Archives for March 30, 2017

I was hit with food poisoning Tuesday, like an intestinal version of an IED, and dealt with it Tuesday night, all night. I was sick as a dog. In fact, I was sick as a whole litter of puppies. I stayed in bed Wednesday. This wasn’t something spoiled, this was e-coli territory. Gah. I blamed the person who handled the melon I ate at lunch. But let’s not dwell. I tried to think of it as a chance to catch up on the blog. Mostly, I slept.
Moving right along to Thursday, I walked slowly and carefully to the Vatican Museum doors, headed straight to the painting galleries, eased into a chair in the large, dim Raphael room, and sketched the kneeling Magdalene. The twist of her body and her fierce gaze tugged at me. I wanted to look at her a long time.

It wasn’t a very good sketch – let’s just say I did better with the drapery – but I got what I came for. She steps outside of the sweetness that is Raphael’s main fault and his greatest asset when he’s doing virgins. Wait, that didn’t come out right. Like La Fornarina, she’s colored outside his elegant, graceful lines.
Groups had flowed in and out of the space while I was sketching, and one group of college kids was led by a lively English woman, who was entertaining as hell. She threw herself into capturing their interest and aiming it towards the art. I’ve noticed that the most interesting guides have a theatrical bent and perform their material rather than recite it. No audience is more restive than adolescents and guides that can compel their attention are really good at what they do. I lurked at the edges, shamelessly eavesdropping. Her explanation for the death of Raphael was masterly innuendo. “Let’s just say, penicillin had not yet been invented.”
After Raphael, I moved to the painting of St George. I asked security via Google translate if I could position a chair facing the painting.  One guard shook his head and said no no no and the other came over, smiled and moved the chair for me. You never know, so maybe the lesson is I should just summon up the nerve and ask.
Another mediocre drawing, but I flipped the page and tried a quick sketch of just his head and found it. Sometimes starting over is better than erasing. He reminds me of Robert, of course.  Closing in on 11am and the tours groups were overlapping now. I noticed the room was opened that was been roped off before. I wandered in and found Caravaggio waiting for me. I said a quick prayer of thanks that I hadn’t missed it.

This is an amazing painting, pure Caravaggio with the intensely directed light and the deep, velvety shadows but what I absolutely adore is this thread. I meandered on, not expecting much. Turns out there were another five rooms. I recognized several pieces as works that were displayed at that Scuderie del Quirinale exhibition of items ‘requisitioned’ by Napoleon.  More than one model for Bernini’s angels, made of plaster over a metal and straw support, later cast in bronze. Such humble materials transformed to the sublime. I plonked myself down and drew again. This went better. Sculpture often does. Though I’m still a bit unsteady and my digestion uneasy, I walked toward the pinecone courtyard, which as become my favorite spot to eat a pastry and chill. Parts of the courtyard has been swathed in cloth while renovation work is done, and brought to mind Christo’s installation art. Partially Wrapped Vatican 

 

Friday rolled around, and I was aware that my stay in Prati was nearly over. I took a photo of Caffetteria Ruberto, Via Silla, 16; the coffee bar I stopped in every morning. Good memories there. The lovely Ami, manager of patron relations, was there to greet me when I walked into the Vatican Museum, along with Sarah, the guide for my tour of the Vatican gardens. It worked out great. Sarah is an art historian and we talked about art – its history, purpose, and meaning – while we walked in a beautiful garden in the cool of the morning. I couldn’t help but be reminded of the line in Genesis, “and they heard the voice of the Lord God walking in the garden in the cool of the day.”
This is right before Adam and Eve were busted and thrown out of Eden, but all I was thinking was even God likes to walk in a pleasant garden. Fortunately, no flaming swords came for us. It was serene, not another soul in sight, unlike the Lexington Ave at rush hour crush of the museum. That alone was a balm to the spirit. We meandered, paused here and there to admire the view of St. Peter’s dome or inspect the grotto fountains. Turtles sunned themselves below the mosaics and flocks of green parrots darted amongst the palm fronds. We talked about how art is a solace in times of trouble. She asked which artist I admired most, Michelangelo or Raphel, and I went off the reservation with Caravaggio. I showed her that one thread in the St Peter crucified painting and she immediately understood.
She has a theory that the Magdalen in Giotto triptych inspired Raphael, culminating in his Magdalen in the Ascension. Sarah traces Giotto’s image through different works, as painters developed perspective. She also almost convinced me to go to the modern art museum. Perhaps. Maybe. She showed me a photo on her phone of a painting by an artist from the 1930s that almost convinced me. After the garden tour I visited the Giotto triptych and saw what she meant.
I’ll start packing tonight for the move on Sunday, since Saturday my beloved nephew, his bride and three kids are coming to Rome.
I’m pretty sure I’ll need to bust out the duffle bag.

Saturday dawned bright and clear. Dire warnings that due to world leaders coming to Rome to celebrate the anniversary of the Europan Union, Rome would be closed. Not all of the city but a good chunk of the central area, and on top of that four major demonstrations in areas outside of that zone would shut down those sections.
Turned out to be not so bad except the white taxi driver (color of the vehicle, not the operator) charged me double, claiming he’d have to go a longer way back. Huh? I had to walk the last three blocks. Not a prob. I arrived at the spot chosen by my nephew,  Trattoria Vecchia Roma, Via Ferruccio, 12/b/c, 00185 Roma on time if not under budget. William has long been something of a gourmet. He has standards. He learns toward authentic. I am more lackadaisical, but he’s who I call when I want a solid restaurant rec.
It was an adventure. The two older kids, Leonie and Milo, were exceptionally well-behaved, and the baby was a handful. Being cooped up for a long car ride, plus low blood sugar, was a predictably toxic combination. She squirmed and shrieked and ran for the exits every chance she got. It turned out to be the perfect restaurant because 1. it was filled with families and no one batted an eyelash. 2. our server was clearly an experienced Nona who clapped her hands with delight at the bundle of baby angst. One bowl of pasta later and she was, by toddler standards, mellow. Plus, the artichoke alla Romana was divine.
The first time I met my nephew, William was wearing footie pajamas and carrying around a whistling R2D2 toy. Now my nephew is a Pater Familias with salt in his beard, and a fourth baby on the way. I feel as old as Rome. After our meal we walked in a park that would have been lovely if it had not been so neglected. The baby chased pigeons.

I could hear the chanting of the demonstrators,  the coliseum rose up at the end of the street (closed for the EU anniversary shindig.)

After they left, I decided to walk to Santa Maria de Popolo. A beautiful place, though raucous, loudly amped rock music from the street disturbed the peace. I couldn’t find Bernini’s tomb though I looked diligently for it. This one almost made up for it. Really tired by then, I called Uber, and headed back to finish packing.
Tomorrow, I make my move to Monti.