Let me preface this post by saying that you know you're an art nerd when you get so excited about the once-a-year display of the frescoes of a little-known early Renaissance painter that you get up at 6:30 on a Sunday to see them (even when you've seen them twice before). So yes, I qualify. What about you? If you go nuts about Renaissance art, and you love to discover art that few people ever get the chance to see, then today is your lucky day.
Only in Rome, a city so bursting with
artistic and archeological treasures that a lifetime is literally not enough to
see them all, could there exist so many untold masterpieces hiding behind
closed doors. Take a stroll through the historic center, and chances are a
dozen or more world-class works of art will be just beyond your grasp, hidden away
in private collections, deconsecrated churches, or impregnable palaces.
One place where this is definitely the case is the convent of Santa Francesca
Romana. Just around the corner from bustling Piazza Venezia, and a few steps
from the imposing Theater of Marcellus, the dull, brown two-story building is
unlikely even to spark your attention, let alone hint at the wonders lurking
inside. Closed to the public 364 days of the year, not many visitors to Rome are
granted access to its marvels, but if you happen to be in town on 9 March, you
are in luck.
Santa Francesca Romana was a 15th-century
Roman wife, mother, and noblewoman. Despite her elevated station in life, she
was known for her humility, piety, and strength of faith in the face of a
number of personal tragedies. She founded the religious institution the Oblate
di Tor de’ Specchi, where she became the Mother Superior after her husband’s
death, and was later canonized by Pope Paul V. Nearly 6 centuries later, the 9
March passing of this well-loved Roman lady is remembered every year with the one-day
opening of her convent to the public.
Don’t let the line stretching down the
street discourage you from visiting this extraordinary site. Unlike many
medieval buildings in Rome, the remarkable convent is completely untouched by
the advances of time. The interior walls were frescoed in 1468 by Antoniazzo
Romano, now considered the first great Renaissance artist of the Roman school.
The 25 bright and detailed panels, entirely covering the walls of the main room,
depict scenes from the life of the saint and provide an important visual
testimony to urban 15th-century Rome. To the further delight of
historians, each panel is accompanied by a caption written in an early example
of Rome’s vernacular dialect.
Don’t miss this chance to see this
well-preserved example of early Renaissance art in Rome, one of the city’s
truly hidden gems. But my advice is to get there early. Since 9 March falls on a Sunday this month, there are likely to be bigger crowds!
Here are a few images I snapped last year.
Santa Francesca Romana was quite the healer. These frescoes are bloody, but in a good way. And it seems that everyone who had contact with the saint had a happy ending.
Has this guy just gotten his legs waxed? Call me silly, but that is truly what it looks like.
9
March. 8:30am–12:30pm and 2:30–7:30pm. Via del Teatro di Marcello, 32. Tel
066797135. Free entry.
What better way to celebrate Michelangelo's long life and immense body of work, than spending the 450th anniversary of his death taking a tour of his works. If you're lucky enough to be in his hometown of Florence today, you'll have even more opportunity to do so. But here in Rome, where Michelangelo lived and worked for much of his life, there's still a lot to see.
It is not often that one of an artist's earliest works becomes appreciated as one of his greatest masterpieces, but such is the case with the Pietà, sculpted in the last years of the 15th century, when Michelangelo was barely 25 years old.
Detail of the Pietà, Michelangelo, St. Peter's Basilica, Rome [source]
So much could be––and has been––said about this work, that I can't even scratch the surface in this little post, so I won't try. One curiosity is that it is the only work that Michelangelo ever signed, according to legend because he was frustrated that he was not receiving the proper recognition for the work, as he was new to Rome when he created it, and not yet well known there. He did this in secret, after the work had been completed and presented, and in fact, he was in such a hurry that he made a few mistakes! If you look closely you can see that he even misspelled his own name, leaving out a few letters and inserting them inside of others. I guess no one is perfect, although he came as close as anyone on Earth ever did, I'd wager.
Detail of the Pietà, signature, Michelangelo, St. Peter's Basilica [source]
After a stint in Florence, during which Michelangelo sculpted the David, he was back in Rome and working, against his will, on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, from 1508 to 1512. There are probably close to 7 trillion blog posts about the Sistine Chapel, so I won't bore you with another, but I will post my absolute favorite image from the ceiling. This glorious lady is the Libyan Sybil, called Phemonoe, who foretold of the "coming of the day when that which is hidden will be revealed." I have stood in the Sistine Chapel over one thousand times, and of the some three hundred figures on the ceiling, this is the one that has struck me over and over.
The Libyan Sybil, detail from the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, Michelangelo
Sometimes looking at a great artist's plans and sketches is more revealing that looking at the finished version. Here are Michelangelo's studies for the Libyan Sybil.
Studies for the Libyan Sybil, Michelangelo [source]
The great tragedy of Michelangelo's life was that, due to forces beyond his control, he was never given the time and space to complete the tomb of Pope Julius II, the work that he believed was going to make his career and put him on the map. He of course couldn't know that he would one day be remembered as one of the greatest––if not the greatest––artists who ever lived, and he didn't need the tomb to prove that. His only completed figure of the planned tomb is the Moses, and it is only by standing in front it that you can get a true sense of its power and majesty. It is almost unbelievable that Michelangelo made drastic changes to this work, specifically changing the positioning of the left leg.
Moses, Michelangelo, San Pietro in Vincoli church, Rome [source]
I love this whimsical drawing of what it might have been like to witness Michelangelo at work on the Moses. Somehow I doubt he would have had knights and nobles loitering around his studio while he worked, and since the work was sculpted between 1513 and 1515, this image makes the artist look a little old. But it does give you the idea of the size of the great work.
It's impossible to call any work by Michelangelo "little known," but in Rome, at least this one might come close. After delighting in Gian Lorenzo Bernini's Elefantino in the piazza outside, venture inside the glorious Gothic church of Santa Maria sopra Minerva (with its starry blue ceiling that looks something like what the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel looked like before our hero got his hands on it), to find the Risen Christ, sculpted by Michelangelo between 1519 and 1521.
The Risen Christ, Michelangelo, Santa Maria sopra Minerva church, Rome [source]
From 1536 to 1541, Michelangelo found himself back in the Sistine Chapel frescoing another colossal work of art. The Last Judgement is about as different from the chapel's ceiling as one work can be from another by the same artist. Sadly, by the 1530s, the Renaissance was over, and the Counter Reformation had come to Rome. What did that mean for art? Lots of hell and damnation to scare those naughty Protestants into coming back to the Mother Church. And it also meant that shortly after Michelangelo's death, this work would be vandalized by Daniele da Volterra (but don't blame him; he was forced to do it), who added lots of scarves and other modest coverings to some of the more scandalous figures.
The Last Judgement, Michelangelo, Sistine Chapel [source]
Don't forget that Michelangelo was not only a sculptor and a frescoist; he was an architect too. Talk about a Renaissance man! From 1536 to 1546, more or less the same period he was working on The Last Judgement, Michelangelo was also redesigning the entire Capitoline Area, reversing the orientation of the square so that it turned its back on the ancient ruins of Rome's past, and looked instead toward the Vatican, and providing the Palazzo Senatorio with a new Renaissance facade. He also designed the glorious starburst pavement in the center of the square (which I love so much that I chose it as my wedding symbol), and which was not actually laid out as Michelangelo had desired until 1940.
Piazza del Campidoglio, Michelangelo, Rome [source]
In 1547, Michelangelo began designs for the dome of St. Peter's Basilica. This would be his last major work, and for the twelve years that he worked on it, he refused to receive any payment. He realized that his life was drawing to a close, and he chose to create this masterpiece for the glory of God alone, as a kind of final offering. Although the dome was not completed until after his death, his designs were adhered to with only a few exceptions.
Dome of St. Peter's Basilica, Michelangelo [source]
Michelangelo's very last project, built between 1562 and his death in 1564, is the church of Santa Maria degli Angeli e dei Martiri, an ingenious structure in which he created a Renaissance church out of a section of the ruins of the Roman bath complex, the Terme di Diocleziano. It is a stunning place to visit, however, some unfortunate "restorations" in 1749 by Luigi Vanvitelli take away significantly from the simple harmony of Michelangelo's design.
Santa Maria degli Angeli e dei Martiri, Michelangelo, Rome [source]
This list is not quite conclusive of the works by Michelangelo in Rome. To be exhaustive, I'd have to add Palazzo Farnese, a project Michelangelo took over after Antonio da Sangallo, the arch of Via Giulia, that was originally meant to be a private bridge across the Tiber, just for the Farnese family, to link their palace with their "country" home, Villa Farnesina, and of course the magnificent frescoes in the Pauline Chapel in the Vatican. The Pauline Chapel is, alas, not open to the public and its unlikely that it ever will be, as it is the pope's private chapel. But we can dream, right?
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]
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]
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]
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.
For those of you from the other side of the pond, the first day of May is European Labor Day and just about everyone has the day off. Like every holiday in Italy, May Day has its own traditions and customs, and in Rome it is most widely celebrated by heading out of town for a scampagnata, a country outing. This generally involves either an actual picnic on some lush hillside, preferably with a vineyard in view, or an interminable lunch in some large country osteria where every table is reserved for the entire lunch shift because table turn-over doesn't exist for these kinds of meals.
If it's not possible to make it all the way out to the country, or for those who dread the traffic, a picnic in one of Rome's many sprawling public parks is an acceptable substitute. And of course, no Italian holiday would be complete without the tradition of some specific, local, in-season ingredients. And May Day in the vicinity of Rome dictates pecorino cheese, raw fava beans, and for the non-vegetarians, some prosciutto. (And a bottle of Frascati wine, it goes without saying.)
Another May Day tradition in the city is the free mega-concert in Piazza San Giovanni in Laterano. Every year, between 800,000 and a million people fill the square to hear dozens of different performers, some very well known and most Italian. I cannot tell you what it's like as my agoraphobia would never permit me to attend, not even if I was paid to do so. To be honest, just the thought of being in that crowd makes me almost hyperventilate. But hopefully you don't share my crowd-anxiety, and if you'd like to attend, the music kicks off at 3pm and lasts until midnight.
Concertone di Primo maggio, 2011, Pza San Giovanni in Laterano [source]
I know you're all wondering, with baited breath no doubt, how your faithful correspondent chose to celebrate this made up important holiday. I'm sorry to disappoint those of you who may imagine that I have some kind of glamorous life, what with living in Rome and all, but I cannot lie to you, dear readers. My May Day has been pretty boring, although productive. I realized this morning that I have literally practically no clothes. And most importantly, I do not own a pair of jeans. Or I didn't until this morning.
I'll let you in on a little secret. I hate shopping. I mean, I really really hate it. It makes me want to throw up just thinking about it. And I especially hate it when there is something specific that I need to buy, because I will almost surely not find it. I should, perhaps, clarify this a little: I hate shopping in Italy. Shopping in the United States, if overwhelming and over-stimulating, is a wonderful, marvelous thing. But shopping in Italy--at least in 2013--is hell on Earth. Why, you ask, darling readers? Because mid-level Italian designers have decided that it's not 2013, but actually 1991. So the shops are full of baggy T-shirts, off-the-shoulder, shapeless, sweater-dresses, M C Hammer pants, and jeans that are intended to be rolled up tightly at the ankle, like we did in 8th grade. All in the attractive colors of brown, beige, and camel. Every shop looks the same and it isn't pretty. It's a wonder I found any decent jeans at all.
My second exciting May Day event was the dreaded cambio di stagione (change of season). This is when you swap out all your winter clothes for your summer clothes and hope there isn't a late spring cold-spell. (This isn't necessary where I come from, by the way. In Seattle, the temperature is more or less the same all year round.) But it is a must in Rome, where not only does the weather jump from 45 to 85 degrees Fahrenheit sometimes in the space of a few weeks, but also where almost no one has more than a puny little wardrobe (roomy, built in closets are unknown in these parts). Thank God for the soppalco (crawl space).
Jealous, right? I'll bet. But just think, if I hadn't opted for a boring May Day, I wouldn't have had the time to write this post, and that's what really matters, amirite? Um, hello? Anyone still reading?
I do want to mention my absolute best May Day ever. It was in 2010, coincidentally just after I began this blog. Here is the post I wrote about that day: Perfezione e Vergogna (before I realized using Italian titles for my posts was not the best idea if I actually wanted people to read them--silly me). It was a wonderful day that included a bike ride in Villa Pamphilj and the requisite endless lunch in the countryside with a big group of friends.
But those two highly enjoyable outings are not what made that day so special, nor are they the reasons I will remember it forever. No, that is because of something that happened early, early in the morning. Let me set the scene: I was engaged to be married. We I had decided that the wedding would take place in San Pietro in Montorio, just up the street from where I lived at the time on Via Garibaldi. The church is perched on the slope of the Gianicolo Hill, is the sight of Bramante's exquisite Tempietto, and has a view of Rome that makes you me want to weep with ecstasy.
The only problem is, just about everyone in Rome wants to get married there. I had talked to the priest months earlier and he had explained that you cannot book a date at that church any more than one year in advance, to avoid "abusi" as he put it. What did that mean for us me? I meant that we I would have to basically stake out the church on the first day of whichever month we hoped to get married in, one year in advance. And hope to get there in time to get a good date.
We had originally planned to get married some time in early June, but I wasn't sure how early we I would have to get to the church on the morning of the first of June to line up. How many other couples would have the same idea? June is probably the most popular month to get married... would I have to wait all night? (I had a vision of Claudio and I with our chess set sitting on the steps of the church on a balmy June night, waiting to pick our wedding date with all of Rome spread at our feet. Pretty romantic, right?)
But still, I was worried. I'd only have this one chance. What if 30 couples got there before us and grabbed all the weekend dates? I decided to do a dry run the month before. I figured I would show up at the church on the morning of the first of May around 6am (they let people in at 7) and see how many couples were waiting and ask them what time they got there. Well, I can tell you it wasn't easy dragging myself out of bed before six on a holiday, but luckily I lived very close to the church. I was rewarded with an incredible sight. I have seen the view of Rome from the Gianicolo probably hundreds of times (although I never tire of it), but never had I seen it at dawn. The city had a golden-rosy glow with just tinge of periwinkle. As beautiful as Rome is at sunset, I think it might be even more glorious at sunrise.
When I arrived at the church, the parking lot was full of cars. A few people were sitting around. Fourteen couples were already there, most had arrived the night before and slept in their cars. One couple had showed up at 2pm the day before. It did not bode well. June will be even worse, I imagined. Then I noticed that someone had a list. It was actually a calendar with the available days and times for weddings shown; as soon as a couple arrived, they blocked off their preferred date and waited until 7am to confirm it with the priest. I gave it a glance, just out of curiosity. All the 4pm weekend slots were already taken of course, except one: Sunday, 29 May. I thought quickly. Early June, late May, did it really make such a difference?
I jotted our names down, just in case, and made a quick call to a very sleepy fidanzatino (not yet maritino). "What? You booked what? When? All right... whatever...." Yes, it would have been nice if he had been as ecstatic as I was, but the important thing was he agreed on the date. I felt rather pathetic being the only lone bride there while everyone else was with their betrothed (except there was one groom whose fiancée was out of town and he had brought a male friend with him to keep him company; before he explained this I was thinking, "Did they change the rules?"). An hour-long wait and a quick meeting with the priest and that was it: we had a date for the wedding, in a church with one of the most amazing settings in the city. And that quiet, serendipitous morning is what May Day will always be for me.
I can't close this (very rambling) post without at least one nugget of history. Long before May Day was called by the pedestrian name of Primo maggio, it used to be called Calendimaggio. This term comes from the ancient Roman calendar, in which the first of the month was called the Kalends. As is the case with most Italian words in my vocabulary, the first time I ever heard the word Calendimaggio was in an opera. One of my favorites in fact, Puccini's Gianni Schicchi. Rinuccio and Lauretta desperately want to get married on Calendimaggio, only their families detest each other. Here's a video of the entire one-act opera, skip to 25:55 for the moment in which the thwarted couple despairs that they won't be able to marry on Calendimaggio.
I first saw this opera as a teenager I decided then and there that I too must wed on Calendimaggio. In fact, this was the original date I had hoped for, but am very happy someone talked me out of it, as John Paul II was beatified that day in 2011 and Rome was bursting to the gills with pilgrims, not to mention the traffic nightmares the Primo maggio concert inevitably causes.
In the Renaissance, Calendimaggio was not only a celebration of the arrival of spring (like May Day around the world), but it was also a day when tradition dictated that young men leave flowers at the doors of their sweethearts and maybe even serenade them. One of the few Italian cities that maintains the tradition ofCalendimaggio is Assisi, where a three-day festival takes place during the first week of May every year, with processions, concerts, theater performances, competitions and lots of local townsfolk dressed in gorgeous Renaissance costumes. It starts tomorrow!
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