Five Ways to Celebrate St. Francis’s Feast Day in Italy

The Day after Pope Francis's election, Piazza San Francesco a Ripa. ©Tiffany Parks

Since I live on a street dedicated to St. Francis of Assisi, and since I can see a church dedicated to St. Francis of Assisi right out my bedroom window, and since my darling Maritino and I were married by a Franciscan priest, and since our current ever more lovable Pope chose his papal name (many believe) to honor St. Francis of Assisi, I figured it would be a good idea to write a little post today on 4 October, on occasion of the feast day of one of Italy’s all-time best-loved saints.

Instead going into St. Francis’s life andworks, which I’m guessing most people are already familiar with, I thought I’d suggest five ways to celebrate his feast day, and five different Italian cities in which to do it.

Assisi

Basilica of San Francesco d'Assisi, Assisi. [source]

As the saint’s hometown, this is the obvious choice. In fact, this is where Pope Francis himself decided to celebrate St. Francis’s Day, so expect a lot of crowds if you choose this option. Besides the sheer majesty of the 13th-century basilica, one of the most important fresco cycles of the great Giotto di Bondone, and in fact one of the most celebrated works of art of that magical period when the buds of medieval art began to blossom into the Renaissance. 

The Woman's Confession, Giotto. Basilica of San Francesco d'Assisi, Assisi. [source]

The Dream of the Palace, Giotto. Basilica of San Francesco d'Assisi, Assisi. [source]

San Francis receives the Stigmata, Giotto. Basilica of San Francesco d'Assisi, Assisi. [source]

The 28 frescoes that line the lower section of the nave of the Basilica of San Francesco d’Assisi tell the story of the saint’s life and are believed to have been painted between 1296 and 1304. Bonus: an even earlier portrait of St. Francis, by late-medieval master Cimabue, can be seen on the transept wall. The fresco, Our Lady Enthroned with St. Francis, dates to 1280 and features one of the most well known depictions of the saint.

Our Lady Enthroned with St. Francis, Cimabue. Basilica of San Francesco d'Assisi, Assisi. [source]

The basilica also contains the saint’s tomb.

Tomb of St. Francis of Assisi. Basilica of San Francesco d'Assisi, Assisi. [source]

Florence

Basilica of Santa Trinità, Florence. [source]

If you prefer high Renaissance art to late medieval/early Renaissance crossover art, and you happen to be in Florence today, you’re in luck! Head to Santa Trinità church where you can visit the Sassetti Chapel, containing an exquisite fresco cycle by Domenico Ghirlandaio (who just happened to be Michelangelo’s first master, and one of the painters of the walls of the Sistine Chapel). The fresco, dating from 1482-1485, depict several scenes of St. Francis’s life, including the receiving of the stigmata, the confirmation of Franciscan rule, and the resurrection of a boy.

Confirmation of Franciscan Rule, Ghirlandaio. Church of Santa Trinità, Florence. [source]

St. Francis's Trial by Fire, Ghirlandaio. Church of Santa Trinità, Florence. [source]

Death of St. Francis of Assisi, Ghirlandaio. Church of Santa Trinità, Florence. [source]

Chiusi della Verna

Santuario della Verna, Chiusi della Verna. [source]

Not many tourists make it to this tiny little town in the province of Arezzo, but if you’re in the general area today, consider a visit to the Santuario della Verna, just a few miles outside of town. In addition to its evocative setting, perched on an outcropping of Mount Penna, the sanctuary is also renowned for being the site at which St. Francis received the stigmata, on 14 September 1224. You can also visit a small museum attached to the sanctuary where you can see St. Francis’ rough habit, slightly moth-eaten, but still intact.

Habit of St. Francis of Assisi, Santuario della Verna, Chiusi della Verna. [source]

Subiaco

St. Benedict's Monastery, Subiaco. [source]

This gorgeous hilltop town, famous for its medieval Benedictine monasteries, is not generally associated with St. Francis of Assisi, but there is one notable curiosity for those seeking to pay homage to the saint today. In St. Gregory’s Chapel in the Monastery of St. Benedict is only known portrait of St. Francis painted during his lifetime. The portrait shows neither halo nor stigmata, showing it was indeed painted before the saint’s death in 1226. If you want an idea of what he actually looked like, this is probably as close as you’ll come.

Portrait of St. Francis of Assisi, St. Gregory's Chapel, St. Benedict's Monastery, Subiaco. [source]

Rome

Church of San Francesco a Ripa, Rome. ©Tiffany Parks

 

If you’re in the Eternal City today, never fear! You don’t have to travel anywhere if you want to make a St. Francis pilgrimage of your own. The church of San Francesco a Ripa in Trastevere is attached to a convent that housed St. Francis when he was in Rome in 1209 seeking recognition of his order by Pope Innocent III. If you ask the custodian nicely (and if your shoulders and knees are modestly covered!) he’ll happily take you up to the very cell St. Francis slept in, complete with the very stone he used for a pillow, which visitors are allowed to touch.

The rock St. Francis used as a pillow, Cell of St. Francis of Assisi, Church of San Francesco a Ripa, Rome. [source]

While you visit the church (which by the way also contains Bernini’s late masterpiece The Ecstasy of the Beata Ludovica Albertoni), take a moment to wallow bitterly in the knowledge that this unassuming little trasteverina church once contained, along the walls of the nave, the prototype of the legendary Giotto cycle in Assisi. The frescoes depicting scenes from the life of St. Francis, attributed to Pietro Cavallini, are sadly now lost. “Now lost”: two words that inspire the wrenching of hearts and gnashing of teeth of many an art lover.

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How I moved to Italy and married the love of my life, part 1

As you may have already guessed from the name of this blog, I love Roman pine trees. I adore them actually. I could sit and look at them for ages. Today I have come to the pines for some inspiration.

I am writing this from a bench in my favorite spot in Villa Pamphilj, what I call the pine grove, where the trees all grow in straight parallel lines. No, I didn't bring my computer to the park. I would never commit that sacrilege! I am writing this out longhand. It almost feels like I'm writing in a diary, perfect for the post I have in mind.

As you well know by now, it was my not so brilliant idea to post about my wedding every 29th of the month (because I got married on the 29th), but I quickly got overwhelmed by the back story I wanted to tell.

It started out fantastically. I had a great time writing about my ancestors, and how I feel that they have, in some strange way, guided me here. But when it came time to write about myself, I clammed up. In January I skipped the post, in February I admitted my reluctance to get too personal, but my lovely bloglings encouraged me to bag my inhibitions and open up. So here goes. (I have a feeling this is going to be long. I'll have to do it in multiple parts. Oh, how I love to draw things out. I apologize in advance!)

To tell this story properly I must begin, if not in 1861, then at least in the early 80s when I discovered that I have Italian blood. I can't remember the exact day but I remember the feeling... I felt Italian. Of course I had no idea what being Italian ought to feel like, but I knew I felt it. Never mind that I was only one quarter Italian, never mind that I spoke not a word and had never set foot in the country. Never mind the German, Irish, English, Portuguese and who knows what other blood I had--that didn't matter. What mattered was that I was Italian.

No, this isn't me, although I wouldn't be surprised if a photo of me like this exists.

Not by citizenship of course. The Italianess came to me from my mother's mother, and a ridiculous and sexist law makes it impossible for me to claim Italian citizenship through my ancestors. But that didn't stop me, especially as an exuberant 7 year old, from feeling Italian.

I'll never forget my first trip to Italy, with my mother and sister when I was 14. At that time I was blindly obsessed with the film A Room with a View. I ate, slept and breathed this film. I literally (literally!) had the entire script memorized. Being kissed on a hillside with Florence in the distance was just about the most romantic thing in the world as far as I could tell, and I wanted it to happen to me. So going to Florence was almost a pilgrimage.

I'm embarrassed to admit that at that age I didn't care much about the David or the Botticellis or even the Duomo. I cried when I stood in the Piazza della Signoria, not because of the amazing art surrounding me, or the hundreds of years of history, but because I was standing where George caught Lucy when she fainted.

A Room with a View, Merchant Ivory Film

Ah, the romance! How this scene thrilled my adolescent heart!

A Room with a View, Julian Sands and Helena Bonham Carter

What can I say, sometimes fiction is more moving than history. Blame it on my youth.

We took an overnight train from Paris, and in the morning as the train barrelled through Tuscany, I stumbled down the corridor and bumped into someone. "Scusi!" I said, automatically. Then I stopped, realizing, "I can say 'scusi' now... I'm in Italy!" Bliss.

What would I have thought then to know I would one day live here? Maybe I knew all along it was inevitable. As life sometimes works like dominoes, my obsession with A Room with a View introduced me to the music of Puccini, which began a whole new (and much more time consuming) obsession, this time with opera.

By 16, Mozart's The Marriage of Figaro filled every available corner of my brain. Just as much as I longed to perform the role of Susanna, I equally longed to be able to speak Italian. I would memorize the endless recitativi from Figaro, and rattle them off, imagining I was having a conversation with an Italian (preferably a dark, handsome, male one).

Ten years and many trips to Italy later, I was plotting to find a way to move here permanently. I no longer yearned for anything so specific as a kiss in a barley field. I just wanted to live this magical place, to soak up the beauty that Italy emanates from its very core. At first it was more of a day dream, something that almost didn't seem possible. But I wanted that dolce vita so bad I could taste it. Eventually it became a mission, until finally one day, I said to myself, "What's stopping me?" and three months later I was here.

[Cue record scratch as blissful Amelie type music screeches to a halt]

Those of you who live here know, life in Italy is not only about romance, cobblestones, and picturesque alleyways. It can be a frustrating, exhausting and extremely harsh place to live, despite what the films make you believe. I found that out not long after arrival.

I'd love to be able to say I met the man of my dreams the day I got off the plane, and that my life fell instantly into place. Instead followed four mostly wonderful, sometimes miserable and always challenging years on my own in this crazy country. Still, I wouldn't trade those years, what they taught me and how they shaped me, for anything. You'll have to tune back in this time next month to hear the rest of the story.

If you are wondering what all of this rambling has to do with my wedding, well, I'm getting to it. I have never been capable of telling a short story. The point is, just like Mr. Beebe, I am naturally drawn to all things Italian. If it were not so, I would never have met my dashing Maritino.

Photo sources: 1, by author; 2, 3, 4

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Faith's Vase

The 29th comes around faster and faster every month! Five months have absolutely flown by!

Last month I wrote about finding my great-great-grandmother's wedding ring, and how I didn't know it yet, but that ring would subtly steer the course of my life (if you believe in that kind of thing). I also promised that in this post I would explain how a 150-year-old band of gold could have such mystical powers, but I lied. I can't do that yet. I have to tell a little more of the back story first.

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A Room with a View, fate, and the allure of Italy

Once again I will be skipping my weekly history post, but for a very good reason. Today is the 29th of the month, that is, my third wedding month-iversary. In honor of this incredibly important occasion [insert tongue in cheek here], I am going to go slightly off-topic.

In a scene from one of the greatest films ever made, (in fact it is my all time favorite film, and has been since I was twelve years old) two English gentlemen, a vicar and a young unmarried man, are walking through a field in Surrey, talking about fate. They had previously met by chance in Florence, and their paths have once again crossed, by happenstance, it seems, in the south of England.

Vicar: Coincidence is much rarer than we suppose. For example, it's not coincidental that you're here now, when one comes to reflect on it.

Young man: I have reflected. It's fate. Everything is fate.

V: You have not reflected at all! Let me cross examine you. Where did you meet Mr. Vyse, who will marry Miss Honeychurch?

YM: The National Gallery.

V: Looking at Italian Art! You see, and you talk of coincidence and fate! You're naturally drawn to things Italian, as are we and all our friends, aren't we, Freddie? That narrows the field immeasurably!

YM: It is fate, but call it Italy if it pleases you, Vicar.

What the Vicar doesn't know is that the young man in question is passionately in love with the soon-to-be-married Miss Honeychurch, and by the end of the film...well, I won't spoil it for those of you who haven't seen it (even though I consider that a heinous crime to be remedied immediately!)

As it turns out, both men were right! I heartily agree with young Mr. Emerson that everything is dictated by fate; that tiny, seemingly insignificant steps lead us to our destiny. (What can I say? I'm a romantic.) Yet the Vicar was correct as well, at least for me, as so much of my life's path has been steering me toward Italy, and I think it safe to say that I too am drawn to all things Italian. I must have grasped somehow at age 12 that this film would have a great impact on my life, because I became obsessed with it, and my father loves to remind me that I had the entire screenplay memorized and would recite it to anyone who would listen.

Why am I telling you all this? Because I've decided to start a new feature on the blog. Every 29th of the month I will be writing about little details of my wedding. (Don't worry! This is not and will never be a wedding blog! I promise only to recount details of an artistic, musical, historic or anecdotal nature.) What does my wedding have to do with this film? Well, more than you might guess. It is an odd story that starts with my great-great-grandmother in 1861, and follows her daughter to Florence at the turn of the century, and ends 150 years later with a wonderful friend singing a Puccini aria on a rooftop in Rome. But of course, that was really just the beginning. Stay tuned!

Now go watch A Room with a View!

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