Under the Tuscan buns.
For males of a certain age there are distinct downsides to visiting Florence. For us it is not all happy seraphim-with-lutes and glorious sunsets. It is not all gaiety and late-night, jetlag-induced wine fests. No, here we are faced with cold, hard reality at its most glaring. Because inevitably, your partner is going to insist on going to the Accademia. Your partner is going to want to see it.
If you doubt me, look out my window here.
That dismal river of umbrellas is the line for the Accademia. Every day, right on our street, it snakes around the corner and way down the block. There are an insane number of people from all over the world waiting to get in and all because of one work of art. Yes, there is a side-room full of plaster casts of sculptures (that just re-opened) and there are some Madonnas and a Saint Sebastian by Who Ha but really, there is just one thing these folks are lining up for. They are there because their partner wants to see it.
No, that is not the “it” I am talking about. There is nothing we can do about that “it”. That “it” is God-given, Dieu-donné, dato da dio. Nothing we can change there and your partner accepted that long ago. No, it is the other “it” I am talking about. The one we could do something about if we only tried a little harder. You might be a great provider. You might cook well. Maybe you are gifted with enthusiasm for folding laundry. Maybe you excel at the art of partner massage and continue to do it even after all these years together. Maybe you are really handy and can fix all kinds of household things. Maybe you are a wiz with computers and electronics and have made your home so smart you can lower the blinds and turn on your partner’s bath while still on the B train. Maybe you are just really good at making reservations for restaurants, hotels, spas and resorts and the arrangements to get yourselves there. But gravity and the general avoidance of doing lunges makes all that incidental and irrelevant. Because yours just does not look like this.
At the Accademia, the exhibition of the hero David is arranged so you can comfortably walk all the way around. In fact, you sort of have to, given the crush of people circling him. Can you imagine if there were a microphone on his back, nestled in there alongside the slingshot? How many languages are there on earth? It would pick up the same comment in all of them. The very same comment, “Why doesn’t yours look like that?” From the first 8:15 am ingresso to the last 7:15 pm uscita you could compile a recording of a multi-lingual collective wail from partners who live with this disappointment daily.
Right? I mean. They see it most every morning. But we don’t. Can’t. The mirror won’t go there (unless she or he had your architect install one of those three mirrored door-things that would give a perfect view). So, it is not something we think about. But, brother, come to Florence and you will. It happens that my partner has just bought us timed entry tickets for this weekend. Do I sound worried?
On a more enthusiastic note, this week I went with my colleague Cynthia Mohr, and later with my students, to the Davenzati Museum, which just reopened after a renovation. Yes, I assumed you haven’t heard of it, that’s why I am bringing it up. It is one of the places to go when you come back for a second visit. It is an amazing, five story palazzo built in the trecento (fourteenth century – you may remember that the Italians have the good sense to refer to centuries by their actual number, not one-hundred-years later). Its interior abounds with wall finishes that were painted there 650 years ago and have not been destroyed and it is full of furnishings from the period. It still has its original kitchen and toilets. Yes, the house had indoor toilets on all five floors, some of them ensuite, no less. Even the frescos on the walls of the bathrooms are delightful. This house museum displays a quilt. I hear you yawn. What house museum doesn’t have a quilt? But this is the earliest known quilt. It is called the Guicciardini Quilt and dates back as far as the house’s construction. It is in exquisite condition and tells the story of Tristan and Isolde. Plus, there is a beautifully displayed lace collection here, if you care. Which I absolutely don’t. (said Pierre)
Look at this tapestry from a Davenzati bedroom. Is that not the most endearing lion you have seen since Burt Lahr’s? And I am pretty certain Maurice Sendak was at the Museo Davanzati before us.
It is just one of many delights in this house but pictures of it are pretty much pointless. They just are. Before we leave it, though, I will tell you that it has openings on the piano nobile (the first floor – have always enjoyed the sound of that phrase) that allow the homeowner to pour, boulders, boiling water or oil on attackers who breach their gates. Florence was still a very unstable place in the 1300s. This amazingly intact house attests to a fascinating dichotomy between the potential for major violence from without and a life of serene and sumptuous comfort within.
Ok, yes, perhaps you have been wondering, I did finally go to the Boboli Gardens. I remember so well when we were in Florence with Sam and Jacob in 2007 and we really wanted to get to them but just did not have time. Well, I went this past week with a class I am taking from my host school (called the Santa Reparata International School of Art, or SRISA). The class is called “The Essence of Florence” and the teacher takes us all around town. The garden is just behind, and is entered from, the Pitti Palace. It was amazing how much it reminded me of Versailles – both huge formal gardens laid out behind enormous palaces. I detest Versailles.[1] I find it such a loathsome excess of indulgence it renders itself ugly. Well, now I can say the same for the Pitti Palace and its gardens. Dull, symmetrical, formal, colorless, huge, and never intended for the public. Both gardens speak loudly of man’s desire to subjugate nature. Everything must submit to the will of the blade, that is, everything needs to be trimmed. The grass, the endless low hedges, the high hedges, the allees, even the trees. Both palaces and both gardens were massively expensive. So expensive that one of them helped bring down a monarchy. Of course, today, they are both open to the public (but neither is at all free, it is worth noting.) Maybe you are fond of these places and feel this outburst is unbecoming. Oh well, we can’t agree on everything.
I threw out all my Boboli photos except this stair pavilion, which I found quite attractive.
Ever since I was in knee-pants I have wanted to work with one of these. I saw my first one when I was eight at the Mamaroneck Art Barn where my parents took me for Saturday morning painting classes. This past weekend I finally got to play with one. This is an etching press. It weighs more than a Fiat 500 and once you park it, that’s it. The solid steel roller makes pulling a print a whole new experience. This beauty is in the print workshop at SRISA. The head of the school, Rebecca Olsen, who is also a printmaker by trade, ran a workshop last week for those interested in learning more about making monoprints. She invited me to join and, well, who doesn’t want to know about making monoprints? The process is defined as a single print taken from drawing on a solid surface – glass, plastic, copper – and then inking it in a particular way followed by pressing paper onto the surface and pulling a print. Such a simple explanation for the universe of possibilities monoprinting presents. Suffice it to say, both these prints came from the same plate. The fun of it is that amazing accidents happen. The bummer is you’ll never get them to happen twice.
The inspiration for the print comes from this quick sketch I did under the gracious loggia of Brunneleschi’s Spedale degli Innocenti, around the corner from our apartment. Which is like saying, “Oh yes, as it happens, that is a Matisse in my bathroom”. Makes you want to slap someone. Save it ‘til you see me.
Here is a photo of our incredibly hard-working composer. Today she finished the score for Carry My Own Suitcase. It was momentous. We went out to the Grand Café San Marco and had cannolis, babas-aux-rhum, and Sacher torte. I am very proud of her. She is my hero. Not that the work is done. She still has orchestrating to do. But, this step is huge. We are going to celebrate more this afternoon by shopping at the Merceria for new socks.
Now, speaking of heroes, Susan and I saw something last night on our way to a performance of Handel’s opera Alcina that reminded us of our hero of We, the House, Ambleside. We saw a murmuration of starlings. There is a chapter in the book called Murmuration in which Ambleside witnesses this spectacular phenomenon (Chapter 24, page 123, fyi). Neither he nor his interlocutor know what the phenomenon is called, but he is transfixed by it. Now you might argue a talking house is already transfixed and cannot be untransfixed and you would win that argument and I would buy you a beer. After you slap me. Well, anyway, there we were, walking around the back of Santa Maria Novella and the starlings appeared (how apt that it should happen above the very church dedicated to the short novel ). I enclose a photo here but am attaching a video to the email. I do hope you will be able to open and watch it. I have only seen this a few times before. It still amazes. How do they all know to turn at the same instant?
One last hero to mention. Cecilia Bartoli. She is the soprano who sang the role of the witch, Alcina. You may not like Handel’s baroque work. You may not like opera. You may think sopranos were invented to increase sales of ear plugs. But if you do not know of this singular musician, stop rolling your eyes and go to Spotify or Pandora (or Lloyd, to your record collection) right now and put this in the search: Cecilia Bartoli, Le Nozze di Figaro/Act 2/ Voi che sapete. You who know, know that Ms. Bartoli is an international living treasure. It was a huge privilege to see and hear her and the performance was one of the greatest we’ll ever hear.
OK, I better stop here. I don’t want to stretch your tether. Though I will say, it is only Wednesday…
-Warren Ashworth
[1] This is not to denigrate the upcoming Opera Lafayette concert “In the Salons of Versailles” being performed at the Kennedy Center on December 2nd under the musical direction of Jacob Ashworth.
