So you want to move to Rome? My advice: do it!

I began writing this post in my head last night, as I was trying to fall asleep (the only free time I have these days, as my dearth of blog posts testifies). The idea for this post came to me on the heels of some amazing friends who have been making stops in Rome in the past weeks. Seeing Rome through fresh eyes never fails to remind me of how amazing this city is, and how unbelievably lucky I feel to live here.

View from Via dei Fori Imperiali, photo by Giulio Menna

It is so easy to get bogged down by the negative things about this city. Every city on earth has its unpleasant aspects, but Rome’s can be so glaringly obvious and pervasive (especially as one transitions from happy-go-lucky expat to permanent resident) that it is easy to lose sight of the innumerable wonderful things, the things that made most of us expats move here in the first place.

In the space of two weeks, I have been blessed by the appearances of a number of friends, none of whom live in Rome, but all of whom have a connection with it. Cristina and Tim are ex-expats, who lived here for years and were some of my first friends when I arrived. They have both moved on to have fabulous careers outside Italy, but can’t help feel that magnetic pull to allure of this city, and are even tempted, every so often, to chuck it all and come back (although –sadly for me– I know they won’t).

Another is India, a former yoga student of mine who spent 18 magical months here as an adolescent and now, at 20, wouldn’t be able to survive a year without at least one week spent in Rome. She visits every July and her enthusiasm for Rome is contagious.

And then there’s Maeve. Were it not for a blossoming opera career in New York, she would have taken up residence in this inimitable town long ago. But, as with most musicians, career comes first, and so she’s content to visit once a year, study the language and soak up the culture. Spending time with these four amazing people has renewed my delight in Rome. After a couple of months of more griping than usual about this fair city (and its ever so difficult residents), thanks to my friends I have returned to my “default setting” of being enchanted with my adopted hometown.

Detail of Villa Medici, photo by Patrizia Ferri

And this led me to think about the people I know who aren’t happy to come here only for short visits. People who, like me, can’t help but heed that insistent voice that tells us there is no other place for us, at least at this moment in time, than Rome*. That to live anywhere else would be to deny one of the deepest desires of our souls.

People like my new friend Margaret, who even as I write this is plotting her move here. Although at a completely different stage in her life than I was as I schemed to find a way to live here 8 years ago, she nevertheless reminds me of exactly how I felt when the thought of living in Rome was not yet a reality.

People like travel writer and fellow blogger Keane Li who finds charm and fascination in every angle of the city, and captures them so compellingly in his writing. He asked me recently, in a message that I have shamefully yet to reply to, what advice I could give him on how to make the transition to live here permanently. Maybe I haven’t replied because it’s a big question. There are so many things to consider, including finances, the language barrier, work permits, the bureaucratic nightmare of becoming a legal resident, the horrifying discrepancy between salaries and living expenses, not to mention the shock of up and leaving your home, job, family, friends and culture in one fell swoop.

But, unlike most big questions, this one has a short answer:

Do it.

At the risk of sounding like a decades-old marketing campaign, just do it. There will be so many people, both those who have attempted such a move and those who would never dare, who will tell you it’s not possible, or better yet, that it’s not worth it. That it’s a big risk, it’s financially draining, it stagnates your career, and so on. All this, and for what? Just to live in a foreign country? Life will still go on, just as before.

Detail of the Fountain of the Triton by Gianlorenzo Berlini, photo by SpirosK

Yes, life will go one, and sometimes more frustratingly than before (I wrote about this in a guest post not long ago) and it’s important not to imagine that life will be as easy and deliciously carefree as Woody Allen and Julia Roberts make it seem in the movies. But naysayers who get off on telling others how things can’t be done are generally just smarting because their own experiences were less than ideal.

Don’t listen to them. You have a desire, a calling, even. You can’t explain it; you just know. Don’t let anyone change your mind. Hearing other people’s experiences is necessary, but ultimately, only you know what is right for you.

I felt this unexplainable calling too, from a very young age, as I’ve written about before. I didn’t know why I was supposed to be here. I just knew that I had to come, and stay. (PS Coming is easy; it’s the staying that is the hard part.) So come I did, and let me tell you, the first year was hard, nothing like the month-long study trips I had taken years before. But I toughed it out; I just knew I was supposed to be here, and now I realize why: his name is Claudio. (Not that he’s the only reason, of course! My lifestyle here alone is enough of a reward.)

I don’t intend to suggest that everyone who moves to Rome should stay here indefinitely. Some people come for six months or a year, get their fill of gelato and amatriciana and move back home, richer and wiser for their experiences. And there are others who stay 10, 20 years, or even their whole lives. Whatever the case, if you want to be here, come. It goes without saying, be prepared. Save up some money, learn the basics of the language, have a plan for how to make money, and don’t be too flippant about legal requirements (it’s not 2005 anymore), but just come. Things will work themselves out.

Photo by Mark Turner

It won’t be without sacrifices. You may end up living on a fraction of what you are used to in your home country, and some may see this as a step down on the socio-economic ladder, but I see it as an opportunity to learn to live with less. You’re used to living in a two-storey house? Try a cozy one-bedroom for a change, or move in with roommates, making new friends in the process. Think you can’t live without your SUV? Discover the freedom of commuting by bicycle. What you will receive in cultural, gastronomic and artistic wealth will more than make up for any temporary material lack you might feel.

I truly believe that when you are doing what you are meant to be doing, things have a way of working out. Not always exactly as you had envisioned, but brilliantly nonetheless. So if you really, really want it, take the risk. Give notice. Buy those tickets.

Source

In short, just come. And be sure to look me up when you get here.

*Or Paris, or Tuscany, or Spain, or wherever it is your heart wants to be

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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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Procrastination and over-sharing: a blogger's dilemma

I woke up this morning to a love note (complete with stick-figure drawing) from the Maritino in honor of our nine-monthiversary. (I guess we're still in that annoying honeymoon phase.) In addition to making me giddy and teary at the same time, it reminded me it's time for another wedding post! (I missed this little tradition last month).

When I first got the idea of sharing little tidbits of my wedding on the 29th of each month, I thought I would be creating light-hearted posts about my many Rome-inspired DIY projects, or at most sharing funny anecdotes about the challenges of planning a bi-cultural wedding. But as usual I started over thinking it. I thought it would be cool to tell the back story of what brought me to the altar (alongside the greatest man alive), and this included the telling of what brought me to Italy, since if I hadn't moved to Italy, it's highly unlikely I would have met said greatest man. Before I knew it I was writing about my great-great-grandparents and the hand of fate that led me to come here, and if any of you have been following this ambling string of posts (anyone?), I'm sure you're wondering when I'm going to get to the point.

Well, I've been putting it off actually. You see, despite writing a blog (and we all know only narcissists who love revealing all of the vile and personal details of their lives to total strangers write blogs), I've been hesitant to begin to reveal what I know will not just be musings about garters and flowers, but what is actually a deeply personal and probably excessively sentimental story. It's a story I want to tell, but part of me feels incredibly silly, revealing my girlish ideas about destiny and love. And beyond that, does anybody out there actually care to read it?

Ah, it's been a long day, and the hour hand is sneaking closer and closer to twelve... I am about to let myself off the hook for this month. Just too sleepy to open up my diary for the world to read tonight. Besides, I've got to post on the 29th, haven't I? (Excuses, excuses.)

So, dearest bloglings, I apologize for the lack of content in this post, but it has given me the courage to tell you a story, so stay tuned and you'll hear it next month (that is, unless I can think up another story about my ancestors to tell you instead). I thank you for your patience with me. Goodnight.

 

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My Italian Ancestors

The idea of fate fascinates me: that a thousand tiny decisions –even things that happen before you were born– conspire to lead you down one path in life instead of another.

Church of San Silvestro in Bagnoli del Trigno

I started this story by describing the unexplainable pull I have always felt toward Italy, without which it’s virtually impossible that I would have ever met my Maritino. Perhaps it’s more of a stretch to think that finding my great-great-grandmother’s wedding ring somehow had an influence on my destiny, but nevertheless, that is how it seems to me. And somehow it made perfect sense when I learned that I was not the first person in my family to pick up and move to Italy. But even more significant is that while my paternal great-grandmother was teaching German and Latin in Florence at the end of the 19^th century, my maternal ancestors were working the land not far away.

The mountain village of Bagnoli del Trigno, in the province of Isernia in the region of Molise in south-central Italy

My mother’s mother’s ancestors came from a tiny town in the hills of Molise (the least well-known of Italy’s 20 regions), a place called Bagnoli del Trigno, with less than 500 residents, where everyone knows everyone and most people are related. Two brothers, Enrico and Raffaele, were married to two sisters, Filomena and Michelina. 

Italian farmers, or contadini, not any relation to me

Life was hard for Italian farmers in the first few decades of the 1900s, and every hand was needed. So even new mothers, like my great-grandmother Filomena, were expected to toil the land. The women who were too sick to work in the fields would have the duty of nursing the children of the village, and this is how Filomena and Enrico’s first-born child died.

Bagnoli del Trigno, my ancestral village

The loss of this child was the catalyst that propelled Enrico and his brother Raffaele to seek out a better life. And since America was the land of dreams for southern Italians at that time, that is where they went. Unable to afford passage for all four, the wives were left behind for the time being, and the two brothers sailed across the ocean, arriving, as so many before them, at Ellis Island. It was nearly 1920 and New York was already teeming with Italian immigrants, and besides, Enrico and Raffaele were farmers, so they headed west. They got jobs on the railway, and literally worked their way across the country. They earned enough not only to send for their wives to join them, but also to buy a small farm in eastern Washington state, where my grandmother, Eleanora (whose name was later Americanized to Eleanor) was born in 1922.

Nonna Eleanora, aka Grandma Ellie, circa 1923

This makes me one-quarter Italian. Not very much, when you think about it, but as soon as I learned I was part Italian, at about seven or eight years old, I embraced my heritage whole-heartedly. I would declare proudly that I too was Italian. My sister made fun of me, and loved to remind me that I was not, in fact, Italian, but a boring old American, nothing more. But I felt Italian. I was also part English, German, Irish and Portuguese, but I identified only with the Italian side. Is it any wonder then that I ended up here? And that I can now say that I am, at the very least, Italian by marriage? (Although not yet a citizen; I’ll have to wait a few more years before it’s official.)

Photo sources: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5: family photo

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The Borghese Gallery and the fate of an ill-gotten collection, part 2

A few days ago, in part 1, I gave you the back story on how the unscrupulous art-addict Scipione Borghese was able to amass his immense collection in such a short time. Well, about 200 years after all this art extortion occurred, the still prosperous Borghese family was forced to pay back some of their karmic debt.

In 1807, Prince Camillo Borghese was strong-armed by his brother-in-law, Napoleon Bonaparte, into selling him hundreds of works from the family collection. 695 pieces in all, most of them antiquities -sculptures, vases and reliefs- were packed up and carted off to France. The Romans of the time were in an uproar, and attempted to block the sale, but to no avail.


Vaso Borghese. Neo-attican school. End of 1st century BC. Louvre Museum, Paris. © Musée du Louvre, Etienne Revault



Ennio Quirino Visconti, a famous antiquarian of the day, was responsible for selecting the most important works for the emperor. The crown jewel of the collection was the exquisite Borghese Vase, dating to the 1st century BC and discovered in the Orti Sallustiani. It will take your breath away the moment you cross the threshold of the already magnificent salon. It's impossible not to be awed by it, standing nearly six feet high and masterfully carved with delicate reliefs of Dionysian scenes. This one piece alone was valued at 200,000 francs at the time of purchase, about 1.1 million US dollars today. (I would wager its value is much higher today).

Silenus with the Child Bacchus, 1st-2nd cent. AD copy of  4th cent. BC original by Lysippus
Louvre Museum, Paris. © Musée du Louvre, Thierry Ollivier 

It was a tragedy for Italy, but an even greater one for art. The antiquarians may have been the ones to select the art, but unfortunately they weren't always present during the removal of the works, and many sculptures were literally broken into pieces to fit them into the shipping crates. The sale price agreed upon was 13 million francs (circa 71.5 millions US dollars today), but in the end, just over half of this was ever paid. The rest was made up for by the gift of Lucedio estate in Piemonte.

Portrait of Lucius Verus. Head: ca. 180 AD, modern bust: Carlo Albacini. Louvre Museum, Paris. © Musée du Louvre, Daniel Lebée and Carine Déambrosis

Unlike much of the painting collection that belonged to Scipione Borghese, the antiquities were acquired legally. He purchased most of the items from Lelio Coeli and Giovanni Battista della Porta in the first decade of the 1600s. But karma works in strange and mysterious ways, at least in my overactive imagination, and despite the fact that I hate to think all of these glorious Italian works ending up in France, I do feel that Scipione Borghese got what he deserved, even if he wasn't alive to see it.

Cupid seated astride a Centaur, 2nd cent. AD copy of 2nd cent. BC original. Louvre Museum, Paris. © Musée du Louvre, Thierry Ollivier

These works now make up the vast majority of the Louvre Museum's antiquities collection and this is the first time they have been brought back to Italy since they were carried over the Alps to what was at the time called the Musée Napoléon. Sixty works in total make up this temporary exhibit, and provide a wonderful opportunity to admire them in the villa that was designed around them, but they are a mere pittance compared to the 695 pieces that were sold. Both Antonio Cavona (who told Napoleon what he had done was "an indelible shame") and Cardinal Casoni did everything they could to block the sale from going through, but they were unsuccessful due to France's indomitable political clout at the time.



Sleeping Hermaphrodite. First half of 2nd century AD. Restored by Gian Lorenzo Bernini and David Larique. Louvre Museum, Paris. © Musée du Louvre, Thierry Ollivier


About ten years before the Borghese collection was downsized, Antonio Asprucci, commissioned by Prince Marcantonio Borghese, renovated the villa. The most important pieces in the collection became the focal points of the rooms, with the entire decorative theme from the walls to the ceiling arranged to compliment and enhance them. Despite the disappearance of so many of the works, the arrangement of the museum today is essentially Asprucci's design. This makes the new exhibit even more suggestive, as all of the works have been placed in their original location, with the exception of the Borghese Vase, which was placed in the center of the salon for the exhibition due to the impact it offers upon entrance.



Detail of Sleeping Hermaphrodite. First half of 2nd century AD. Restored by Gian Lorenzo Bernini and David Larique. Louvre Museum, Paris. © Musée du Louvre, Thierry Ollivier


As improbable as it sounds, something good did come out of this unfortunate business deal. It caused such an outrage in the artistic circles of Rome at the time that it raised awareness of the growing risk threatening the Italian artistic heritage. It led directly to Cardinal Bartolomeo Pacca's issuing of the Pacca Edict in 1820 which prohibited Italian works of art belonging to private galleries from being removed from Rome.

Venere Marina, ca. 160 AD. Louvre Museum, Paris. © Musée du Louvre, Daniel Lebée and Carine Déambrosis

And hey, it could have been worse. They could have stolen all the works by Carvaggio, Bernini, Domenichino and friends. We should be thankful that Napoleon lived in a time when the Baroque was considered kitch. Although many of the other works stolen by Napoleon and the French troops were repatriated to Italy after Napoleon's defeat (thanks, in part, to the diplomatic skill of Antonio Canova), the Borghese collection was not returned as it had been sold fair and square, and there was a contract to prove it. That was not the case for the rest of Napoleon's looted treasure (which included the Laocoon, the Apollo Belvedere and hundreds of other works), which was brazenly and brutally stolen, a plundering that is unprecedented in the modern age.

As my favorite pasquinade goes, "I francesi sono tutti ladri?" "No, ma buona parte!"

"Are all Frenchmen thieves?"  "No, but most of them ('Buonaparte')!"

For practical information on how and when to visit this exhibit, see the Exhibits on now page.

All images courtesy of Ufficio Stampa Mondo Mostre

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The Borghese Gallery and the fate of an ill-gotten collection, part 1

Do you believe in karma?

What about when it comes to art?

Visiting the extraordinary new exhibit at the Galleria Borghese, which opens in Rome today, I couldn't help but be struck by the irony of situation. Sixty works of art, mostly antiquities, once part of the Borghese collection, have been temporarily returned from their current location at the Louvre in Paris back to their original home at the Boghese Gallery. But how did they get to Paris?

Would you be surprised if I told you Napoleon had something to do with it? But let me start from the beginning...

Rome, 16 May 1605. Camillo Borghese is elected Pope Paul V and immediately names his sister's son, Scipione Caffarella, as Cardinal-Nephew. Not content with being a pope's nephew, Scipione becomes the adopted son of his uncle and is known thereafter as Scipione Borghese. He became the most unscrupulous collector the art world has ever seen.

Scipione must have realized that as Cardinal-Nephew in corrupt 17th-century Rome, he would have more than ample access to any funds he might require, and so he traded his right of inheritance with his cousin Marcantonio, in exchange for every piece in the family's art collection. Despite his position of immense influence, he chose not to involve himself in affairs of state, and instead used his power to satisfy his obsession to possess the world's greatest art.

The collection was already dazzling, but it wasn't enough to satisfy Scipione. He had plans for a marvelous villa, custom built to display the crown jewels of his collection, and he was determined to fill it up. One of his preferred painters was Giuseppe Cesari, better known as Cavalier d'Arpino, a mannerist painter who could boast that Caravaggio had once been his student. In fact, it was d'Arpino who introduced Scipione to the work of Caravaggio, as well as that of Bernini, both of whom would go on to become the cardinal's favorite artists. Since Caravaggio had once worked in d'Arpino's studio, the latter owned a number of Caravaggio's early paintings, and possessed a collection totalling 107 works by various artists. Scipione lusted after d'Arpino's collection (the Caravaggio works in particular) and it didn't take long before he got his hands on it. In 1607, when the artist failed to pay a tax bill, Pope Paul V confiscated his entire collection and gave it to Scipione. The collection included Caravaggio's Boy with a Basket of Fruit and Sick Bacchus, both of which hang in his villa today. If Scipione was addicted to collecting art, then his uncle the Pope was his enabler.

Boy with a Basket of Fruit, Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio, 1593-1594, Galleria Borghese, Rome

Sick Bacchus, Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio, 1593-1594, Galleria Borghese, Rome

Another Caravaggio painting, Madonna and Child with St. Anne which had been commissioned to be an altarpiece in a chapel in St. Peter's, was appropriated by the cardinal when it was declared by the College of Cardinals to be unfit to hang in the basilica. Documents have suggested that Scipione may have planned it that way from the beginning.

Madonna and Child with St. Anne, Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio, 1605, Galleria Borghese, Rome

More shocking still is how the Cardinal Borghese ended up with Raphael's sublime Deposition. A gang working for Scipione literally ripped it off the Baglioni Altarpiece in the church of San Francesco in Perugia. The city of Perugia was understandably outraged, and to appease them, Scipione had two copies of the painting by Lanfranco and d'Aprino sent to them. But if you've seen the original, you know the copies couldn't possibly substitute it.

The Deposition, Raphael, 1507, Galleria Borghese, Rome

While Bernini was more than willing to be on the cardinal's payroll, pumping out masterpiece after masterpiece, some of his most famous sculptures that still adorn the gallery today, others were not so easily convinced. Cardinal Pietro Aldobrandini had commissioned the sensitive artist Domenichino to paint his triumphant Diana and the Hunt, and when Scipione decided that the work should go to him instead, Domenichino refused to sell it to him. Domenichino was carted off to jail for his lack of cooperation (and probably some invented charges as well) and Scipione got his Diana in the end. Guido Reni, a proud Bolognese through and through, got so sick of the nepotism and corruption rife in Rome, he washed his hands of the Vatican and returned home, only to retrace his steps when the cardinal threatened him with jail as well.

Diana and the Hunt, Domenichino, 1617-1618, Galleria Borghese, Rome

But most horrific of all was his alleged blackmailing of Caravaggio. After over three years on the run due to an unfortunate brawl that left him with blood on his hands and a price on his head, Caravaggio was desperate to return to Rome. As his doting uncle the Pope had recently conferred on him the title of Grand Penitentiary, it was well within Cardinal Borghese's power to pardon Caravaggio, but for months he kept the tortured artist guessing. When the pardon finally came, the 'grateful' Caravaggio sent Scipione a David with the Head of Goliath as gesture of  'thanks'. But Caravaggio wasn't long for this world, and it was on his journey back to Rome that he died, most likely of malaria or fever (although his body was never found), and Scipione snapped up his last two available works to round out his collection.

David with the Head of Goliath, Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio, 1609-1610, Galleria Borghese, Rome

None of these works are the subject of the Borghese Gallery's new exhibition of course, but to me, the way they were acquired caused the Borghese family to acrue some karmic dept that would be paid back about 200 years later to a short Frenchman with an even greater sense of entitlement than Scipione Borghese, if possible. Part 2 to come tomorrow...

Photo sources: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8

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Six months a wife and an illuminated manuscript

Half a year of married life! It’s hard to believe…

Every month on the 29^th, I have been writing a post about my wedding, but I’m having so much fun writing about the back-story, which goes as far back as the 1860s, that I haven’t actually arrived at the wedding itself! I’m still stuck in the 1800s! Last month I wrote about my inspiring great-grandmother Faith who moved to Florence in the 1890s to teach German. One more word about her before I get to my own story.

A few years ago, around the same time I serendipitously discovered the wedding ring of my great-great-grandmother Susan (Faith’s mother), my father proudly showed me another family heirloom. He brought out a big leather-bound seemingly ancient book and carefully lifted the cover. It was a collection of German fairy stories and folktales. But this was no ordinary book, it was an illuminated manuscript, hand painted in gold, blue and red, with pages that unfolded to reveal intricate and spectacular illustrations. I wish I had a photo of it, but it is all the way on the other side of the ocean. The photos I have included are not my own, but the manuscripts in them are similar to Faith's.

My German is very poor, so I could not understand much of the book, much less read any of the stories, but I marveled at it nonetheless. I also have no expertise in dating books, so for the time being I have no idea how old the book is, or whether it is an original or a copy. But you want to know the best part about this book? It was a wedding present. For Faith, from what I imagine was one of her closest friends.

I seem to have a knack for finding inscriptions and dedications, because I discovered a tiny envelope tucked between two of the richly decorated pages of the massive tome that seemed to have been ignored for over a century. Inside, on a small card was written the following note:

“Dear Faith,                                                                           April 23^rd, 1895

I wish you all the greatest possible happiness in your upcoming marriage, but not so much that you lose your love of the German language.

Much love…”

Just as the inscription in Susan’s ring is worth so much more than the gold it is carved into, so this note is more precious to me than the book itself. It makes me proud to think that even over one hundred years ago, my great-grandmother and her girlfriends got that being a good wife does not mean abandoning one’s passions. Anzi! (On the contrary!)

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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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It all began with a ring

Just like the story of the founding of Rome, the whispers of which could be heard long before that fateful day in 753BC, so the story of my wedding truly begins on Christmas day, 1861.

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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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