The Borgia Pope, Pinturicchio and La Bella Farnese

In my mind, there's nothing better then some fabulous art, especially when a bit of mystery and scandal are thrown in.That's why I was practically giddy yesterday to be able to see a long-lost work of art with a shocking past.

Portrait of Pope Alexander VI, detail from The Ascension, Pinturicchio

Back in the 1490s, just around the time a pair of Spanish monarchs sent Christopher Columbus off in search of a new route to India, another famous Spaniard was stepping into the most important shoes in Christendom. Most people are at least somewhat familiar with the notorious Borgia family, and their patriarch Rodrigo, Pope Alexander VI, especially thanks to the Showtime series, but just in case you need a refresher, Alexander VI went down in history as the Papa Cattivo (naughty pope) due to his unprecedented unpriestly lifestyle that included mistresses, many children, nepotism, greed, corruption, orgies, murder, and according to some, incest.

His living quarters in the Vatican Palace, the now-called Borgia Apartment, are decorated with frescoes by the great Renaissance painter Pinturicchio (who also painted some of the wall frescoes in the nearby Sistine Chapel).The most famous is probably The Disputation of St. Catherine that features his famously beautiful young daughter Lucrezia posing as the saint and The Ascension, which features the Pope himself.

Disputation of St. Catherine, Pinturicchio, Borgia Apartments, Vatican Museums

But these were not the only portraits the Pope had Pinturicchio slip into his paintings. According to Vasari, the father of art history, "In the palace he also portrayed over the door of one of the living rooms Signora Giulia Farnese in the features of Our Lady and in the same picture the face of Pope Alexander, who is adoring the Madonna," (Giorgio Vasari, Lives of the Artists, Penguin Classics, vol. II, translation by George Bull, pg 83).

This might not have been so scandalous if the Giulia Farnese in question hadn't been the Pope's teenage mistress at the time. It was a well-documented fact that the already married Farnese, called La Bella Farnese and known as being the most beautiful woman in Rome at the time, was not only the Pope's official mistress, but had also borne him child. (Some even supposed that their baby daughter Laura, born in 1492--the very year that Borgia became pope--modelled for the Baby Jesus!)

Scandalous indeed. Only one problem: the fresco doesn't exist. At least not in the Borgia Apartments. In fact, in my copy of The Lives of the Artist, in the notes at the back, the editor states that Vasari was clearly mistaken in what he wrote because the work does not exist. Well, as it turns out, it did exist, but was destroyed. 

Nearly 200 years later, during the reign of Pope Alexander VII Chigi (1655-1667) that moralizing pontiff decided a fresco of the "Naughty Pope" adoring his teenage mistress dressed as the Virgin (and possibly their female lovechild) was not only inappropriate for the Vatican, but blasphemous as well. So the fresco was hacked right off the wall. However, it seems that at least a few pieces of the errant work were salvaged by either the Pope himself, or someone in his family, because a small fragment of a fresco depicting an unusually beautiful Christ child held by pair of graceful hands with another hand caressing his foot (eventually dubbed The Baby Jesus of the Hands) was listed as part of the collection of Flavio Chigi, relative of the late Alexander VII Chigi, in 1693, as well as a half-figure fresco of the Madonna. Both works were at the time attributed to Perugino.

Baby Jesus of the Hands, Pinturicchio, Fondazione Guglielmo Giordano

The two fragments were passed down through the Chigi family, on display at the Palazzo Chigi on Via del Corso, by this time correctly attributed to Pinturicchio, until 1912, when Eleonora Chigi married Enrico Incisa della Rochetta and brought the fragments with her, eventually passing them down to their descendant Marchese Giovanni Incisa della Rochetta, who was also an art historian. 

Copy of Pinturicchio's Baby Jesus blessing Pope Alexander VI, Pietro Facchetti, Mantova

In 1940, Marchese Giovanni, travelling in Mantova, happened to see a painting on canvas that looked very familiar to him. It was the work of a 17th century copyist Pietro Facchetti, who had been commissioned by Francesco IV Gonzaga in 1612 to recreate this scandalous work. The Gonzagas were apparently looking for a way to make fun of their rivals, the Farnese. Contemporary chronicler Stefano Infessura reports that Facchetti managed to gain access to the Borgia Apartment in the Vatican by bribing a guard. Even during the papacy of Paul V, the work was considered inappropriate and therefore had been covered by a veil of fabric. Facchetti convinced the guards to uncover the work and eventually painted a copy. When Marchese Giovanni saw Facchetti's work, and carried out some more research of his own, he concluded that his two fragments were part of the long ago destroyed fresco that had once decorated Rodrigo Borgia's own bedroom. Even if the exact likeness of the Christ figure (and possibly the Madonna figure as well, although we do not have the possibility of knowing) wasn't enough to convince him, the portrait of Alexander VI is almost identical to that in the Ascension.

In 2004, the fragment of Baby Jesus of the Hands resurfaced on the antique market and was purchased by the Guglielmo Giordano Foundation. It is on temporary display in the Palazzo Nuovo of the Capitoline Museums free of charge until 5 February, and I urge you to go see it if you have the chance. Besides the exceptional beauty of the work, the story behind it is truly unique. But a question remains: where is the second fragment, that of the face of the Virgin, i.e. Giulia Farnese? It belongs to a private collector who prefers not to be named.

A hypothesized sketch of Pinturicchio's original work with the two fragments indicated.

Below is another Madonna and Child, not long ago attributed to Pinturicchio, on display along side the fresco fragment in this mini-mostra. It is tempera on a wood panel and has nothing to do with the other work, but definitely worth seeing. For more practical information, see my Exhibits on Now page.

Madonna and Child, Pinturicchio, Fondazione Sorgente Group

Photo sources: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

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The Renaissance in Rome, in the footsteps of Michelangelo and Raphael

If you are in Rome and haven't yet had a chance to visit the wonderful exhibit, Il Rinascimento a Roma, nel segno di Michelangelo e Raffaello, at Palazzo Sciarra, I suggest you high-tail it over there soon, because in just a few weeks it will be over and the amazing works will be shipped back from whence they came. I generally try to post about each exhibit just as they are beginning, but somehow this one got lost in the shuffle for me, and I apologize that I am just getting around to write about it now.

One of the reasons I haven't written about this exhibit yet is the sheer enormity of the subject. Art in the 1500s in Rome. Where does one begin? Mannerism is like God: At first you think you understand it. Then, the more you learn, the more you realize how little you actually know.

It has also come to my attention recently that my blog posts are far too long. So instead of risking writing words no one will ever read, today I will simply give you a preview of the highlights of the exhibit with as little commentary as possible. However, a few of the works I found particularly intriguing and I do want to write about them further, but I will do it one by one in the following days, for your sake, dear bloglings, as well as my own.

There are three versions of the Holy Family by Perin del Vaga presented at the exhibit, but this one is by far the most beautiful in my opinion. This is also the earliest, and therefore the most likely to have been inspired by the artist's mentor, Raphael.

Holy Family, Piero Buonaccorsi, called 'Perin del Vago', 1540. Borghese Gallery, Rome

He looks awfully sad in this self-portrait for someone who had a famously happy life.

Self-Portrait, Raphael Sanzio, 1509. Galleria degli Uffizi, Florence

This cherub is a fragment of a fresco that has been removed from its place of origin. I have no information on where it originally lived, but I am guessing a church, since it curves inward toward the top. The fresco has been anchored to a slab of cadorite, and reinforced with aluminum brackets. I always cringe when I see transported frescoes. I am stunned they even attempt it as it seems so risky. Still, as most detailed frescoes are ususually high off the ground, having this at eye level gives you a great opportunity to see the minute details, such as cracks and brushstrokes, of a fresco.

Cherub, Raphael Sanzio, 1511. Accademia Nazionale di San Luca, Rome

Have you seen this face somewhere before? According to the audio-guide at the exhibit, he made an appearance in The School of Athens. Can you find him? As you can see from this portrait, he suffered from astigmatism.

Portrait of Tommaso Inghirami, called 'Fedra', 1513. Galleria Palatina and Palazzo Pitti, Florence

Sebastiano del Piombo adored Michelangelo, as the older artist had befriended him when he first arrived in Rome. Michelangelo, on at least four occasions, provided Sebastiano with designs that the later used for his own works.

Portrait of Michelango indicating his designs, Sebastiano del Piombo (attributed), ca 1520. Galerie Hans, Hamburg

This is one of the highlights of the exhibition. This painting, tempera on wood panel, belongs to a middle class family in upstate New York and apparently lived behind a couch for several years. Is it really the work of Michelangelo? What do you think?

Pietà di Ragusa, School of Michelangelo (with attribution to Michelangelo himself by some scholars), 1545. Private collection

This copy of Michelangelo's Last Judgement shows what the original looked like before Daniele da Volterra (the "breeches painter") was forced to censor it.

Copy of Michelangelo's Last Judgement, Marcello Venusti, 1549. Capodimonte Museum, Naples

This unfinished work is considered by some to be a depiction of David, and by others Apollo. Which do you think? More importantly, have you ever heard of this work before? Or seen an image of it? I know I hadn't and my heart skipped a beat when I saw it.

Apollo/David, Michelangelo Buonarroti, 1530. Museo Nazionale di Bargello, Florence

How would you like to find a coin like this stuck between two cobblestones?

Medal commemorating the placing of the first stone of St. Peter's Basilica, Cristoforo Foppa, called 'il Caradosso', 1506. Rome Foundation Collection, Rome

This was the last work in the exhibit and my favorite. I'll write more about it soon and have purposefully not included a caption. What does it remind you of? Does it make you as happy as it makes me (i.e. a lot)?

See the Exhibits on Now page to find out practical information about visiting this wonderful exhibition.

All images provided courtesy of Arthemesia Group press office

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Viva VEneRDIi: I was at the No. 1 music event of the year! (almost)

At the close of last year, Alex Ross, cultural writer for the world-famous magazine The New Yorker, announced what he believed to be the number one music event of 2011, not in New York, but in the entire world. And I was (kind of) there! Let me explain.

Riccardo Muti, long-time director of Teatro della Scala in Milan and one of the greatest living Verdian conductors, recently signed on as director of the Teatro dell'Opera di Roma (in addition to his duties at Chicago Symphony). This is a big deal for Rome, as opera in this city is not near the best in Italy. After Milan come Venice, Naples, and even Palermo. 5th is the best position Rome has been able to hope for in recent memory.

Now I could go into why this is, citing the banning of the budding art form of opera in pope-ruled Rome during the Counter Reformation, how opera was illegal in Rome until the 19th century and how the opera house wasn't even built 1880, so it's little wonder opera never really caught on here. But you don't want to read a bunch of history, right? Not on Verdi Friday.

But with Muti at the helm, we can expect the quality and prestige of Rome's opera company to go nowhere but up. On occasion of the 150th anniversary of the Unification of Italy last March, the Teatro dell'Opera di Roma staged Verdi's Nabucco, with Muti at the podium, of course. This was an obvious choice. This opera, since its very premier in 1842, has resonated with Italians. It tells the story of the ancient Hebrews' struggle to free themselves from Babylonia King Nebuchadnezzar. In 1842, Italy was in the thick of the Risorgimento, a struggle of their own to achieve not only unification, but more importantly their independence from the nearby countries who had ruled over them in one way or another, for so many years, Spain, France, and more recently, Austria.

In the 3rd act, the Hebrew slaves perform a haunting and simple chorus, Va pensiero, in which they sing of their lost homeland and their yearning to return there. Legend has it that when the stagehands at La Scala (northern Italy was particularly subjugated by the Austrians at this time) heard the singers rehearsing Va pensiero they broke into spontaneous applause. In fact, Italians identified so greatly with the Jewish slaves' song, that on opening night the audience went wild after the chorus was performed and insisted that it be repeated immediately. As I have said before, it is always a good idea to believe in legends. They make life so much more interesting. I write a bit more about Verdi's connection with the Risorgimento in my first Viva VEneRDI post.

Ever since, Va pensiero has been the unofficial national anthem of unified Italy, and you would be hard-pressed to find a native Italian alive, from a street-sweeper to a prince, who couldn't sing at least the first stanza. Opening night of Nabucco here in Rome in March of 2011 was a high profile event. The audience was full of VIPs from all over the country. After the moving chorus (moving at any performance, but particularly on such an important anniversary) Muti did something unexpected. He put down his baton, turned to the audience and spoke. Right in the middle of the opera!

He spoke to the audience about the recent announcement of cuts to culture funding, which would cost the Opera di Roma 37% of their annual budget. He recalled the most moving line of the chorus, "Oh mia patria, si bella e perduta!" (oh, my fatherland, so beautiful and so lost!) and announced: "...if we kill the culture upon which the history of Italy is founded, it will truly be 'our fatherland, beautiful and lost'." The orchestra and singers began to applaud and cry. Leaflets were thrown from the balcony like so much confetti, some with the message, "Viva Giuseppe Verdi" others with more political messages.

But what happened next was what earned this event Ross' award. He motioned for the chorus to stand and the audience as well, and he asked that they all sing that beloved hymn together. Every Italian in that audience sang Verdi's music that night. Just thinking about it gives me goosebumps.

When I watched it on the news the next day, I was moved to trembling, but sad that I couldn't have been there. I hadn't even hoped to attend the opera at all, but the Maritino, by some miracle, managed to score two tickets for closing night. I didn't even hope that the extraordinary event would repeat itself, in fact, it would have been silly. I teared up a bit (as usual) during the chorus, and the applause it received seemed to go on and on and on. But to my delighted surprise, at the end of the chorus, Muti turned to the audience again.

This time his speech was more hopeful. On the 21st of March, about a week after the premier, and three days before that final performance, the entire opera company played Va pensiero inside Italy's equivalent of the House of Representatives in protest. He reported to us that his protests had worked, and the proposed cuts were being reconsidered. Someone threw an Italian flag from the balcony and shouted "Viva l'Italia!" And then Mr. Muti said the words I was dying to hear. He said that on occasion of this victory, another encore of Va pensiero would be sung, and the audience was again asked to join in. I was so thankful to have memorized the words in advance and so proud to sing under Muti's baton that night.

Here is a video of the performance at Palazzo Montecitorio

That's one way to make a point!

Photo sources: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

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Words, words, words: Leccornia

It's funny how I can get on a roll with blogging, pounding out several posts in a week, and then all it takes is few days of laziness and procrastination and I haven't blogged in 3 weeks! My apologies, bloglings, it won't happen again!

I'll make this a short post, to get my feet wet again. Even though I went to two amazing exhibits this week and I am dying to share them with you!

How about this for a great word: Leccornia.

It means delicacy, morsel, or something simply divine to eat. Something scrumptious. Something mouth-watering. (As usual, English can't quite do it justice.)

It comes from the word lecco, which means "I lick", as in "finger-licking goodness". OK, I completely made that up. I don't know the etymology of the word, all I know is that I like it.

It doesn't necessarily refer to something sweet, but in my mind it does. To me, a leccornia looks like this:

Or like this:

Or maybe this:

This post is in perfect timing with my New Year's Resolution to give up sugar!*

Let's try this out in a sentence: Lecco le mie dita ogni volta che mangio una leccornia. (I lick my fingers everytime I eat a delicacy.)


*Translation: to cut back on sugar

Photo sources: 1, 2, 3

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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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Trastevere's Living Nativity Scene

This past Tuesday night, 20 December, our little parish in Trastevere, Santa Dorotea, staged a pretty impressive living Nativity Scene. I was expecting a couple of kids dressed as shepherds or angels draped with sheets à la The Best Christmas Pageant Ever. I was completely unprepared for a massive production that included over 50 children and dozens of adults, a children's choir, and adult choir, a violinist, a spotlight and numerous live animals. Trastevere's first Living Nativity Scene, staged in our very own Piazza Trilussa, was a resounding success, and I would be lying if I said I didn't tear up a few times during the 90 minute production. Here are a few of my own photos from the event that do not do it justice.

Seeing Mary and Joseph preparing to cross the Ponte Sisto was a magical sight. This was when I started to get as giddy as a child on, well, Christmas. I have nothing against Santa Claus, the reindeer, the tree and all the presents, but as corny as it sounds, this is what Christmas is all about for me, and seeing it reenacted, especially in my stomping ground, the neighborhood I have called home for more than seven years, was intensely moving.

One of my favorite parts of the nativity scene was the shepherds corner. They went into such detail to recreate the atmosphere and it was truly magical.

Mary and Joseph arrived to Debussy's Clair de Lune, its gentle notes overpowering the hushed square. You can see my priest in this photo, to the right of Joseph's head, the inspiring Padre Umberto Fanfarillo who organized the entire production.

See the angel playing violin?

The three wise men also arrived to gut-wrenchingly beautiful music.

A few photos of the stars.

The baby actually seemed divine: he didn't cry once, not even a peep.

This was without a doubt one of the greatest things I have ever experienced in Trastevere, including the Chocolate Festival! I hope to participate next year!

All photos by author

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Guercino Exhibit at Palazzo Barberini

Erminia and Tancredi, 1618, Private Collection, Cento

As a baby in his cradle he was noticed to be cross-eyed, and so Giovanni Francesco Barbieri became know as il Guercino, "the squinter", a nickname that stuck until his death. Luckily, this supposed cross-eyedness did not affect his painting skills.  Born in 1591 in Cento, a small town in Emilia-Romagna, Guercino's talent was recognized early, and he was sent to study in Bologna, before eventually migrating south to Rome, once again the center of the art world and the heart of the Baroque explosion.

St. Peter receives the keys, 1618, Pinacoteca Civica, Cento

But Guercino never quite fit in with his fellow artists. His work was too sensitive and full of emotion to be considered classical, yet too colorful and romantic to be considered naturalistic. He struck the perfect happy medium between Carracci and Caravaggio, although in his early period he occasionally showed signs of being influenced by the great Caravaggio, particularly in the painting above. Does it remind you just a bit of Caravaggio's Madonna di Loreto? Yeah, me too. But the work above was painted a full two years before Guercino came to Rome, so the similarity is most likely purely coincidence.

Mystical wedding of St. Catherine in the presence of St. Carlo Borromeo, 1614-15, Cassa di Risparmio, Cento

It was his brilliant chromatic ability that set Guercino apart from the others. Photographs can never capture the true colors of a painting, particularly if they are appearing on a computer screen, so I urge you to visit the exhibit in person if you are in Rome. His use of lapis lazuli outdoes even Michelangelo.

Sibyl, 1619-21, Fondazione Cassa di Risparmio, Cento

Today a new exhibition of 36 of this incredible artist's paintings opens in Palazzo Barberini's new exhibition space. This massive area on the ground floor of the exquisite baroque palace is over 1000 square meters, and this is only the second exhibit to be housed there, in what is expected to be a long series of mostre, each one focusing on a different painter. (Rumor has it Antoniazzo Romano is next, an artist who has the distinction of being the first Roman Renaissance painter!) What is fascinating about this exhibit is that it gives you a thorough understanding of the entire career of the great Emilian master, with a large selection of his early works, all on loan from his home town of Cento, a second section devoted to the work he executed in Rome, while working for the Emilian pope, Gregory XV Ludovisi, and a third section with his later works, created after his return to Emilia-Romagna. The three areas are clearly distinct from one another by the bright colors of the walls: cobalt, crimson and lilac, respectively.



The Miracle of St. Carlo Borromeo, 1613-14, Church of St. Sebastian, Renazzo di Cento



In the stunning painting above, one of my favorites of the mostra, St. Carlo Borromeo performs a miracle, giving sight to a blind infant. The women, taken with the quotidian worries of life, are not able to perceive what is happening. But the little girl sees a vision of the saint, and tries to get her mother's attention by pulling on her apron. Even the cat is aware of something out of the ordinary.  



Cleopatra before Octavian Augustus, 1640, Pinacoteca Capiotolina, Rome

The painting above, long believed to depict Augustus, has recently been considered by some to depict Julius Caesar instead. What do you think? I personally think the original idea is right. The soldier here looks quite young, and Caesar was considerably older than Cleopatra. And she doesn't seem to be in her first flush of youth, but instead older than the man in front of her. But I could be wrong!

Saul attempts to kill David with a spear, 1646, Palazzo Barberini, Rome

Only in Guercino's later work, from the 1640s onward, does he fully embrace classicism, becoming more inspired by Guido Reni than any other artist. How different, for example, is the Sibyl below from the one above? So much more intellectual and cold, almost as if she is posing for the artist, as opposed to the plumper, more life-like version above. At least his northern talent for color never changed.

Periscan Sybil, 1647, Pinacoteca Capitolina, Rome

She looks like she could be the long-lost sister of Reni's Beatrice Cenci!

Diana and the Hunt, 1658, Fondazione Sorgente Group, Cento

You're probably thinking right now, "Tiffany, how do you know so much about Guercino?" Okay, maybe not, but I can dream, can't I? Well, immediately following the press conference yesterday, just as I was beginning to admire the works, I had the fortune of bumping into Fausto Gozzi, one of the curators of the exhibit and the one of the world's leading Guercino experts. He led a few of us through the exhibit, explaining several of the works in detail, and giving us a greater understanding of the distinct phases of Guercino's long career

For all the practical information for visiting this gorgeous show, visit my Exhibits on now page.

All images provided courtesy of Ufficio Stampa Civita

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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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