, I was welcome to share it. The airline’s tasteless in-flight meal by then 7 hours in the past, she proceeded to buy us both dinner, hail a taxi, and check us both in to the Park Inn (a rather swanky digs five minutes from Heathrow).

We washed up and crashed on soft and extremely comfortable beds for a princely total of 3 hours before rising, washing our faces, and grabbing another taxi back to Heathrow to find out about getting on standby for our flights. Upon arriving at the Jet Airways counter I was told that Virgin had got the schedules wrong and that there was another flight in 2½ hours, and that I could get a confirmed seat- if I could make it back, with my bags, within 45 minutes. Bidding a fond and thankful farewell to Monet, I did so.

The frankly incredible staff at Jet Airways, after some drawn-out (and, I gathered as a captive audience, rather involved finagling), got me a confirmed seat- aisle, no less- but told me that Virgin had not yet transferred my bag to Jet Airways and that it had, in any case, been checked through to Mumbai. Thus my checked cabin baggage- which, as I had known, would be perfectly acceptable as a carry-on to Jet Airways and which in consequence contained 2 changes of clothing as well as jewelry- might not accompany me to Mumbai. Which is to say that I might well arrive in India bearing the grand total of the clothes I stood up in and a laptop, travel soap, and a toothbrush.

By then I wanted desperately to just get to India, and agreed, hoping all the time that when I arrived in Mumbai the bag would be there.

We were (naturally) 2 hours late in taking off from Heathrow, though the flight was much more comfortable and friendly this time around, and so I was in a fair way to missing my connection when I arrived in Mumbai if I experienced the slightest delay there- and of course as a consequence I did.

When my bag didn’t turn up on the luggage carousel I approached a woman named Leela and asked her about my bag, and she asked if my name was Sumi Rebeiro. Knowing that having a total stranger address you by your given name is seldom a good sign, I admitted that it was.

She informed me that Virgin still hadn’t handed over my bags, whisked me over to the luggage counter to fill out a luggage authorization form and assured me that they’d ship the bag to Bangalore as soon as it came in. Whereupon I smiled, handed her the form unsigned and assured her that there would be no need for such exigencies because I would just stay in Mumbai until my bag got there on the next flight- 12 hours later.

When she told me that there was no hotel close by and I replied that I would just sit in the waiting area, all the counter staff erupted in furious whispers and sidelong glances. (I gathered that such intransigence in already-battered travelers was, er, exceptional.) I got my exit papers stamped, changed $40, made my way to a washroom and washed up, and settled myself across from the Jet Airways check-in counter, propped my head on the backpack and purple-and-orange travel pillow which now comprised my luggage, and dozed fitfully.

There were several delightful little interludes and fascinating people during the 12 hours I waited there- the most notable being the old gentleman headed to Goa who was, as he explained in a fascinating mixture of Marathi, Hindi and English, waiting for his wife’s flight from Pakistan, and with whom I took turns watching our luggage as the other stretched his/her legs; and Karima, the girl waiting to be escorted back to claim her luggage, to whom I lent my fleece vest after she explained that she’d accidentally been flown to Delhi (where it was freezing- and she really was wearing very little clothing).

Karima, bless her, upon claiming her baggage came pelting over (in 3-inch heels!), gave me a hug, and handed me half a bar of dark chocolate filled with Remy Martin VSOP, telling me- absolutely correctly- that I needed it more than she did.

The flight from London duly arrived- without my bag. Shawn, taking over from Leela, went so far as to go out and poke through the containers of luggage himself, with me waiting and watching, trying to find the pathetically small duffel- but it was as absent as it could possibly be.

Trying to decide if I should wait another 12 hours for the next flight to come in, I called my aunt in Bangalore, who greeted the suggestion with a shriek of outrage, a demand that I come to Bangalore immediately, and the statement that I “couldn’t just keep waiting in airports.” To which I replied, “Demonstrably I can. Whether I should is a different matter entirely.”

She reiterated her urgent request and I acceded, making sure Shawn had the appropriate authorization to ship me the bags and thanking him for his help, and got in line for the bus to the domestic airport- in which line I spotted, if you can believe it, a woman wearing an SIUe t-shirt. Upon my incredulous question of whether or not she actually went there, she replied that she did, and we chatted about SIU politics for the hour it took us to get to the airport and checked in.

I got to Bangalore, walked out of the airport, and called my aunt, who told me that she was waiting at a certain sign. I went to greet her, whereupon she burst out laughing, hugged me, and took me to the car. (She couldn’t help it, she explained to me later; seeing all the people come staggering off the Mumbai flight with enormous bags, and me hailing from the States with my backpack and a grin, was too much for her sobriety.)

So, about 52 hours after leaving Nashville, I’d finally got to Bangalore.

My family, who as some of you may know engaged in some rather sticky politics eight years ago, hadn’t seen me for that time, and (I think as a consequence of the time lapse, though I don’t remember being a wimp 8 years ago either) were shocked when what I asked for on getting to Nana’s house was strong, sweet black coffee and a bath- in that order. I then proceeded to stay awake till 10 pm, get up at 7 am the next morning, and carry on. But the carrying on, as Rudyard Kipling would say, is another story.

To end this one, suffice it to say that getting here reaffirmed my experience: that most people are kind; that most people will offer help to strangers and those whom they see in need of it with no reason other than compassion; that most people are friendly and decent even under the most trying of circumstances.

And that was worth the trip.

Happy New Year, ya’ll.

Labels: diary, india, travel

Alte Pinakothek
1) I don’t like Rubens. Not only do I find his nudes unappealing- no muscle or tone, and flat, doughy faces- his scenes and compositions look cluttered, undertinted, and boring to me. (Do NOT say this out loud in Germany. You’ll get nasty looks and museum guards will become belligerent. Really.)

2) Albrecht Durer was a major, major, major babe. Take a look at his self-portrait; he looks like the Wild Hunter just before he sheds his cloak to cry the avaunt, or like Aragorn Elessar on the morning before he was crowned. Breathtaking. Standing in front of the portrait was an unnerving exercise in convincing myself that I couldn’t really be mesmerized by a daub of paint. (I never did succeed.)

3) Brueghel’s paintings could outsell the “Where’s Waldo” series, and for the same reason. No matter how long you stand in front of one of those small, pied canvases, you’re never going to take in everything he’s hidden- whether it’s a boy stealing apples in the background of a Nativity scene or a squirrel stealing seeds from a bird in the foreground of a winter skating scene. The feathery brushwork, the deliberately muted hues, are deceptive; the life of the paintings is in the detail which crowds towards you when you stop to observe.

4) Static figures and compositions don’t interest me. I want a sense of movement, of some form of thought or emotion, in a painting. Or in a sculpture, come to think of it.

Bargello
5) All sculpture looks better when standing in an enormous 13^th century medieval fortress. Not an intuitive piece of information, but you live and learn.

6) Cellini was in love with, or at least lusted after, Cosimo de’Medici. He had to be. Nobody produces a bust that looks like this without having some sexual feeling for its subject. The damned thing is hotter than a posed pinup- how in hell did he do that? It’s bronze, for crying out loud. (And considering the number of times Cellini literally got away with murder under that particular Grand Duke of Tuscany, the feeling might have been mutual.)

7) Donatello’s David is beautiful, but disturbing- this boy can’t have been more than 12, and he’s clearly sexualized (whether by the sculptor or on his own is indeterminate). His is also a more classical saint’s pose- the serenity of his face and feature, coupled with the enormous head at his feet, is slightly unnerving.

Uffizi
8) I actually like Alessandro Botticelli, weak-minded idiot follower of Savonarola that he was (what other denomination can be used for an artist stupid enough to burn his own paintings at the behest of that killed-too-late fanatic? –though as my colleague James observed, having Savonarola burned to death was, if poetically just, perhaps a bit excessive). I was tired of the Venus- and her pale, pastel palette- before I got there, but the wealth and complexity of allegorical imagery in Botticelli’s paintings is as involving and fascinating as his glorious, luxuriant tints. His Pallas and the Centaur in particular, with its frighteningly implacable, serenely murderous goddess, is arresting; Botticelli’s paintings- except, again, for the Venus- almost burst off the walls, pulsing with exacting detail and a pagan riot of color.

9) I could have made mad money if I’d majored in art authentication and become an expert on Domenicos Theotokopoulos. I can, apparently, spot an El Greco painting a mile and a half away. (This was a consistent theme in the Alte Pinakothek as well, but it was confirmed in the Uffizi.)

10) Similarly, I can actually tell a Perugino from a Vasari (without looking at the label). And I actually like Perugino. And no, I’m not talking about the chocolates (meh).

11) My congenital lack of a sense of direction doesn’t apply in museums. I- the woman who not five years ago got herself lost in the neighborhood in which she grew up- can, with no map and never having been there before, find my way through the most winding and labyrinthine of layouts in order to return to the precise spot of a single painting in a room containing dozens on a floor which holds hundreds.

12) I don’t like Leonardo da Vinci’s painting. (Gasp! Horror! Oh, bloody shut up.) It is the single most unimpressive oeuvre of a spectacularly talented man; static, placid, attenuated and overposed, it reeks of the late-Gothic sensibility that the artist repeatedly wrote that he deplored. I love da Vinci’s engineering, writing, and philosophy. But not his painting.

13) I have, apparently, no problem with standing in front of a painting in a major museum and laughing. As I’ve previously written, I’d discovered before I got to the Uffizi that seeing a work of art in person is very different from seeing reproductions in books; and I’ve also written that the differences in Michelangelo’s sensibilities, his portrayals of real human beings, were a shock to me. As was his Doni Tondo: a portrait of the Holy Family, in which Christ is being handed to a seated Mary, over her shoulder, by Joseph. And Christ? He’s doing what all babies do in that position, though you won’t see it until you’re close to the painting- he’s pulling Mary’s hair. (Blasphemy! Do you blame me for bursting into laughter?)

14) I have a quirk of character that forces me to go all girly over busts of my favorite Roman emperors. (This is especially true of Octavian, later called Augustus, calculating and impenetrable manipulator that he was. But it’s true for others too.) Warriors, thinkers: it doesn’t matter. I stand and stare like a starstruck fangirl.

15) Even if it’s the only thing I have that day, $6.00 for a doppio espresso macchiato is cheap to me- if it comes with a view of the Campanile ringing evensong at sunset against the soft gold of the Duomo, the rough and battlemented turret of the Palazzo Vecchio looming over the small balcony, close enough to touch in the growing dark.

Museo dell’Opera del Santa Maria Fiore
16) Michelangelo’s final Pieta SHOULD have stood on his grave, unfinished or not. The gorgeous anguish of the pose, the broken, gleaming body of Christ is beautiful in a way that surpasses ‘disturbing’ and goes straight to ‘awestruck’.

17) Donatello’s Magdalen far surpasses his David. Her suffering is palpable, a blow in the face to those expecting beauty, and her battered, pleading figure produces equal parts pity and horror- both a desire to turn away and hide from her pain and a complete inability to do so.

18) Donatello, like Titian (see below) displays a sympathy for his female subjects that, given his sex and time period, is startling. His portrayal of The Creation of Eve, the bewilderment and terror on her face, her weakness as she sags into the stiff shoulder of the god before her, clutching at a father who will not hold her back, evokes as much compassion as it does admiration.

19) The original panels from the Porta del Paradiso are worth seeing, but mainly for the understanding of what nearly 500 years of wear and weather will do even to bronze. The replicas at the Battistero are far more beautiful.

Kunsthistoriches and Museo Correr
20) Italian sculpture in the presence of other art has a strange effect on my senses. Antonio Canova’s neoclassical marbles, static and passionless as they are, bored the hell out of me all through Florence and Venice- but were suddenly so much more fascinating once I was in Vienna and by contrast with the larger, emotionally abstract statues there. Then again, it may also have been a question of scale and period- everything in Vienna, everything, is enormous, and reflects a gothic or baroque sensitivity. Canova’s sculptures are too sparely rendered to fit stylistically, but in terms of size and spirit- large, opulent, showy, but with little delicacy- they fit right in.

21) The Venetian Renaissance painters have no peer when it comes to use of color. For the few paintings that have been restored (far, far too few), the colors which push off the canvas are truer than life, so vivid that I wondered how the human eye was capable of seeing them at all, much less recreating them on canvas. But after glancing out the window of the Correr across the Adriatic on a sunny morning, those colors are less mysterious, though no less arresting.

22) I’m capable of a frightening level of avarice when it comes to books. When I see an illuminated manuscript I want it, with an instant and unreasoning passion. Not in order to say I own it: but to take it out and look at it, turn the pages, gaze at the words and images, feel the binding in my hands, as often and for as long as I want.

23) Ancient sculpture fascinates me intellectually but doesn’t involve me emotionally. Greek, Roman, Egyptian- the works produce awe at the age of the pieces, astonishment at the accomplishments of artists working under the technological constraints the ancients faced, but very little in the way of visceral response. I could gaze at them for hours, but I can’t get emotionally involved with them.

24) Titian’s reds fascinate me and always have- colors which glow off the canvas even through the centuries of accumulated grime- but his sympathy for his female subjects fascinates me even more. He shows a tenderness and understanding rare in that chauvinist time- indeed, rare anywhere- and his women are imbued with values far surpassing beauty and grace. His Lucretia and her Consort is radiant, but not because she’s lovely; her resolve and courage shine in her face. Her heroic gaze- uplifted, thoughtful, nearly joyful- make the man at her side and the blade in her hand almost irrelevant. Of all the portraits of saints and martyrs I’ve seen, Titian’s pagan queen comes closest to capturing perfectly the ideal of conscious and exalting, exulting self-sacrifice.

His Venus of Urbino was even more of a shock. Commissioned by a wealthy merchant as an “instruction” for a new bride who was a third of his age, his courtesan is provocative, yes; her beautiful body and the drape of her hands and hair are seductive. But there is challenge in her eyes; her gaze is as cool as it is hot, and the question of whether or not her lover is worthy to approach her, capable of satisfying her, gleams in her intelligent look. The artist’s sympathies lie palpably with the woman displayed for perusal, not with the observer, and his compassion is as skillfully rendered as it is astonishing.

Labels: art, diary, travel

My first, regardless of the fact that it included San Lorenzo, Santa Croce, the Palazzo Medici Riccardi, and the Porta del Paradiso of the Battistero, was a nearly-pure perdition. The hostel at which we stayed was the worst of any I’ve experienced in Europe; every single stroke of luck or timing from our arrival onwards seemed to conspire against Bea and I. Such was the buildup of intransigently horrible events that when she dropped her camera on the steps of Santa Maria del Fiore on the day that we arrived, we both nearly tucked tail and ran. Hell, we both nearly cried.

I debated returning. Why bludgeon myself with such patent unpleasantness again? But I’d not seen the Uffizi, the Bargello, the David. I gritted my teeth, stoked my inherent stubbornness, and returned, prepared to endure any unpleasantness to see the artists I’d loved my entire life.

And wound up in a place and with people who were as perfectly suited to my views and desires as my first trip was- not.

So my first tip? Stay at the Hotel Sampaoli with the brothers Caponi. Leonardo and Ricardo are erudite, good-humored, fiercely principled, and eloquent, brilliant conversationalists- in both English and Italian. They also, not-so-incidentally, run an excellent hotel: clean, comfortable, quiet, efficient. And, as I said, filled with cultured, informed, passionately opinionated conversation, if you want it. (In point of fact it was Orsanmichele that broke the ice between Leonardo and I as soon as I was through his door: “You know Orsanmichele?” Puzzled look. “Yes- former granary turned Medici church, no? Sculptures by Verrochio, Donatello, and Ghiberti?” A long impenetrable stare. “Si. Allora. Come here. Sit down.”)

Which leads to my second tip: Don’t ask Leonardo, Francesca, or Ricardo- hell, any Fiorentino- about the Trevi Fountain. (Yes, this really happened- and, I wince to say, it was an American. Leonardo informs me that it happens on a fairly regular basis.) What this really translates into is “do your homework”, which is the best general travel trip I can give anybody. You’re spending pots of money to get to, and then see, another place- learn about where you’re going, what’s there, and why it’s important to the world. It doesn’t take that long, and will make all the difference to what you see and how it stays with you.

Third tip: Don’t spend all your time shopping. This is another piece of good general advice. Even for those who love to shop- and believe me, Bea is one of those people; I spent more time shopping during the ten days we traveled together than I’d spend in a month and a half of my normal life- there are far better and more interesting things to do. While I bought Florentine leather, Venetian glass, fans, and museum books along the way... stuff is fungible. And all of the above are just that: stuff. Ultimately, you can get it anywhere.

Art, architecture, conversations with natives, espresso or wine or mountain air drunk in along with different views of the place in which you find yourself- these are the things that are unique and irreplaceable, the things which if missed in a given place are not obtainable anyplace else. Treat yourself to them. They, unlike the gorgeous leather belts and purses, the shimmering silver-and-gold glass, will stay with you as long as you have a mind with which to recall them.

Fourth tip: Walk. I’ve already gone on about public transportation in Firenze, and yes, I was there in summer, but the truth is that it’s a very small city, and no matter what the weather you’re going to see more twisting, cobbled alleys fronting improbable palaces and prisons-turned-museums, more jewelry stores spilling into each other on the Ponte Vecchio, walking, than you will any other way. So what if you’ll sweat? Wear antiperspirant, drink enough water, carry some baby wipes, and deal with it. Yeah, it’s plebian. It’s also the best way to see Firenze. (One exception: the Piazzale Michelangelo is a hell of a climb, especially at the end of a day of walking, and dusk is the best time to go. Ride up if you can.)

Fifth tip: Listen. Listen well. Fiorentine Italian- the gorgeous, pure Tuscan dialect- is unequaled; peerlessly beautiful, it is singular in the fact that it was chosen as the standard for Italian based solely on the loveliness of its sound. Dante Alighieri’s title of Pater Patriae- Father of the Country- is based on his popularization of Tuscan Italian in his Commedia (later dubbed Divina by Boccaccio). It is, quite possibly, the most ravishing language in existence, and it flows freely all around you.

Sixth tip (coffee lovers only): A doppio espresso macchiato in Firenze should qualify as a confection. We’re talking near-ecstatic perfection here; don’t miss it.

Most of the rest of my “tips” are actually observations from specific places I went in Firenze, and they belong in a different post. (When will I stop posting about this past summer? Probably next summer. At least that way, I can keep the memories close at hand during my year in Carbondale.) I’ll close with some thoughts from a recent email between Leonardo and I, in response to his question on what I would say- in English- to someone who asked about Firenze:

I would say that Firenze was the place that redefined what the West thought of as beauty. That rediscovered what the West could do with engineering and mathematics. That literally, through its revival of the laws of perspective, changed the way the entire world looked at art.

That seeing Firenze only for its shopping is like seeing the Pacific Ocean only for the soothing sound of its water.

That its palaces and castles are significant not for what they look like but for the opulence of the genius and artistry that they contain. That the grace and allure of the city lies in its anchoring in a past in which it changed the world. And for a time, dominated it.

That Firenze began a tradition so deeply ingrained in Western thought that we take it for granted: that human talent, excellence, and art are worth almost any price paid for their creation.

That if you look carefully and well, what you see will shift your definition of beauty, of power, of achievement, of wealth. And that no matter how much you see, once you truly behold what Firenze offers you will never be able to see enough.

That’s what I’d say. But just to start.

Labels: art, diary, travel

I’ve always had a crush on Michelangelo. Well, since I was 8.

I read his biography at that age (the well-written-if-not-entirely-comprehensive The Agony and the Ecstasy by Irving Stone). The fact that he was homosexual never interfered overmuch either (my crushes on dead geniuses tend to have more to do with talent and less to do with any sort of physical consideration).

But I didn’t understand how deep my feelings ran- how preeminent he is in the ranks of my most cherished human virtuosos- until I spent time in Florence.

I’m a museum junkie. There is absolutely no amount of museum-hopping that I would consider ‘too much’; by my calculation I spent 12 of 18 waking hours out of every day in Firenze in one museum or church or another. And I didn’t grasp until Firenze that there are some works of art, at least, that can never be fully comprehended until you see them in person.

I know this because, as I stood in the same room with Michelangelo Buonarroti’s work for the first time in the Cappelle Medicee- surrounded… dominated… diminished… awed… by the figures of Night and Day, Dusk and Dawn, which adorn the tombs of Lorenzo and Giuliano de’Medici- I realized that I had adored Michelangelo for more than two decades without ever understanding what it was that made him great.

I stood, staring at Night, looking at the cock of her knee and the tilt of her breasts, the ropes of muscle through shoulder and arm and hip and thigh that tell of hard, heavy toil, and wondered: Is this what Tuscan peasants looked like?

Because, face merely sketched, nowhere as finished as her curved and reclining body- which shows every fold of skin, every jut of tendon- I knew, I knew, that I was looking at a real woman. She had curled like this, twisted like that, turned her face to some Tuscan horizon just so, as the Master pulled her powerful, perfect peasant’s body from its immersion in the creamy stone.

Day, the man, is more potent still, his sinewed body that of a man in middle age, his hands thickening around the knuckles as laborers’ hands are wont to do- as were the mighty hands of the workman who looked back over his shoulder as the sculptor moved his breath and pulse into the stone before him- and turns away. Only his glance over his shoulder shows his face, his unfocused gaze and the heavy, rippling shoulders telling of a fierce and fearful brilliance, a might which must be diffused for any to survive beneath its touch.

And the power- the unbelievable force of the figures- all of them- the towering, overwhelming vitality emanating from these larger-than-life-sized embodiments of the coming of Light and Dark…

They are awesome in the true, unmitigated sense: they cause awe. They cow, they overcome, they overwhelm. Marble, immobile, immortal, they dominate the vaulted space which their creator designed for them until the air you share with them slows and thickens in your lungs.

Michelangelo’s contemporaries- that is to say, his fellow Renaissance geniuses- were so overpowered by his sculptures that they actually invented a new word to describe them, a word still used only in reference his work. To this day in Firenze, if you use the word terribilita- dreadfulness- it is understood that you’re discussing Michelangelo Buonarroti.

And his most well-known sculpture? I’ve looked at it a hundred times, admired it each and every time it has crossed my vision or thoughts.

But I was not prepared for it. Had no capacity to understand its perfection, the amazement and fear that would grip me as I gazed at his David.

I come to just below David’s hip- if he were standing on the floor. He is not. Standing 17 feet high, he is on an 8-foot plinth which dominates the skylighted rotunda of L’Accademia, the building built solely to contain him.

He is, in sculptural terms, a colossus, the first to be made since the Colossus of Rhodes, one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. And he is, because he was sculpted by Michelangelo Buonarroti, entirely and completely different from the Davids which came before him. Verrochio, Donatello- their youthful heroes stand in composed triumph, coolly contemplating the head of their enemy already before them.

Michelangelo, handed the commission when he was 26 years old along with a block of marble that was considered to have been ruined by another sculptor, chose to show his epitome of male perfection as he prepared to hurl the stone that would bring him a kingdom.

David is perfect. Perfect. I walked around him for an hour (much to the consternation of the guards), first nearer, then further. No tendon, no curve, not even a fingernail, is lacking in lifelike detail. Even the corrosion of his shoulders, caused by acid rain when he stood in the Piazza della Signoria, serves only to emphasize the rippling faultlessness of his turning form.

But his face- it was his face that made me understand, all over again, that I had never really seen him before now.

Oh yes, David’s face is as perfect as the rest of him. As beautiful. He is young, features still retaining the planed but rounded softness that young beauties have before their features harden with age.

And he is scared.

You will never really see this in a picture. Oh, you may see those flawless lips compress at the corners, see that matchless brow wrinkle.

But until you have stood first close to him- seen the loosening of the fingers of his right hand as he prepares to swing the stone aloft, the tightening of his left hand on the long, simple strap of his sling as he gazes upon his enemy…

Until you have moved away, in the direction of his gaze- seen the tension in the turn of his body, the piercing gaze of fear and resolution canting up and away over your head, looking at something so much bigger than he is and so fixed in its focus that you begin, after a few moments, to look over your shoulder nervously at a blank wall…

Until you have stood in his presence, felt his anxiety, his courage, his strength- you will not truly comprehend that this perfect, beautiful boy was a warrior.

And in his gaze- his dread-filled, undaunted, determined gaze- you will see the ardent and formidable king he will become.

Who does this?

What kind of artist sculpts the first colossus since antiquity and portrays him not in triumph, but in the mingling of his fear and courage just before battle?

Who would make the symbol of the Republic for which he is sculpting it perfect, but scared and smaller and tense and- human?

Michelangelo Buonarroti, perfector of humanity.

Il Divino, the sorcerer who prisoned Courage and Fear and Beauty and Mourning and Dark and Light in immaculate stone.

Labels: art, diary, travel

I am just a poor boy
Though my story's seldom told

One of the unlooked-for highlights of my visit to Florence was, oddly enough, a virtuoso performance of Simon and Garfunkel hits by an Italian duo; I heard them twice, both in the Piazza della Signoria.

I have squandered my resistance
For a pocketful of mumbles
Such are promises

The second time I listened, I saw something which shifted and deepened my understanding of the pain which rings through a song that I have heard since my childhood.

All lies and jests
Still a man hears what he wants to hear
And disregards the rest

As a child I had listened to the song, sung and strummed by a brilliant, handsome, talented, alcoholic uncle who grieved so deeply over what he saw around him that the only way he knew how to cope was to numb himself. When he sang "The Boxer" with me as I got older, the only way I could keep my voice steady as we sang was to pinch myself.

When I left my home and my family
I was no more than a boy

When the descending ripple of chords which begins "The Boxer" sounded that second night, I was once again in the front row, and once again just behind a man who clearly lived very near the spot he occupied in the Piazza.

In the company of strangers
In the quiet of the railway station
Running scared

Until the opening chords, he had been loud and raucous, demanding songs, mumbling a loud commentary. Now he quieted.

Laying low, seeking out the poorer quarters
Where the ragged people go
Looking for the places only they would know

His hair was grey, though so filthy and matted it looked brown; the color of his clothes equally indistinguishable. He was clutching a bottle of clear liquid, nearly half full.

Asking only workman's wages
I come looking for a job
But I get no offers
Just a come-on from the whores on Seventh Avenue

I listened to the sweetness of the twining voices, remembering my uncle, and saw that the man in front of me had drawn his legs to his chest. His arms were crossed over them, the hands gripping his smutted sleeves seamed and grained with dirt until every line and crack on them stood clear against the tanned skin.

I do declare, there were times when I was so lonesome
I took some comfort there

He moved to grip the neck of his bottle and took a long swig, and I saw that the bottle was now less than a third full. He set it down again on the flat slabs of slate, but the sound was lost in the amplified echo of the singers' voices.

Then I'm laying out my winter clothes
And wishing I was gone- going home
Where the New York City winters aren't bleeding me
Leading me, going home

His head was drooping towards his knees, his lips barely moving as he mouthed the words of the song, and I thought for a moment he might pass out. But he didn't. He only put his head down on his knees, one arm wrapped around them, one hand still on the bottle.

In the clearing stands a boxer
And a fighter by his trade

He began rocking back and forth, gently, slowly, with the rhythm of the song, still curled into himself. Still clutching his bottle.

And he carries the reminders
Of every glove that laid him down
Or cut him till he cried out
In his anger and his shame

The song was almost ended. He uncurled himself. I thought he might get up. Might leave. I thought I saw tears in his eyes, though they were so glassy with alcohol it was hard to tell.

"I am leaving, I am leaving"

He sat silently, stilly, wide-eyed and staring, as the song ended and the singers faded on the last chorus.

But the fighter still remains

And as the applause began, it was I who had to turn away.

Labels: diary, travel

Labels: dance, diary, travel

1. Have money. Lots of it.
2. Bring your money.
3. Spend a great deal of your money.

No joke. Getting to Florence (more properly Firenze) is expensive almost any way you slice it, unless you’re a native of Italy (and if you are, I can’t imagine what you’re doing reading this; go away- shoo!). Even rail travel on a Eurail pass will oblige you to shell out about $30 on top of the price of your pass for reservations on the one-way train. Trenitalia requires them, and let me tell you that the alternative to paying- standing or sitting in a train corridor for 3½ hours- is no fun (there was a rail strike while we were in Florence, and on the way back to Innsbruck all reservations were cancelled- we wound up sitting in the corridor for the entire ride). One-off train tickets from anywhere outside Italy- for example, from Innsbruck through the Brenner Pass by way of Bolzano, one of the shortest routes- start at 65€ (about $85), and planes run about the same price; so do car rentals.

Getting there is only the beginning of the expenditures you’ll need to make. Even a form of transport as humbly plebian as a 3-day bus pass is 12€ ($15.00); expect to drop at least that much per ride if you want to get around in a taxi- and if you have the money, I’d recommend it. Coming from Austria to Italy made the bus system a shock; from an utterly transparent and predictable system that a child (literally) could decipher to a system which is so jumbled and labyrinthine that even native Florentines know only the routes they need to get to and from work. Get a bus pass only if you have to, and keep your fingers crossed. (I’d tell you to buy a map, but they actually don’t make bus maps in Florence.)

Admission to the large museums will cost you $15.00 a go as well- make a reservation 2 days in advance, or you WILL stand in line for at least four hours at both the Accademia and the Uffizi, if you manage to get in at all… and if you leave without seeing the Uffizi, the Bargello, and the Accademia, why were you in Florence in the first place?

The smaller museums- basilicas and palaces- run cheaper; if, that is, you call $7.50 per person cheap. In other cities this would be reasonable; in a place like Florence, where there are at least 20 such sights which no one visiting the city should miss, prices start to add up.

There are no freebies in Florence; unlike many other European cities, there is no city card you can buy which gives you admission to museums and transportation for 48 or 72 hours, and there are no discounts for students or the elderly at attractions or lodgings. One price fits all and pay as you go: Florence is an a la carte kind of town.

Lodging matches this sort of “You’ll pay for it, so we’ll charge for it” philosophy. A room in an albergo’s dorm- meaning lodging with 4-12 other strangers and a communal bathroom in the hall- will start at 20€ per night and go up from there. The most expensive rooms in the city (whose prices are publicly available, anyway) go, in the high season, for prices like 2000€ a night.

There are hidden costs as well- don’t, for example, go into a higher-priced restaurant without inquiring if they have a “seating charge” (2-5€ per person) on top of their mandatory service charge. And plan to spend at least 6€ a day on water; you’ll need at least 3 liters to replace what you lose in the heat, and it’ll cost you. If you’re not used to moving around in blazing heat with no air conditioning as a respite, wear comfortable shoes that cover as little of your foot as possible (think Tevas or Crocs), light colored clothing in summerweight fabric, and sunblock. (Trust me on that last- my parents are ethnically Indian, and even I wear SPF 30 in Italy.)

That said, few cities have more in the way of art, history, and the fascination which springs from the marriage of power and beauty (that is, the Medici legacy) to recommend them, and with a 1€ map, even someone as congenitally lacking in a sense of direction as I can find her way around Firenze’s twisting, winding alleys and cockeyed streets on foot.

Cellini’s Perseo (post of its own coming soon), which stands in the open air in the Piazza della Signorina, was worth every bit of the aggravation and heartbreak it took to get to Florence (which, in my case, was a great deal indeed), and is utterly overwhelming. There were at least ten other experiences about which I could say the same thing- the tombs of my boys Galileo and Macchiavelli in Santa Croce, for instance, or the exquisite della Robbia altar which stands in the same place, or Ghiberti’s ethereally, blindingly beautiful Baptistery doors.

There was one moment which stood alone amongst all these glories, however: the Basilica di San Lorenzo, the personal crypt of Cosimo di Giovanni de'Medici (he's buried before its main altar), which contains the Medici family chapel (the Sagrestia Vecchia, designed by Brunelleschi). In it are the tombs of members of the Medici family and the monumental stone (though not the grave) of Cosimo de'Medici, Pater Patriae- placed by his grandson Lorenzo under an enormous elevated plinth so that all who saw it, in seeking to read the inscription, would bow before the memorial.

On the ceiling above the chancel, Leon Battista Alberti painted in a deep and glorious blue a map of the constellations, their shapes and stars gilded onto the lapis background. It is a picture of the night sky above Florence, exactly as it appeared on July 4, 1442… a precise picture of the sky, painted when the Ottomans were ill-tempered upstarts irritating the Byzantine Empire founded by Constantine; when Columbus had yet to conceive the idea of flattering Isabella, for the very good reason that neither had yet been born; when the church at San Lorenzo had already been named, sited, and consecrated for eleven hundred years.

My scalp was prickling as I stared. Everything was prickling- my neck, my arms, my eyes- from being open too long... I couldn't pull them away for a very, very long time.

No matter what you spend to get there- or spend while you’re there- Florence is worth it.

Still…

Bring your money.

Labels: art, diary, travel

Labels: art, diary, travel

Labels: diary, prose poem, travel

Labels: diary, prose poem, travel

MY TRIP TO WASHINGTON, D.C.
by
S. Rebeiro

A Capitol Guard who, when I grinned at her in the pouring rain (in which neither of us had an umbrella), started singing “It’s Raining, It’s Pouring”, while her partner pointed out that my backpack was open and, when I asked him to please zip it for me, looked startled, then zipped it and helped me adjust the straps. Who says Feds don’t have a sense of humor?

Benjamin Franklin’s bust on the Library of Congress, which sits in its central niche, directly over the front doors, in preference to Jefferson’s and Adams’. I like the way those people think.

The Union Station Starbucks people kindly giving me their internet code for 5 minutes so I could shoot off an email to someone I’d been desperately trying to reach. This despite its being 8:30 am, and the line of people waiting for their morning Starbucks fix stretching out the door for half a block down the station.

The images of Hammurabi, Napoleon, Augustus and Justinian, among other famous lawgivers, on the Supreme Court frieze- gorgeous. I’ve seen many a classical and Neoclassical frieze in my time, but this is hands-down my favorite.

The only image in any government building of Justice with her eyes wide open and sword raised, facing Inspiration eye to eye, on the SCOTUS frieze opposite to where the justices sit. I couldn’t pull my eyes away from their two figures, and admit unabashedly to having had tears in my eyes.

Discussion with an 11-year-old boy (Jeff or Jess?) on the relative aesthetics (his phrase, not mine) of the Washington Monument and the U.S. Capitol. When I asked him about the Supreme Court Building and the White House he very seriously replied that the White House looked like an enlarged plantation house (which cracked me up, because it does) and that he hadn’t yet seen the Supreme Court building and he’d have to let me know.

Looking at poor Salmon P. Chase, the only justice ever (and in my opinion, through no fault of his own) to be impeached, standing in the Supreme Court hallway opposite Roger Taney- the judge who upheld the Dred Scott decision. They believe in keeping their skeletons in one place, I suppose.

The half-siblings Athena and Apollo, goddess of wisdom and god of truth, referred to as “allegorical figures” by the guide when they clearly bore the sigils of each Greek deity: owl and sun. I suppose we can’t be havin’ with any of that heathen nonsense in front of the highest court in the land.

Subway attendant laughing at me as I desperately patted my pockets for my railway pass so I could get out of the station, then holding open the gate through which I crept humbly while he shook his heavily dreadlocked head and shouted after me in a heavy Jamaican accent, “You wanna be more careful down here, little girl!”

Rodin’s sculpture of Mahler, which stands in the National Gallery, august and gravely handsome. I’ve never seen any representation of Mahler which showed this kind of gravity and passion, and I wondered for the first time just how well he and Rodin had known each other.

A stony-faced Capitol cop who, when I asked if I would get in trouble for jaywalking on a red light on a dead end, replied that yes, he was gonna take me in- before grinning and waving me on.

The statue of Grant standing on the first level of the Mall below the Capitol which, if you stand any closer than the far side of the reflecting pool, dominates the sky and completely blocks the main dome of the U.S. Capitol. It makes me wonder; the architects and monumentaires who planned it are too skilful for the effect to have been other than planned that way. Why? Did they wish us to reflect on what the Capitol would have symbolized without Grant’s contributions to the Civil War?

A little boy of 3-4 years old “quack”ing hopefully at the ducks on the reflecting pond in the Mall for several minutes before growing frustrated and shouting “Quack, darn it!” at the blissfully oblivious anatidaens.

16^th-century sculpture of “A Young Man of the Zorzi Family” by Vittorini, also in the National Gallery, which made me understand for the first time the power of a profile. In full-face it is an ordinary if skilful rendering of a young man of ordinary charm and appeal which in profile becomes the kind of breathtaking beauty which sinks ships, commands armies, and burns towers.

The sculpture of a “Girl Reading”, also in the National Gallery, by Pietro Magni, which is quite simply the most lifelike, skilful, and nuanced rendering of a human in marble that I have ever seen.

The site of John Adams’ desk in the old House Chambers in the Capitol. I stood at that spot while Bill, Congressional staffer and tour guide extraordinaire, walked more than a hundred feet away and, through the Babelian uproar of the room, talked in a quiet, normal tone to me. I heard every word he said, perfectly; the acoustics of the “whisper spot” are extraordinary. It’s speculated that Adams picked the spot for his desk for that very reason: he pretended to nap and eavesdropped on what was happening on the other side of the aisle.

Washington’s crypt (not his tomb; he does not lie there) in the exact center of the Capitol and the city. The soft marble has been worn down at least four inches by hundreds of years of reverent feet; it is surrounded by pillars of impure native limestone, the most that the builders could at that time afford, which are slowly turning from white to red as the iron in them rusts.

The catafalque on which lay the bodies of Presidents from Lincoln to Reagan. Massive and simple, draped in black velvet, it reposes in a grim, iron-gated, institutional-yellow-paint-over-brick niche barely large enough to hold it in a corner of a small forgotten stairway in the Capitol. Rosa Parks, incidentally, was to have lain on it also- but it was too big for her tiny body. They had to build one just for her.

More reflections later.

Labels: art, diary, travel

diary
meditation
nashville
writing

Labels: prose poem, travel