The sound of breathing
Posted on March 7th, 2010
Another sunny – stripped back, soon to be spring – Sunday, another walk in the woods. How English, how middle class can you get? I don’t care, sometimes the effort of stepping outside the stereotype just isn’t worth it. Especially not on a glorious day like this, cold, crisp and clear. I’m conscious of a definate sense of anticipation as I lace up my walking (and slithering, sliding, jumping in puddles and squelching deliciously through mud) boots. Days like this, you just have to get out.
Having noticed a certain wintry open-ness to the landscape on the way over – no leaves, so you can see further, dead-looking laid hedges still sporting severe pre-spring trims, hardly any roadside scrub growth – I’m somewhat surprised by how much the wood retains that sense of density, of enclosure. Not as emphatic as it will be in summer, when everything’s in full growth, but it’s still striking. Something to do with the large amount of Hazel scrub colonizing the ground space, and patches of evergreen, no doubt.
At the moment it’s like being able to examine the skeletal structure of some vast, complicated beast. Seeing how the slanting sunlight catches the upward slanting tracery of fine hazel twigs laced between the more mature trunks it strikes me once again how web-like they are. How credible scarey folktales about giant spiders become. Even on a sunny afternoon.
Sternly reminding myself that many cultures regard spiders as benign, I press on through the twiggy, springy hazel web. As nearly always happens, I’m rewarded by seing something I’ve never seen before.
Today I suddenly notice the wild swerve taken by a pine trunk in its upward progress – from the ginger bark and somewhat ill-kempt, raffish dark green canopy a Scots pine, I think. There’s a small stand of them, all not quite straight (like the lads at the bar, any saturday night) but none as curved as the one that first caught my eye.
I haven’t the faintest idea why that one tree took such a different route, but am obscurely delighted that it did, and that I happened to notice. There’s something ineffably satisfying about the sudden deviation from the norm. Thinking about it as I write, it occurs to me that part of the attraction is the apparent randomness. (I say apparent because I suspect such a striking deviation to be susceptable of causal explanation) This really is a case where it might be possible to literally ‘explain something away’, where a rational approach may be inimical to a purely sensual appreciation of beauty.
Happy in my ignorance, easily distracted by new delights, I’m soon absorbed in trying to get a satisfactory photo of the way the slanting sun edges the Hazel catkins with an almost fierce glow. A slightly haphazard procedure as the sun is so strong that I can’t actually see the screen on the back of the camera. Never mind, I have faith, and take a few extra, just to be on the safe side. I’ve more or less shoved myself right into the middle of a particularly wild & twiggy Hazel, and am happily nattering away to myself when a youngish couple saunter down the path past me with their dog…and without the slightest sign of surprise at finding a bush full of muttering idiot. They nod gravely in greeting (more or less in synch) and the woman utters a cheery ‘Hi there’, as they continue on their way.
I can’t be the only person that takes a deep delight in such instinctive (and distinctively English) sang-froid, can I ?
In the normal (in so far as I can be said to posses such) run of things I tend to be primarily sensitive to visual things. Today I’ve been vaguely thinking about an interveiw for a multi-sensory school project I have tomorrow, so my ears are working as well. An added bonus, I think, noticing what at first I take to be the sound of a woodpecker drilling wood.
Advancing cautiously into clump of pines, and finding a handy stump to sit down on, I perch slightly breathlessly and wait for it to come back…whatever it is, and hope that I can spot the bird as well. Whatever it is, there’s more than one of them, as I can hear short bursts rhythmic tapping coming from several directions, although never at once.
Having strained ears and eyes for a while, I finally conclude that it’s not woodpeckers. The sound seems too short, and too quiet to be made by beaks being vigorously applied to tree-trunks. Just as I’m thinking this, I see a flash of darkish blue on a podgy little bird moving down a tree trunk head first. It’s a Nuthatch – as far as I know the only bird that habitually does this head-long descent – and I realise that the sound must be the birds trying to get into nuts. Living up to their name, in fact. There’s something so deeply satisfying about this, actually hearing something I dimly remember reading about years and years ago.
Bouyed up by this, I sit and listen a while longer. Silencing all those muttering, gibbering internal voices (do this, remember that, where did I read that?) one by one, until I can actually hear what there is to be heard. Road noise, inevitably, but easy enough to tune out. A surprising variety of flying things – small plane, jet airliner, another small plane and then a helicopter – improbably all in the space of not much more than ten minutes. All sorts of bird song, hardly any of which I can reliably identify…apart from the asthmatic coughing of some distant rooks. A few shots from a shotgun – someone afetr rabbits, perhaps? A slightly hysterical dog (happily receding, this) and yapping owner.
And, finally, once I’ve noticed everything else, so quiet I almost miss it, a gentle creaking sound. There’s hardly any breeze, but even so the thin trunks around me are swaying gently…creaking now and then. It sounds to me like the forest breathing, and it’s one of the most peaceful things I’ve heard for ages.
Man vs. rodent
Posted on December 15th, 2009
I went for a bracing 6 mile walk several nights ago – a distressing experience in more than one way. It hurt, for one thing. This was almost a week ago, and my calves have only just stopped aching. I’m back to striding manfully about the place, instead of tottering around like an arthritic tortoise, but it’s taken far longer than it should.
The hurt also hurt in other ways, as it made horribly apparent just how much of a flabby desk jockey/couch potato I have become. Ten years ago I’d have shrugged this off with barely a whimper. Quite why I secretly believed I should be different from the vast majority of the idle middle-aged, slumping gradually into complete stasis, I don’t know, but I obviously did. A comfort I will henceforth no longer be able to clasp to my (rapidly increasing) bosom.
Worst of all, I have only my own idiocy (and a large scotch) to blame.
I’ve been afflicted with rodents for a few weeks now – one of the joys of living in an old property, I suppose – and the latest stage of my campaign to be rid of my little furry lodgers has been about bins. I discovered a while back that they can get in the old plastic flip-top item in the kitchen area. I got a metal bin with a heavy lid. It worked. No more exploding bin-liners due to rodent-gnawed holes. Result.
Well….almost.
Not wanting to simply chuck the old bin out, I shoved it amongst all the piled up stuff that occupies the outer fringes of the bedroom until I could think of something else to use it for.
The rodents beat me to it.
Having skillfully evaded all the traps (traditional and humane) that I have dispersed around the place, one of them somehow managed to fall into the bin. Lacking a bag full of rubbish to clamber through, it couldn’t get out again. It could scrabble around energetically though.
You’d be surprised how effective an empty plastic bin can be as an amplifier, especially at 1.30 am.
I’d just been drifting away, in that delicious half-sleeping half-waking state….to be rudely jerked back into consciousness by what sounded like an elephant roller-skating across a tin roof. I know I don’t have a tin roof, so that couldn’t possibly have been it. Even with the more surreal options ruled out, though, the noise was so loud and un-expected that it took me a good few minutes to work out what it might be.
At this point any sensible soul would have simply taken the bin outside, possibly lodging a half-brick on top to stop the wretched rodent escaping, and left it till morning.
Any sensible soul…
Quite why it seemed it a good idea to deal with it right that moment, I still can’t quite explain. I’d like to blame my nightcap – an immoderatly large scotch – but I have a nasty feeling that that it goes much deeper than that.
Whatever the reason, it was but the work of a moment to throw on jeans, sock, shoes, t-shirt and (mercifully) a big fleecy jacket. Grab the bin and down the stairs to the car. No need for the wallet or mobile, this won’t take ten minutes. Five miles or so up the road, into the countryside, eject the rodent (I’m still not sure whether it was a large mouse or a small rat) and back to bed.
It seemed such a good plan – apart from the (in retrospect glaringly) obvious point that only the somewhat deranged would even contemplate exchanging a nice warm bed for a nasty, damp night in the first place.
It worked, too. Up to a point.
The point where, having driven miles up the road into the dank depths of South Northants, pulled up in a layby and firmly deposited the piteously squeeking rodent into the hedgerow, I tried to start the car and head home to aforementioned bed.
There’s something singularly dispiriting about that sad whining noise a car makes when it can’t quite start at the best of times. It seems to gain in depth and poignancy in the early hours of the morning, I find. Despite the fact that (as far as I knew) there was no-one around to hear me, I did not let out a manly roar of blasphemous annoyance. I might have uttered a choice oath or two sotto-voce, but I chiefly remember shrugging and thinking – ’serves you right for not replacing the obviously inadequate battery the car had when I brought it a few months ago’. I might even have laughed ruefully at myself a bit.
I won’t bore you with all the details of the long trudge home. Six miles (I know how far it was, on account of having asked the kindly delivery lady of my local car repair shop to clock it for me, as she gave me a lift out with a new battery the day after) might not sound like much, but it’s far enough, believe me.
Far enough to reduce me to arthritic tortoise-hood for a few days. Far enough marvel at the willfull blindness of the average lorry driver (none of whom stopped for my outstretched tumb) and (on a more positive note) how many Tawny Owls I heard calling.
Far enough to indulge in any number of mental games and muttered conversations with myself. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if I wasn’t gesturing to myself as well. Maybe I don’t blame the lorry drivers, after all.
Pondering how many randy owls seemed to be on the pull that night (they tend to call whilst mating, I seem to remember reading somewhere), I indulged in a spot of soul searching as to my own single state. Given the fact that I was staggering along a country road, money & phone-less, in the wee small hours of a singularly damp and unpleasant morning, the answer to ”why is this man single?’ seems, with the benefit of hindsight, embarassingly obvious. At the time, however, it kept me happily occupied for a good few miles. A circumstance which explains a lot, I suspect.
It was, however, around the point where I caught myself thinking – ‘maybe my rodent has ended up as an Owl’s supper – shame!’ that I realised that the whole thing had now tipped over into farce, and that there’s really no hope for me at all. An oddly bracing realisation which cheered me up no end, and carried me, giggling intermittently, the rest of the way home.
Despite the pain, the expense of a new battery and the bemused laughter of friends, I don’t bear the rodent any malice. I like to think of him now enjoying an exciting new life in the country, and look forward to bringing the rest of his family out to join him soon.
Somewhere around the 4th mile, it suddenly struck me. ‘Slightly mad idea that kind of makes sense at the time, before it tips over into ridiculousness…’
That’s so typical of me. I know I laughed out loud at the thought.
Man versus rodent ?
I reckon it’s a score draw, so far.
Firenze fling part 7 – Firenze finale
Posted on September 19th, 2009
Sunday 23rd August
It doesn’t take much to make Allan happy. A gentle breeze to take the edge of the heat, a seat at a quiet café, a cheap and delicious plate of rice salad and the best part of half a pint of caffe latte will do it pretty well every time.
Even the fact that the one thing I’ve schlepped all the way over here to see in the archaeological museum – the famous Etruscan bronze chimera (as a devotee of mythical beasts how could I resist) – is nowhere to be seen fails to dent my contentment. As an added bonus, I swear I’ve just heard a pigeon wheeze; the scruffiest pigeon I’ve ever seen, hopping down the steps outside the Ospedale degli Innocenti. Of such minor delights is true contentment born.
The archaeological museum is an odd place, obviously in the throes of being modernised, but there’s still rooms and rooms full of 19thC wooden display cases – I feel a little like an extra in an Agatha Christie film, for some reason – most of which prove to be full of loads and loads of lovely little Etruscan bronze figures. An attractive mezzanine and the second floor seem pretty well done, effectively showing off a good collection of Egyptian, Greek, Roman and Etruscan artefacts. It takes me a while to notice, but the basic building itself is very attractive – a massive 17thC villa. Complete with delicately painted neo-classical walls and ceilings. Sensibly, most of these have been cleaned and restored, and they complement the exhibits very well. The only exception seems to be in the Egyptian galleries, where they’ve painted the walls and ceilings to resemble the interior of Egyptian tombs ( I presume). Lovely deep blue ceilings, lotus friezes around the edges, here and there what looks like a pretty good reproduction of a hieroglyphic panel. I do notice one oddity on the ceiling of one gallery – a patch of what I presume is the original, neo-classical painting, peeping through the blue. It looks like someone ran out of blue paint before they finished the job, and I’d love to know if it’s still there.
The mezzanine features an interesting exhibition (spread across 3 venues, as near as I can make out) exploring mythological ideas around the horoscope, and displaying a variety of historical artefacts alongside contemporary paintings and prints. It’s a bold idea, and I wish the modern work are up to it. Some of the prints are interesting, but the painting is just not good enough, being of that school of post-expressionism that strives for an ironic, childish simplicity, and simply ends up looking like copies of Braque or Matisse painted by an eight year old. Their one strength is the bold use of saturated colours. It’s good to see pure colour, without the muting patina of age, in any archaeological museum..it brightens the place up no end.
I had intended to do various things after lunch, only one of which (finally buying that scarf for my sister) actually come to pass, but never mind. Italian cities are the best places in the world for window shopping – almost regardless of the merchandise, the displays are so stylish.
Shame the same can’t be said for some of the potential customers. I can’t help noticing the preponderance of blokes wearing horrid ¾ length shorts covered with pockets. It’s a mystery to me why, when you can get them without pockets and in a variety of appealing shades of bright, summery colours, most choose to slouch about in shapeless sludge-coloured disasters. Studded with random pockets that make the average bloke look like he’s wearing a chest of drawers. There is no excuse, not even practicality, as I notice that most also tote rucksacks. I don’t know where this deep aversion to elegance (that amounts almost to suspicion) comes from, but it saddens me that it even seems to be catching on here…
I need something cheer me up after such gloomy thoughts – after a bit of wandering around, I succeed in finding Grom. Despite the unpromising name this, the book says, is the best gelateria in all Firenze. My best efforts notwithstanding, I haven’t managed to sample them all, so I can’t say whether the book is completely accurate as regards Florentine gelateria. I merely record that Grom are purveyors of the finest ice cream I have ever tasted. Anywhere. Albiccoca to die for!
In the course of later wandering, exploring yet another, half-hidden corner. This one houses an ex-church used by the Guelph faction in the struggle between the supporters of the Papacy – the Guelphs – and the Holy Roman Emperor – the Ghibellines – who took advantage of a period of ascendancy to gut the church. Used for some time as a fire-station, it now is now a public library. All this thinking about factions puts me in mind of Romeo & Juliet, and a notion for a pops into my mind. I’ve never been to Verona (one day) so I don’t know if it’s anything like Florence, but it occurs to me that you could well create the tension & claustrophobia of “two houses, both alike in dignity” feuding with something almost like maze – slot-like passages and tiny, irregular piazzi. Imagine how much more dramatic the fight between Tybalt & Mercutio would be if, instead all the stagings I’ve ever seen involving fair amounts of space, it took place in a tiny piazzale with barely enough room to swing a cat. A back-alley affair, en vero! It would be even better on film…one day.
A little later than that, in Orsanmichelle, I think I’ve finally found my favourite of all the many churches I’ve visited in Florence. Architecturally, it’s a simple shape (it started life as a grain market), attractively frescoed all over the vaulted ceiling with saints..but simply. Then there’s a lovely sculpture of the Madonna and child..but the focus is an amazing Gothic tabernacle, mainly white marble containing an absolutely luminous 15thC Maestà.
The stonework is very intricate, a mixture of geometric and naturally derived plant shapes. Not the sometimes over-blown exuberance of the baroque; just as intricate, but more restrained, all the decoration serving to echo and enhance the underlying geometry of the whole, not to overwhelm or encrust it.
I think the visual balance of the whole is just about perfect. Maximum richness – gold, ultramarine & rose – at the absolute focus, the Madonna. Suitably finely enclosed in subtly gleaming marble (there’s not a lot of light about, and photos were forbidden…sorry!)then the earthy, more relaxing tones of the frescos, then simple, bare stone. It’s like a series of ripples of diminishing colour and complexity.
It’s all very lovely, and there’s a free organ recital here later, so I may well be back.
The other thing I like about Orsanmichelle is that some of it’s best art is outside. A series of niches set into the outer wall contains statuary commissioned from the best and brightest of 15thC Tuscan artists…Donatello, Ghiberti & Pisano amongst others.
It could be argued that this is simply vanity on the part of the wealthy donors – ‘look, we’re rich’ (and by implication, powerful) enough to afford this, and the public flaunting of massive donations to good causes doubtless had political significance. Even if that was the case originally, I’m willing to bet that today not more than a tiny percentage of the people who enjoy the work know who paid for it and why. And still all this fine, fine sculpture is still there, free for all to enjoy. They’re gradually replacing the originals with very, very good copies, and moving them inside to the museum, the better to preserve them. I asked about the museum. It’s closed. Che sera sera!
Writing this, trying not to doze off, in what has become my favourite café, in the Palazzo Strozzi. Chic without being too pricey, and very central for just about everywhere, trying to decide what to do with the rest of the afternoon…
I can’t really think of anything I’d like more than a little organ music, so I go back to Orsanmichelle, and just sit quietly at the back, drinking it all in – Bach again, the perfect musical accompaniment to the restrained visual richness all around. The music pours on, a liquid river of perfectly interwoven counterpoint that laps around our feet, then, stirred up by the impossible low register, froths up right over us, expanding to fill the whole space.
So there I sit, dripping with music, at peace. Deeply content.
A final, lasting memory of Florence, art and music…..until next time.
Firenze fling part 6 – Florence, back amongst the angels
Posted on September 16th, 2009
Saturday 22nd August
No-one at home will believe this, but I’m up early again, making my way over to the Museo de San Marco. The streets are full of the rattling sound of suitcase wheels, everyone seems to be leaving (or arriving, I suppose), and I have to step off the narrow pavements several times to cede passage to human tortoises, bent double under bulging backpacks.
There’s really only two things I want to do today – go to the Museo de San Marco, and get my sister a scarf from one of the market stalls by San Lorenzo…oh, and little pressies for other folks. OK, three things I want to do. That should keep me happy most of the morning….then, who knows?
It’s only taken me a week to relax enough to not worry about the rest of the day. At this rate, I’ll be nice and chilled out some time the middle of next month. Shame I’m going home the day after tomorrow.
I hadn’t realised until I read the guidebook, but there’s another opportunity to come face to face with things I used to look at in mum’s books…and that’s why I’m headed for the Museo de San Marco, to look at the Fra Angelicos…well, one in particular, a version of the Annunciation which has somehow embedded itself in my consciousness as the prototype for that particular image. I’m in illustrious company, though, as a fair few later artists have reworked it…Leonardo Da Vinci amongst others. Strangely, I note in retrospect, it never occurred to me that it might be a disappointment (as, for example, was the Sistine Chapel) – evidence of faith in something, although I’m not quite sure what.
Finally seeing the work in the flesh – it’s a fresco, the first thing you see as you go up the stairs towards the monks cells – is a considerable thrill, and very moving. I wasn’t expecting it to be there, and I literally froze half-way between one tread and the next, foot in mid-air. Jaw hanging open as well, no doubt, to complete the image of foolishness.
In contrast to the poised serenity of the angel (as a child it just seemed to me instinctively ‘right’ that angels should have beautifully coloured wings….I think this was what drew me to the picture in the first place) Mary leans forward awkwardly, arms crossed over her chest, hugging herself. She looks very young, and afraid. It’s this humanity that makes the work so moving, embedded in, and to some extent balancing, the radiant spirituality.
Fra Angelica became a Dominican monk, and was very obviously a deeply religious person. It occurs to me that the Italian version of his nick-name, ‘Beatta Angelica’ or Blessed Angel is exactly right. What better life for any artist than to be not only licensed, but actively encouraged to pursue and perfect one’s art, that which moves within you. To attract the most important patrons (Cosimo I de Medici, amongst others) and to have access to the best materials. The panel paintings and altar pieces collected together in the room on the ground floor are rich with the finest pigments and dripping with gold. Despite which, it’s the deep and obvious sincerity of spiritual feeling that strikes you first about these works, and that stays with you.
Blessed man indeed, given such riches and making such an immeasurably greater return upon them, to the benefit of all.
Upstairs – when I finally remember to start breathing again, finish that step and all the others, it’s possible to view all the monks cells. Including the special, double sized ones for the VIPs – Cosimo I de Medici himself and Savonarola (until they burnt him). Most of them are for the ordinary brothers, though, and each has a fresco by Fra Angelica, glowing in the upper left corner of each small (not much more than 10ft square) room.
Whilst there is some variety – I particularly like the gentle depiction of the risen Christ appearing to Mary in a vibrantly verdant garden of Gethsemane, and the Adoration of the Magi in the Medici cell – a lot of the them are crucifixions, or variations thereof, complete with blood spurting and anguished faces all round. The overall effect of viewing them all, one after the other, is obscurely painful. This is unfair on the artist, though – they were never intended to be seen all at once, being created for the individual occupants of each separate cell. Did each brother express a preference, I wonder, is that why there are so many crucifixions ? If so, what does that say about the monks mental state? Not, they would of course say, their first priority…or, indeed, any priority at all.
On the way back I spend a long time in front of the Annunciation, and it’s like the sweetest draught of cool water…especially after the parched and painful deserts in many of the cells …can see it still, and will, I think, remember it for the rest of my life.
This is one of the few places in Florence that doesn’t allow you to take photographs, but even if they did I think I wouldn’t have taken one. I’m not going to dip into the vast internet ocean to find one now, either.
Just go and see for yourself.
Please.
Go and see.
For yourself.
I didn’t manage to get the scarf for my sister – got distracted on the way, and visited the Ospedale degli Innocenti, then wandered around and found various other corners of interest – you can see the photos here, if you like – but, somehow, I can’t write about that now.
Truth is, I’m still standing on the stairs, wide-eyed boy and man both (older, but hardly any wiser) staring and staring at a miracle.
Firenze fling part 5 – Sienna, shirts and steps
Posted on September 12th, 2009
Friday 21st August
Today I went to Sienna and purchased a shirt. Obviously that wasn’t all I did, but I thought I’d get it out of the way first, as it’s been brewing for a while. Having avoided temptation yesterday, half way to the Pitti Palace, today it was just too much.
I didn’t give in at once, having lingered longingly on the way up the hill. I waited all day, then just happened to pass by on the way down…OK, that’s a lie, I went out of my way, got slightly lost, doubled back…I’m ably assisted in my folly by a charming sales-lady. In the course of selling me a lovely linen shirt for €25, I learn that she’s a biology graduate who can’t get a job in science. She lives in Montalpucino (2nd best place in Italy for wine) and works in Sienna. Her partner (or father, I’m not quite sure which) has to work in Rome. It’s tough all over, the credit crunch is biting here as well…e vero!
I’ve purchased a shirt, and now I’m not feeling as guilty as I should, given the parlous nature of my finances, just tired, very footsore and lonely.
I’ve been expecting it…comes a time on every trip when, despite the manifest advantages of solo travel, you just want to talk to someone…in English. Never mind. Well, not much, not enough to do anything about it….which is the root of the problem right there, when you get down to it.
But what about Sienna? Sienna is fab – un-spoilt mediaeval city centre and some world class art plus one seriously stunning space – Il Campo, the main piazza is justly renowned. An absolutely gorgeous place, rose-red, scallop shaped, divided into 9 sections commemorating both the rule by the Council of 9 and the folds of the Virgin’s cloak. Everything about it works; it’s harmonious, well proportioned, surrounded by lovely buildings and, as you enter, blinking in the sudden light from one of the streets feeding into it, deeply theatrical. As if the old city has been holding this up her sleeve, then…..taadaaa! If this doesn’t snatch your breath and make you smile, there’s really no hope for you.
Annoyingly, the combination of attractions I really want isn’t available on one ticket, so I decide to forgo the pleasures lurking inside the Duomo – apart from the Baptistery, all painted and lovely.
There seems to be a general rule against photography (exception, for some reason, the Baptistery again). Considering the fame of the frescos in the Palazzo Pubblico, and the general high quality of the art elsewhere, I feel this is mean spirited. Banning flash is OK, but if you’re going to bar photography altogether, then I think you have to offer better than the rather poor reproductions available on postcards, or expensive guide books.
Is this where I mention that Sienna is home to the oldest operating bank in the world, Monte dei Pasche de Sienna, still a major player on the Italian financial stage? I do believe it is. I’m unsurprised to read that they own some of the best art in Sienna, which can be viewed….if one writes to obtain permission. In fairness, I should also mention that in addition to the handsome Palazzos which were their original headquarters, they’ve also provided Sienna with its best and most interesting piece of modern architecture. A complex extension to the old buildings, completely invisible from the front, which stretches down the hill behind them both.
I don’t know if it’s the hills (Sienna is built across three hills, many of the streets are quite steep), the even higher buildings than Lucca, combined with the somewhat formal, dripping with gold Siennese style of art, but I get the sense that you have to work for it in Sienna. It seems like it’s all there to be seen, and the centre of the old city (centro storico) is small, but it’s hard to figure out the geography – what with the hills, and the height of the walls…there’s something a bit closed-in about the place.
Intriguing, but I can’t help thinking about the walls around the old city, and the bloody past. Sienna makes me think about some of the darker aspects of the middle ages; the endless warring between the city states and the Vatican, the legendary cruelty of the roaming bands of condottiére (mercenary soldiers) who did most of the fighting, the appalling persecutions of heretics, the unconscionable manoeuvrings of the banking clans, twisting and turning always to keep the advantage. We’re not quite as openly bloody (well, not at home, at least) these days, but this, too, is a part of our heritage….many of the financial structures still driving everything were invented in places like this.
Or maybe I’m just getting tired…look at those lovely flags all over the place, they’re all very festive….except they mark out the territories of the contrade (parishes) who compete in the Pallio (the famous bare-back horse race around the Campo), and just about everything else…I suspect you have to be born here to really understand. Open display and multiple layers of meaning…not that the display isn’t magnificent.
Like the frescos in the Palazzo Pubblico, room after room of dazzling work, including the famous allegories of good and bad government – painted by Lorenzetti in 1338 – pointed reminders to the councillors meeting in that room of the larger consequences of their decisions. So magnificent is it all that I find that I have to keep reminding myself that this is the Town Hall….this is the Town Hall…staggering testimony to the wealth and power of the place…but this is the Town Hall…inspiration, one suspects, of a thousand pale imitations scattered all over Europe; tasteful but essentially empty monuments to civic pride.
In addition to the allegories – ‘Andrew Grahame Dixon stood here’, a thought which gets me slightly over excited – I come across another very familiar image (The knight on the horse with the vivid orange-yellow surcoat) which pops up in virtually every book about chivalry or the middle ages. It’s called the Equestrian Portrait of Guidoriccio da Fogliano and is attributed to Martini, although apparently the experts have been arguing over it for ages. In truth, I find myself not really caring who painted it, and I know I’ll never remember the proper title, but I’m very thrilled to have seen it in the flesh, so to speak.
Once I can tear my eyes away from the familiar, worldly image, I’m rewarded with quite a different experience – a glorious, highly decorative Maestà, (Virgin surrounded by Saints/Angels) this one is indisputably by Martini, and very very lovely.
I’ve managed to resist the temptation to climb the huge tower attached to the Palazzo Pubblico, the Torre Mangia (the name commemorates a particularly rapacious minor official – mangiare, or ‘eater’) – but I needn’t have worried about missing the view. There’s no shortage of high vantage points, including the rear loggia of the Palazzo Pubblico which offers a great panorama of the surrounding countryside. Later on, I got some great views across the old city by snaking up the seemingly endless windy, narrow stair to the Panorama del Facciatone. This involves access to a (terrifyingly) narrow walkway across the top of vertiginously high wall set at right angles to the rear of the Duomo – relic of a hugely ambitious mid 14th C scheme to extend the Duomo, which would have resulted in it becoming easily the largest building in Italy. The plan was brought to an abrupt halt by the black death.
Across the Piazza from the Duomo is the Santa Maria della Scala. This huge complex of buildings, Sienna’s hospital for over 800 years, is currently being developed as the city’s major cultural complex. They haven’t finished it yet, so it’s currently an endearing, but confusing, mixture of wobbly old card notices and smartly etched glass information panels. They also haven’t quite worked out how to explain, or signpost, the apparently endless warren that lurks behind the innocent looking outer walls, so it’s very much a voyage of random discovery. Making me an even more unreliable narrator than usual – there could be whole worlds hidden away in there, for all I know.
It’s all a bit eccentric, but rather enjoyable, starting as soon as you step inside. Out of the achingly bright sunlight into the cavernous, cool dimness of an enormous room. The ticket desk and a small gift shop huddle in one corner, there might have been a painting on one wall. Mainly, though, I remember this great space as being full of the most delicious, soft, diffused light; the happiest result I’ve yet seen of the (almost universal, very sensible) local habit of draping windows with swathes of gauze.
Following my nose down a wide, long corridor, the first surprise occurs almost immediately. There’s a smallish chapel off the corridor, and at first I think it’s closed to the public, on account of it being full of scaffolding, swathed in deep blue cloth. But no – they are in the process of restoring the frescos, but you are allowed to climb up and have close look for yourself. At first I can’t quite believe this, but I’ve got a ticket, so the stern attendant lady irritably waves me into the room. Which I have completely to myself. Still smarting from the universal ‘no-photos’ rule, I immediately whip my camera out of my pocket and turn it on…so I do have a few (admittedly not very good – there wasn’t much light) photos, but there’s really no need, as I’m sure I’ll remember this.
It’s such a treat to be able to get so close – I could reach out and touch the paintings (I don’t, I hasten to add – I’m not completely stupid), and can trace the artist’s individual paint strokes. I think they’re mid 15thC, by Vecchietta, but I could be mis-reading the guidebook….and it’s hard to get a sense of the overall effect, as you can’t step back and see the whole. This only serves, however, to increase my respect for whoever painted this in the first place – quickly, section by section, before the plaster dried, with only candles for illumination, and probably bent into all sorts of weird shapes to get brush to plaster. Amazing.
Almost immediately it gets even better, as the corridor leads you into the Sala del Pellegrinaio (Pilgrim’s Room), one of the famous bits. This huge room, originally a hospital ward, was decorated in the mid 15thC with a series of frescos by Vecchietto and Bartolo. Unusually (for that time) the subjects were mainly secular, depicting the early history of the Hospital and the scala (ladder to heaven) from which it takes it’s name on one wall. The other side has a series of scenes illustrating the hospital’s many charitable functions. Full of colour and incident, they preserve many fascinating details of mid 15thC Siennese life – you can almost hear the babble of voices from the hundreds of individual faces that people the vivid scenes.
There’s a helpful series of sloping wooden interpretive panels (in Italian – I wonder if they have any plans for other languages) which also happen to be at exactly the right angle to provide a comfy backrest. Sit on the floor and lean back, as I did, and you’re at just the right angle to gaze at the scene on the opposite wall – I suspect a happy accident, but appreciated none the less, as the works are quite high up on the walls, and my neck’s starting to suffer a bit from so much upward inclination. Plus you can easily enjoy the lovely ceiling, with finely painted ribs and vaults
I could happily stay here for hours, but eventually fall prey to the ‘there’s lots more to see, hurry up or you’ll miss it’ demon, and drag myself upright and totter onwards…through a strange series of rooms with peculiarly baggy, beige carpeting, displaying what seems like a random collection of small chunks of sculpture, manuscripts, vestments and other ecclesiastical paraphernalia. There are hardly any labels (in any language) to guide you, and one senses this is a temporary bit, whilst they’re preparing something more exciting behind the scenes. The end of this series of rooms has some rather lovely frescoing on the ribs and ceiling of a handsomely barrel-vaulted roof. Is this the Capella del Sacro Chiodo (Chapel of the Sacred Nail), or was that the one full of scaff? Hard to say.
I vaguely remember that there’s an upstairs, but I take the downward option, instead, wondering through a couple of underground offertories dedicated to the Virgin and the local saint, Catherine of Sienna. I’ve never been anywhere quite like this before, and they strike me as being distinctly peculiar, almost spooky. There’s a real labyrinth of dimly lit (by weak bulbs and the occasional stray beam of natural light, deflected from who knows where) slightly dank rooms down here. It’s hard to tell where one chapel ends and the next one starts. Mostly, the panelled wooden walls and vaguely baroque moulded decorations are painted dark grey, the floors are dark marble slabs or creaking boards. There’s the odd dull gleam of white marble, and one very fine gilded altar-piece, but in general it’s a gloomy transit which adds to my impression of Sienna as a somewhat inward place.
I retrospect, I honestly don’t know quite what to make of this interlude – in striking contrast to the lofty, airy spaces (Churches and Chapels both) I have been exploring up to now, these troglodyte places seem to spring from a completely different part of the spiritual spectrum; private, almost furtive, superstitious. You begin to hear yourself breath in the dim chill and it’s not a very comforting sound. Half-forgotten, jumbled snatches of tales of hidden knowledge and strange heresies loom out of the shadows…Dan Brown’s wilder imaginings don’t seem quite so daft, down here…scary thought indeed.
Round a corner, and, pretty well without warning, I’m in a very long underground corridor, which vanishes deep into the bowels of the hill. Heading instinctively towards the light, I’m briefly tempted by the small archaeological museum, off the corridor, but I’ve been underground for too long. I need light, warmth and gelato…not necessarily in that order.
A bit later, sticky and (temporarily) sated, I head for the Museum dell’opera del Duomo Oh what a surprise, photos are forbidden…drat, there’s a fab carved stone lion over there, would be a great addition to my growing collection. Muttering slightly, I dutifully troop through the statuary, unmoved, for once, by rooms full of pretty decent classical and renaissance stone carving….and then forget everything else when I get to the room with the best paintings in…it’s not that large a room, and there’s so much gold on the astonishing works lining the walls that you just know instantly that this is where the good stuff is. The whole room is full of that unique glow, the unmistakeable signal of wealth, power and privilege. Despite which the hush that fills the room seems to me to have more to do with people in the presence of extraordinary beauty and spirituality, not the respectful quietness usual in the face of displays of great wealth.
I’m not, I think, being fanciful here. Tearing my attention away from the art for a second, I notice that many of my fellows are crossing themselves in that unself-conscious way that argues long practice.
Dominating the room, taking up almost the entire end wall, is Duccio di Buoninsegna’s luminous Maestà, true to the Siennese style of intricate and fine detail on a glorious gold ground. Duccio did, however, more or less abandon the traditional formality. Despite the conventional nature of the subject, he manages to infuse it with movement and life, and a far greater sense of perspective than was usual at the time (1308). Originally created to be the altarpiece of the Duomo, where it remained for over 200 years, this lovely thing is justly regarded as being Sienna’s greatest masterpiece – although, this being Sienna, one of the additional pieces of information that has attached itself to the work is that of being the most expensive piece of art ever commissioned at the time.
It’s not until later, re-reading the guide book, that I realise that the wonderful series of small panels that line one of the other walls, depicting various episodes from the life of Jesus with great skill and vivacity (like the oldest, poshest comic book in the world) were also by Duccio. Painted by him, in fact, on the other side of the Maestà. No wonder it was so expensive at the time. Now, of course, it’s more or less priceless…a fair assessment of anything that retains the power to take your breath away after 701 years.
The other thing that takes my breath away is the long, winding climb up all the stairs to previously mentioned Panorama del Facciatone. It’s worth it, but I’m feeling slightly rubber-knee’d by the time I make it back to terra firma. Looking around the Piazzo del Duomo for a suitable place in the shade to sit for a while, for a minute I think I’m dreaming. That can’t be Bach’s Toccata & Fugue I can hear, can it? Doesn’t sound quite right though…following my ears, I walk round the corner of the Duomo, and find a crowd gathered round a man coaxing immaculate Bach from a Piano Accordion. Wonderful.
Less wonderful is the realisation that I’ve missed the Baptistery, so have to go back round the corner and climb a lot of steps …again; because the Duomo is built on top of a tolerably steep hill what you might call the back and front doors are at very different levels.
Having dutifully wondered around the Baptistery – the fourth of the six places my ticket entitles me to enter – I have a moment of indecision, as the two other places I could go are, inevitably, at opposite ends of town. I doubt I have either the time or the stamina to do both, so which one should I aim for ?
Ambling idly along, mulling this over, my peace is rudely shattered by a marauding taxi. Much of the centre is supposedly pedestrian, but the taxis seem to go where they will. I wouldn’t be all that surprised to see one backing off a balcony, or parked halfway up a tree. Mind you, Taxis (and the few other cars encountered on the fringes of the pedestrian heart) do at least move fairly slowly, for the most part, giving you ample time to get out of the way. Scooters, on the other hand, hurtle along. As a pedestrian I’ve decided I hate them. Not only are they dangerous, they smell bad and sound worse. If I had one, I’d be impressing you with their many advantages, no doubt….I still think they whine like needy children, though.
For no other reason than that I like the sound of the name, I decide to head for Sant’Agostino. It’s downhill, too, which makes a nice change. Hang on a minute, this can’t be right, I’m at the bottom of the hill, it’s getting all modern. Must have missed it…damm, back up the hill again, but maybe I’ll go the other way, through the garden.
Which is all very pleasant, but still essentially up hill. Looking up at a huge brick bastion, topped with a tower/arch thing, I figure that must be the place. Quite a bit of sweaty, steeply uphill walking later I find a small sign on a wall that confirms that this is Sant’Agostino. Good. Just along the wall, though, is a handwritten sign apologising for being closed for renovations. Less good. At least there’s somewhere cool to sit – a small piazza full of plane trees – whilst I try and figure out what next. Examining the rather inadequate map in the guide book, I can’t help groaning quietly (it’s far too hot to do anything loudly) Not only is the only other place my ticket will admit me to a weary way away… I’ve also, somehow, contrived to place myself almost as far as you can get from the railway station.
What I really need is some motivation, something to help me along the way…and that’s why I ended up buying a shirt.
That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it!