Archives for March 28, 2017

Monday was the vernal equinox. Little green parrots chased each other around the Vatican gardens, shrieking with twitter-pated glee. As Emily Dickinson said, “A little Madness in the Spring / Is wholesome even for the King.”
I sprinted through the Vatican halls at 8am like I was Usain Bolt and someone fired the starting pistol for the 2oo meter. It took me seven minutes, from the ticket-activated spindle bar entry down the virtually empty cartography hall, blasting country music through my earbuds. George Strait (Run), Michael Ray (Think a Little Less), Justin Moore (How I got to Be This Way)  galloped with me. Thanks for the momentum, boys. 
I whisked through the Sistine Chapel and, sure enough, had an uninterrupted hour with a bare trickle of tourists and zero tour groups jostling my shoulder to examine gorgeously painted library cupboard doors;

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Elaborate prie-dieu;

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Some remarkable reliquaries, like this gorgeous thing;

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These examples of boxes I wished I could pick up and examine closely;

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One answer to the oft-asked question, what do you give the man who had everything? I love how the Vatican garden reflected on the glass case surrounding this golden basilica.
There was plenty of other popernanalia, and I took my time, dancing my way down the hallowed marble halls along with Jon Pardi (Dirt on My Boots), and Sam Hunt (Body Like  Back Road), feeling nothing but gratitude and appreciation. Don’t judge.
In the gift shop, that museum visitors worldwide must exit through, the library door was open. Naturally, I looked in. Oh lord. Talk about my idea of holy. I didn’t trespass, just craned my neck a bit, stared with reverence, and took a few discreet photos. The walls of the ‘gift shop’ would drive a minimalist mad. Zen masters need not apply. Suits me fine.

I think of Fra Angelico painting his brother’s cells in San Marco, the Dominican monastery in Florence. He must’ve made Savonarola itch, bestowing all that distracting beauty left and right. Serves Mr. Bonfire of the Vanities right.
I went to the courtyard and relaxed on a bench near the bronze sculpture by Arnaldo Pomodoro, Sfera con Sfera, the fractured sphere inside a sphere that tour guides push and swivel to liven up their presentations. It’s one of the few modern works at the Vatican that I appreciate. I took out my pencil and drew Michelangelo’s Adam on a card. This is how I decompress after having my senses assaulted by so much richness.Bonus: I found out it costs the same to mail a letter as it does to mail a postcard. I’ll be sending more of those.
By now it was 11:30, and I did a little trinket shopping – with my 30% patron discount it’s almost painless. Walked back to the apartment, thinking I’d visit a few churches after I dropped off my packages. Checking my Theory of Everything list, and realized the churches I wanted to visit were closed from 12:30 until 3:30 or 4pm. I made myself lunch, edited a blog post and … fell sound asleep. Woke up at 5pm, and on a whim walked to the Angel bridge where I stood and drew until dusk fell and the bridge lights came on. Walked back in the dark of 6:30, but it too early to eat – only bar food.  At 8, I trudged back out for dinner at a well-reviewed restaurant. What the heck. I won’t name it, because it was a dismal experience but it was not really their fault. I was yawning and bored. Just hated it. I’d much rather have been in my jammies, reading a book or listening to Mary Beard explain Caligula. I won’t go out at night to eat again.

 

I spent my morning in the octagonal courtyard of the Pio Clementino Museum, where Laocoön and His Sons resides along with the Belvedere Apollo and the River God Arno. Famous dudes. I drew a postcard, of a lion with teeth and claws sunk into the neck of a horse that’s buckled to its knees.

Time flew away. Eventually I stopped trying to improve that sketch and move to another bench to draw a guard dog. I love this canine. Maybe I just miss my dog, (hi Maddy!) maybe because dogs are loyal and sincere. Not like, say, the Belverdere Apollo. So celebrated as an ideal of perfection, so pretty, so flawless, and such a sore winner that he skinned alive the satyr Marsyas for daring to compete with him and subsequently losing an impromptu Greek’s Got Talent contest. Marsyas was strung up and flayed even though he was in the thrall of an enchanted flute. Where was that glint of viciousness in all those pretty depictions of Apollo’s perfection?  I have really taken Apollo into dislike over the last few weeks. Don’t get me started on his decision to pursue and rape Daphne.But I digress. As I packed up my pencil, I was grateful the museum guards have not objected to my humble activity. It occurred to me the guards have the same job as the dogs. Guardians.I also adored this mosaic fragment mounted over a door. Roman rodeo. Yeehaw! Crank up the country.I hauled a bag of laundry to a place on the landlord’s map. When I inquired earlier, the owner said it was 4 euros wash 2 euros dry, now he asked for 20 euros. Really? He first tried to claim it had to be washed separately. Nope, it’s all gray and black. He switched to saying it’s too many items, he will need to use two machines to wash and four machines to dry. It doesn’t fill up a pillow case. That’s not what you said before, I pointed out. He drops to 18 euros and I cave. I look the place up on Google afterward and sure enough, he is called out as a cheat. I should have checked online first, but I relied on the landlord’s recommendation.

Took a white taxi to see Caravaggio’s trio of paintings on the life of St. Matthew in the Contarelli Chapel within the church of San Luigi dei Francesi. It was my most vivid memory of my first trip to Rome; walking to the end of a dimly lit aisle early one morning, putting a euro in the light box and being stunned when the painting sprang into view. I thought it looked as vivid and richly colored as the day Caravaggio put down his brush.
It was still glorious, an astonishing achievement that was explosive in its visual force. The difference between my memory and reality was the entire church was much more ornate and decorated than my memory suggested, recalling only dim light and cold, gray stone. And the time of day means the painting was lit by sunlight in a way that emphasized Caravaggio’s composition. Matthew was smote by a beam of sunlight as he was summoned to follow Christ.Across the church on the right, facing a different chapel. was a pair of benches, a candle stand and a notice that this was a place to pray for the victims of the attacks. I lit a candle, and I said my prayers. My doleful thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a school class field trip. Bored and antsy, the incense of impatience wafts from them along with the vitality of youth.
Afterward I walk over to look at eyeglasses Via della Scrofa, 54-55 and buy two pairs. I’ve been seeking silver frames for three years now. I found a dainty pair here, with a discreet rivet pattern embellishment. I also purchased a super bendy, faux tortoiseshell pair with magnetized snap-on sunglasses. The total fail of the single prescription (vs progressive lenses) sunglasses I can’t read with, drives this sale. I’m considering a third pair in pink.Walked to the Napoleonic Museum, Piazza di Ponte Umberto I, 1, 00186, a small museum set up by his descendants. It’s bits and bobs mostly, but it’s free. It demonstrated how the mighty have fallen by what wasn’t shown; there’s nothing imperial about it.  The best part was a lavishly embroidered pair of his sister’s slippers. Trés jolie.and an exhibit of miniature mosaic work, including a demonstration of the process.

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That was fascinating. I wish I had a few decades of better eyesight ahead of me. I am greedy for more. I thought about taking up weaving the other day, when I passed a loom. Ay me.

My lunch was melon and prosciutto, followed by pasta alle vongele while listening to Louie, Louie over the restaurant’s speakers. It’s a local place, Amalfi. I was seated in the back alone, which suited me fine. The pasta was oddly tasteless – I expected garlic at least. Asked for salt and pepper.  I thought, if it wasn’t for artichokes and melon I’d have scurvy.Little did I suspect I was ingesting an engine of intestinal destruction. I left, ready to pick up my over-priced but clean laundry and call it a day.

Back at the apartment I lay down and took a short nap. Woke up with a belly ache that got much worse before it got better.