[note: original had two narratives matched side-by-side]
Cloister of Basilica SS Quattro Coronati
_________________________________________
The sound of the streets fades into the air. A nun leads us into a small square courtyard; we enter the doors with curiosity in silence. A paved hallway encircles the courtyard, we all circle along its shaded path, gazing into the sunny serenity that lies within.
My view is barred behind petit columns joined by soft arches, and I feel both inside the scene shuttered outside, admiring through an open window. We circumambulate the full perimeter before we dare tread into the sun and the open air.
Small, narrow breaks in the banister allow entrance from all four sides. We begin to peak our feet past the columns; the crunch of gravel beneath my feet is enough to break the silence. We all tread lightly so as the keep the peace, slowing our pace and keeping on our toes. Finally, we rest to write. We adorn the courtyard along the banister, sitting every four arches away from one another. Soon we are comfortable, poised like relaxed statues, blending into the scenery – I can picture us in white marble.
Patches of sea-green grass cover each corner, so as to open a relief of gravel shaped in a diamond in the center. The grass spills over the edges of each patch, a natural length we are unaccustomed to see in the finely-trimmed flat lawns of Seattle. In one corner, a peak of red colors the mood. A few open-leafed bushes add height to the green landscape. Despite the quietude, sitting here, I can tell that life lives beneath. Small ants carry brambles across the gravel. This place is youth without crazy – so much potential is tucked away beneath its soil.
When our pictures are satisfied, there is only the constant trickling of the central round stone fountain that dribbles into a shallow, cross-shaped basin. Each trickle is so light that it looks like a string of pearls running down. The sound of water beads breaking the surface of the pooling water brings life to the silence, music to the insects that work beneath our feet, and inspiration to our pens. We sit, soaking in the moment.
The sound of cars, chatter, and vendors are absorbed by the heavy stone walls. I can smell the tranquility. Even the sun seems to have softened her touch on my skin. I lean back and let my gaze wander upward. The arches point to a second level of cubic columns – larger and further spaced than those lining the bottom. Red clay pots overflow with bushy leaves speckled with pink and red petals. If there is life inside, I do not hear it, but I imagine the nuns mouthing their daily prayers. These support an inward-inclining roof that narrows our view of the outside to a square postcard of a rich azure sky and a white, glowing sun. A single pigeon coos as it flutters back and forth across my view.
We are on a hill, but we are engulfed in a heavenly basin. We are underwater; the outside world seems distorted and distant. The cloister has sucked us in from its open roof into this courtyard. The courtyard is small, but seems to be endless in its expanse, as if, if I were to move into the scene, I would find myself in the middle of Eden, without visible boundaries.
I shift out of my sunbathed seat to a ledge in the shade. The coolness seeps into me and a different tranquility, more sharp but clear, trickles past my previous blanket of warmth. Others relocate as well; I watch Jay tread carefully: bending around each broken piece of rock, hopping over a blade of grass.
This calm is so foreign to us that we inspect every inch of foliage and stone as if we have never seen its beauty. The simplicity of life has become only a memory, and as we stare in its face we are cautious. This seclusion is so distant from our daily routines that we try hard to treasure and preserve it, careful not to taint it with our hands, and consequently remaining distanced, without experiencing it (much like my own feelings toward religion). But life in a different setting we would have trampled over without a second thought. I remember the scattered fountains – the tourist sites pristine, the forgotten ones floating in soda cans and old newspapers.
A group of tourists chatting pulls me out of this trance of silence, and a distant roar of plane engines soars above. The ambiance recedes before me, back into the hazel gaze of the fountain’s water. It will wait for me until I am undistracted to guide me back, but for now, she rests. We have been slowed by her detour into simplicity, but we will soon head back into the busy streets of Rome. I can already hear the gradual stirring of my classmates as they too awake from their trance. The treads of gravel steps grow more frequent. The slide of clothes and paper grow louder. The lure of the city is calling us. We pack away this treasure into photos and writing who knows when we will visit this memory again. But we certainly will not live it. A gentle breeze kisses us goodbye – we will soon meet the true winds outside. Shawn’s voice leads us: “Let’s go.”
Cloister of Santa Maria della Pace
___________________________________
It echoes with voices – no word can be distinguished but I can hear the people dancing around me: a 60-year old Italian woman, a young Brit with glasses, a newly-wed looking to explore, a French mother-daughter pair dressed in Parisian couture. Rigid square columns in a square courtyard – four per edge, one per corner – are linked by plain semicircles. I step directly across the central square courtyard to the opposite corner for a seat; the voices pass directly up the stairs, and ricochet from the walls.
A small ledge lifts above the courtyard about half a foot, barely enough to distinguish the height difference. As I sit I notice the simplicity of the space. Four strips of white marble tie the corners into the center of the courtyard – like an ‘X’ – which slightly sinks into the ground, as if for drainage purposed, like the tiled floor of my bathroom. A cement button peaks out from the center, a nipple in a flat courtyard. The cobblestones that pave the ground are angled to the edges, diamonds to the square.
Only three colors exist here – grey, white, beige – which I almost mistake for one mass of off-white. All surfaces are flat. This droning monotony scatters my vision, so that in one gaze forward I can see the entire sphere of the cloister, glancing from column to column to column. The light color forces a focus on everything, so that I cannot concentrate on anything. I am so distracted that I close my eyes, only to imagine more tourists walking by, tagged by their accents. Here, life is visiting a dead cloister, without a soul of its own.
I take a few pictures – looking back they capture greater beauty than I remember (the courtyard is indeed more pleasant in photographic silence). As I force myself to take in the scene, I notice that the walls behind the columns are decorated in crumbled frescoes – only one remains intact, the rest, now grey cement. A depiction of a procession before a pope sits above a small staircase; I am not tempted to explore.
My eye moves upward. The next level has alternating square and round columns – square openings – stoic, boring, amplifying the distractions, a foil to the echoes of modern life around us. On this level is a circle of heads, sipping coffee, reading tour books, and biting into cornettos – finally faces to the voice of ghosts. Above them are shuttered apartments, inside which I imagine an Italian housewife is currently preparing dinner and taking in the morning’s laundry; her cat watches her. Finally my eyes climb to the dull blue sky boxed by the cornice of the shingled roof – a single sweep of paint, now faded from time. A single pigeon flaps across the apartment ledge, a familiar sound from the streets of Rome.
We are street level, and while the people are far away, I feel amongst the crowds. Even the sound of construction penetrates these walls, resonating from behind my right ear. The central space is much larger than the small courtyard of SS Quattro, but I feel the walls closing in – my eyes jump across the empty courtyard immediately to the walls. I falsely believe I can touch the columns.
I sit in the shade, neither warm nor cold. I become antsy, my legs twitching, and I get up to walk around the square. I motor across to the small nubbin in the center – it has four openings that drain to a pool of black, dirty water beneath the paved ground. I can imagine water flushing piled garbage away.
The ordinariness is too familiar to me; I cannot revel in its purpose. Metals doors stand behind me, and behind them, the sound of saws. Bleached yellow semicircles form on the walls from the sun peaking through the arches. (The bottom of Hank’s shows has a map of the world carved in them!) I am too distracted – no focus. I cannot feel religion – only see it through secular eyes.
A sign in front is directing me: Uscita, exit.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Pauline, Assignment #17
I walk into the party in time to see her unveiling. Purple silk falls to the ground as I gaze upon the curves of her body. She is facing away from me, her silky back unclothed as her light robe slides off, draping low just beneath her hips. She is leaning on her side, propped up by her right elbow against the settee pillows, displaying her beauty for the other guests. Even encased in marble she is still able to seduce me. A single candle illuminates her from the other side, and as I fix my eyes on the shadows that playfully wave across her back, the other guests begin to fade into darkness….
Lavender oil weaves through the room. She knows I am in the room, but continues to gaze out the window, pretending to be distracted by the blue song birds serenading her. I decide to play along, stepping closer. Her face is still turned away from me so that I can only get a peak of her soft jaw line and her proud Roman nose, but I discover a hint of a coy smile slide across her face as she hears me approach.
I stand just breaths behind her. My heart picks up its pace, and my breathing grows stiff and sharp. My fingers are tingling, and I reach out my hand and lightly run my finger down the crevice that runs down the arch of her back. I stop just at her hips. Her skin is silky like her falling robe, and I feel the urge to grab her waist and pull her toward me; but I refrain. I tease back.
Her head tilts back, eyes closing as she takes a deep breath of my robes, recognizing my familiar scent. I watch her brows furrow slightly, but she too restrains her lust. Her eyelids flutter open; she gazes into my eyes, and I stare back into her charcoal pair that flickers in the candlelight. Her smile widens a look of guile. She nods toward the other side of her settee, luring me to walk around her – almost ceremonially; I appease her wishes.
As I amble around her, my finger lingers on her skin, brushing back up her spine, to her neck, and across her cheek. I cradle her chin with my fingers, lifting her face up toward mine, like a valiant prince returning to his princess. Finally I stand before her, her firm breasts perked for my viewing pleasure. The candle makes her bosom glow with enticement, emphasizing their supple rotundity. Her face affects a healthy glow – like wine rushing to her cheeks.
She places her hand on my chest, and playfully pushes me away. I take a step backward, and now run my eyes across her skin. She returns to her poised position, head resting on her fist. Her legs are subtly curled, relaxing her voluptuous hips. She pulls and apple from the golden bowl resting at her feet, barely grasping it with her fingertips as if it could fall at any moment – the forbidden fruit. Her hair is in a neat coiffure, like the portraits of Venus. Before I can approach her again, she whispers, “Immortalize me – sculpt me by your hand.” My burning lust will have to wait….
Paulina catches me from my dream. She surprises me from behind, pressing her warm breasts against my back just for a moment before she is running off to gather the impression of the other guests. I marvel at my marble Paulina, and wait for her to call upon me again.
Lavender oil weaves through the room. She knows I am in the room, but continues to gaze out the window, pretending to be distracted by the blue song birds serenading her. I decide to play along, stepping closer. Her face is still turned away from me so that I can only get a peak of her soft jaw line and her proud Roman nose, but I discover a hint of a coy smile slide across her face as she hears me approach.
I stand just breaths behind her. My heart picks up its pace, and my breathing grows stiff and sharp. My fingers are tingling, and I reach out my hand and lightly run my finger down the crevice that runs down the arch of her back. I stop just at her hips. Her skin is silky like her falling robe, and I feel the urge to grab her waist and pull her toward me; but I refrain. I tease back.
Her head tilts back, eyes closing as she takes a deep breath of my robes, recognizing my familiar scent. I watch her brows furrow slightly, but she too restrains her lust. Her eyelids flutter open; she gazes into my eyes, and I stare back into her charcoal pair that flickers in the candlelight. Her smile widens a look of guile. She nods toward the other side of her settee, luring me to walk around her – almost ceremonially; I appease her wishes.
As I amble around her, my finger lingers on her skin, brushing back up her spine, to her neck, and across her cheek. I cradle her chin with my fingers, lifting her face up toward mine, like a valiant prince returning to his princess. Finally I stand before her, her firm breasts perked for my viewing pleasure. The candle makes her bosom glow with enticement, emphasizing their supple rotundity. Her face affects a healthy glow – like wine rushing to her cheeks.
She places her hand on my chest, and playfully pushes me away. I take a step backward, and now run my eyes across her skin. She returns to her poised position, head resting on her fist. Her legs are subtly curled, relaxing her voluptuous hips. She pulls and apple from the golden bowl resting at her feet, barely grasping it with her fingertips as if it could fall at any moment – the forbidden fruit. Her hair is in a neat coiffure, like the portraits of Venus. Before I can approach her again, she whispers, “Immortalize me – sculpt me by your hand.” My burning lust will have to wait….
Paulina catches me from my dream. She surprises me from behind, pressing her warm breasts against my back just for a moment before she is running off to gather the impression of the other guests. I marvel at my marble Paulina, and wait for her to call upon me again.
Sick Bacchus, Assignment #8
Neighbors in the Galleria Borghese, the young boy and the sick Bacchus are sinister twins, connected in a complexity of pleasure and sin. I feel their presence as I walk into the room upon my first visit – a bushel of russet curls and a bare shoulder screams Caravaggio’s seductive work, but I cannot help but see the sickly face appear under each layer of paint.
Upon first glance, the boy carrying a basket of fruit is a healthy young boy with a soft complexion: his rosy cheeks emphasize the supple nature of his skin. His eyebrows are thick and perfected – not a single prick of hair falls out from the shapely arches above his large round eyes. His head tilts to the right, his eyes drop to the bottom corner, as if he has just scanned me up and down. Lips are parted with the same lust as Bernini’s Ecstasy and hint a smile of approval, I imagine. He is an image of virility, a strong neck atop rippling muscles teasingly hidden beneath a white linen shirt. But he is painted, in every sense.
All his physical features and supposedly-seductive expression are staged, purposefully obvious though painted in a subtle style. According to Francine Prose, this young man is a ripe peach, who is either anticipating great sex or just had it (or possibly both). His basket is overflowing with rotting fruit – bursting pomegranates and fungus-infested leaves – a clear foil to the boy’s perfection. As I look upon this work, I cannot help but try to peel away the theatricality: take away the livid colors of the fruit – the peachy reds, the palm greens, the deep purples – strip the coats of blush from the skin, dishevel the brunette locks. I search for the reality behind the blatant depiction of fleeting youth; I pull out the guise of forbidden pleasure and before me is the cold chilling stare of the sick Bacchus.
The god of wine travels between the paintings, playing with my terror in mordant amusement. The same dark curls are duller, garnished in a browning wreath. He has pillaged the basket of fruit, now dangling a bruised string of green grapes, which are similar in color to his ghostly skin tone (bilious, as Prose puts it). His previously peachy cheeks are now sunken, which makes his eyes protrude like that of a dying man. His smile is eerie, and I can only feel his invitation to death and disease – perhaps offering a kiss of death. I am terrified of his image; even though he does not stare directly at me I feel as if one of his pupils moves to meet my timid eyes. Every time I look upon his face I cringe at his suffering, and I immediately run away.
Only vaguely remembering the topic of the two paintings, I never related them until I saw the sick Bacchus and began to feel his gaze through all the Caravaggios. Upon my first reading of Francine Prose, I did not ever see the dramatic components – where is this protruding tongue she spoke of? – but upon rereading I realized that I found the same forces of seduction and terror that Prose did, just a bit later.
Upon first glance, the boy carrying a basket of fruit is a healthy young boy with a soft complexion: his rosy cheeks emphasize the supple nature of his skin. His eyebrows are thick and perfected – not a single prick of hair falls out from the shapely arches above his large round eyes. His head tilts to the right, his eyes drop to the bottom corner, as if he has just scanned me up and down. Lips are parted with the same lust as Bernini’s Ecstasy and hint a smile of approval, I imagine. He is an image of virility, a strong neck atop rippling muscles teasingly hidden beneath a white linen shirt. But he is painted, in every sense.
All his physical features and supposedly-seductive expression are staged, purposefully obvious though painted in a subtle style. According to Francine Prose, this young man is a ripe peach, who is either anticipating great sex or just had it (or possibly both). His basket is overflowing with rotting fruit – bursting pomegranates and fungus-infested leaves – a clear foil to the boy’s perfection. As I look upon this work, I cannot help but try to peel away the theatricality: take away the livid colors of the fruit – the peachy reds, the palm greens, the deep purples – strip the coats of blush from the skin, dishevel the brunette locks. I search for the reality behind the blatant depiction of fleeting youth; I pull out the guise of forbidden pleasure and before me is the cold chilling stare of the sick Bacchus.
The god of wine travels between the paintings, playing with my terror in mordant amusement. The same dark curls are duller, garnished in a browning wreath. He has pillaged the basket of fruit, now dangling a bruised string of green grapes, which are similar in color to his ghostly skin tone (bilious, as Prose puts it). His previously peachy cheeks are now sunken, which makes his eyes protrude like that of a dying man. His smile is eerie, and I can only feel his invitation to death and disease – perhaps offering a kiss of death. I am terrified of his image; even though he does not stare directly at me I feel as if one of his pupils moves to meet my timid eyes. Every time I look upon his face I cringe at his suffering, and I immediately run away.
Only vaguely remembering the topic of the two paintings, I never related them until I saw the sick Bacchus and began to feel his gaze through all the Caravaggios. Upon my first reading of Francine Prose, I did not ever see the dramatic components – where is this protruding tongue she spoke of? – but upon rereading I realized that I found the same forces of seduction and terror that Prose did, just a bit later.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
An Ode to Airport Security, Assignment #24
Please take your laptops out of your bags,
The uniformed man chants down the line,
Lengthening behind me, piles
Widen against the aisle.
A plastic grey bin for our belongings
Totes away my little purple pouch.
Pull out my little Dell Inspiron.
Unloaded, rush to the other side.
Rewind everything. String the pouch
Across the shoulders, grab that green
Carry-on before other bags catch up.
Try and look natural; disheveled nonetheless.
What are the rules in Amsterdam?
Put all liquid items in these bags.
Chants the Dutch agent circling the line.
Even powered makeup? All in bags.
In goes the mascara; the eye shadow;
The blush – ziplocked for the plastic bin.
Do I
need to
take off
my shoes?
Yes, yes, very pretty.
He smiles.
The gate is five strides away, so easy?
Hank crosses the plastic doors, gazing
Back at us from Rome’s embrace. We follow –
Blue rigid shirt,
Wrinkle-free trousers,
Black and creased,
Proud stride.
Scusa, passport.
Italian to my
Virgin ears.
Rifling through,
Papers in the way –
Copy of copy of itinerary –
Finally grip its coarse cover,
Passport opened to show.
Where were you board?
Boarded in Seattle,
Transferred in Amsterdam,
Final destination,
Rome.
No, no. Board. Where?
Stare back
Told the only possible answer
Is wrong.
Born, born! Where were you born!
I flush red,
Flustered,
Wine rouging my cheeks.
Answer fast!
China.
Sneer.
China is big, where?
Hangzhou, China….it’s –
Where are you going? Same Italian.
To Campo de’ Fiori, Rome Center.
Train is to the left, up the stairs.
Actually, we plan to take the Concora.
Train goes to the center, to the left.
But –
Passport flap flips closed.
Train is to the left.
The uniformed man chants down the line,
Lengthening behind me, piles
Widen against the aisle.
A plastic grey bin for our belongings
Totes away my little purple pouch.
Pull out my little Dell Inspiron.
Unloaded, rush to the other side.
Rewind everything. String the pouch
Across the shoulders, grab that green
Carry-on before other bags catch up.
Try and look natural; disheveled nonetheless.
What are the rules in Amsterdam?
Put all liquid items in these bags.
Chants the Dutch agent circling the line.
Even powered makeup? All in bags.
In goes the mascara; the eye shadow;
The blush – ziplocked for the plastic bin.
Do I
need to
take off
my shoes?
Yes, yes, very pretty.
He smiles.
The gate is five strides away, so easy?
Hank crosses the plastic doors, gazing
Back at us from Rome’s embrace. We follow –
Blue rigid shirt,
Wrinkle-free trousers,
Black and creased,
Proud stride.
Scusa, passport.
Italian to my
Virgin ears.
Rifling through,
Papers in the way –
Copy of copy of itinerary –
Finally grip its coarse cover,
Passport opened to show.
Where were you board?
Boarded in Seattle,
Transferred in Amsterdam,
Final destination,
Rome.
No, no. Board. Where?
Stare back
Told the only possible answer
Is wrong.
Born, born! Where were you born!
I flush red,
Flustered,
Wine rouging my cheeks.
Answer fast!
China.
Sneer.
China is big, where?
Hangzhou, China….it’s –
Where are you going? Same Italian.
To Campo de’ Fiori, Rome Center.
Train is to the left, up the stairs.
Actually, we plan to take the Concora.
Train goes to the center, to the left.
But –
Passport flap flips closed.
Train is to the left.
Last Judgment, Assignment #18
He hides in the shadows of the night, darting across the sidewalk lit only by the dim glow of street lights, like little fireflies bottled in glass lanterns. The night air is brisk, and each breath fills with prickling needles. He clutches the ache in his side as he runs, feeling the blood – still warm – on his white shirt. Sirens echo in the distance. A set of ghostly white steps call out to him – he makes a dash for the top. The door is ajar; he takes the chance to pry open the heavy wooden door enough to slip in and seals himself within.
Darkness closes in on him – a black hole. He bends down to feel the ground: a coarse mixture of grainy sand and smooth clay. Kneeling, he sheaths his knife from the left inner vest of his jacket, and proceeds to dig into the dirt, until he can fit his foot into the hole. He strips off his clothes; his jacket he tosses off, his shirt – now soaked in his sweat and her blood – he pulls over his head and places in the newly-dug hole. He stands bare-chested to the night.
He sinks his hand into his left pants pocket, fingers grasping the cool metal of his lighter. In one flick he ignites his shirt to make a fire. His eyes are mesmerized by the flames that dance before him. Her muffled screams still echo in his ears; he can still feel the collapse of her limbs as she fell still and silent. He looks down at his sullied hands, runnels of dry blood crusted on his palm, his veins bulging under his skin. He sees the events of the night as shadows that play across the floor, miniature flickering figures at his feet.
The figures begin to dance away from him, charming him to follow them as they stretch farther and farther to the edges of the room until – bones! He tumbles backwards. Along the walls, the dirt-yellow skulls stare back at him through vacant sockets; they are jawless, stacked in vertical columns so as to form three solid archways. In each niche a hooded skeleton faces him, dressed in thick brown robes tied at the waist with a single frayed rope. Their hands are folded in front of their torsos, heads lowered, shading their faces. His eyes trace two lines of femurs that run up the sides of the arches to a ceiling decorated with circles of spinal columns, femurs, jaw bones, and more bones that become unrecognizable.
He begins to feel a chill boring into his skin, a coldness that his small pyre cannot overcome. Shuddering, he huddles himself in his arms, legs pulled into his chest. He hears her scream again, this time piercing his eardrums, resonating through his head. Aching, he is caged in a storm of screams circling him, as if trapped under a bronze church tower bell as someone pounds from above. It is coming from above! As his head cranes back he sees her contorted body, crouching above him on the ceiling. Her robe drapes down, almost touching his hair. He can see invisible strands of her disheveled, stringy hair wiping across her face. His hands clutch his ears, but they cannot shield against her voice, until….silence.
As quickly as the maelstrom of screams swirled in, it dissipates into the cold atmosphere, and he is left shaking in a coat of cold sweat. His breaths are sharp, short, timid. His eyes scan the bones that surround him, and he begins to feel their gazes reach for his body – a thousand long bony fingers stretching from all four sides. His heart races – he is trapped, and the cold is now trafficking under his skin; every hair on his arms prick up.
His eyes bulge; they stare at him behind darkness. The three robed skeletons crane up their heads, and he feels their damnation spear upon him, drilling into his bones – iron hot they burn through him, the stench of fetid flesh cooking a nasty aroma in his nostrils. He sees his knife only a few inches from his feet but he is chained, stunned.
Deliver me! He screams but his voice is caught in his throat, and only a choking gasp crept from his lips. He feels the bony fingers now tearing at him, the fabric of his soul ripping from his body. He searches for forgiveness – forgive me, friars!
A circle of cold, neon light falls upon him – his eyes squint from its blinding gawk. He is splayed on the ground, his legs rigid, his arms pulled out from his torso. He hears male voices gruff above him and the scratch of the dispatcher fade in and out. Red and blue lights dance on his left cheek, and the sound of handcuffs unclipping wakes him from his nightmare. He is brought up to his knees once more, hands drawn behind his back, as he stares once more at the hooded skeletons, whose heads are once again bowed to the floor. He feels the cold metal wrap around his wrists, and welcomes the warm palms of two men who prop him on his feet.
Darkness closes in on him – a black hole. He bends down to feel the ground: a coarse mixture of grainy sand and smooth clay. Kneeling, he sheaths his knife from the left inner vest of his jacket, and proceeds to dig into the dirt, until he can fit his foot into the hole. He strips off his clothes; his jacket he tosses off, his shirt – now soaked in his sweat and her blood – he pulls over his head and places in the newly-dug hole. He stands bare-chested to the night.
He sinks his hand into his left pants pocket, fingers grasping the cool metal of his lighter. In one flick he ignites his shirt to make a fire. His eyes are mesmerized by the flames that dance before him. Her muffled screams still echo in his ears; he can still feel the collapse of her limbs as she fell still and silent. He looks down at his sullied hands, runnels of dry blood crusted on his palm, his veins bulging under his skin. He sees the events of the night as shadows that play across the floor, miniature flickering figures at his feet.
The figures begin to dance away from him, charming him to follow them as they stretch farther and farther to the edges of the room until – bones! He tumbles backwards. Along the walls, the dirt-yellow skulls stare back at him through vacant sockets; they are jawless, stacked in vertical columns so as to form three solid archways. In each niche a hooded skeleton faces him, dressed in thick brown robes tied at the waist with a single frayed rope. Their hands are folded in front of their torsos, heads lowered, shading their faces. His eyes trace two lines of femurs that run up the sides of the arches to a ceiling decorated with circles of spinal columns, femurs, jaw bones, and more bones that become unrecognizable.
He begins to feel a chill boring into his skin, a coldness that his small pyre cannot overcome. Shuddering, he huddles himself in his arms, legs pulled into his chest. He hears her scream again, this time piercing his eardrums, resonating through his head. Aching, he is caged in a storm of screams circling him, as if trapped under a bronze church tower bell as someone pounds from above. It is coming from above! As his head cranes back he sees her contorted body, crouching above him on the ceiling. Her robe drapes down, almost touching his hair. He can see invisible strands of her disheveled, stringy hair wiping across her face. His hands clutch his ears, but they cannot shield against her voice, until….silence.
As quickly as the maelstrom of screams swirled in, it dissipates into the cold atmosphere, and he is left shaking in a coat of cold sweat. His breaths are sharp, short, timid. His eyes scan the bones that surround him, and he begins to feel their gazes reach for his body – a thousand long bony fingers stretching from all four sides. His heart races – he is trapped, and the cold is now trafficking under his skin; every hair on his arms prick up.
His eyes bulge; they stare at him behind darkness. The three robed skeletons crane up their heads, and he feels their damnation spear upon him, drilling into his bones – iron hot they burn through him, the stench of fetid flesh cooking a nasty aroma in his nostrils. He sees his knife only a few inches from his feet but he is chained, stunned.
Deliver me! He screams but his voice is caught in his throat, and only a choking gasp crept from his lips. He feels the bony fingers now tearing at him, the fabric of his soul ripping from his body. He searches for forgiveness – forgive me, friars!
A circle of cold, neon light falls upon him – his eyes squint from its blinding gawk. He is splayed on the ground, his legs rigid, his arms pulled out from his torso. He hears male voices gruff above him and the scratch of the dispatcher fade in and out. Red and blue lights dance on his left cheek, and the sound of handcuffs unclipping wakes him from his nightmare. He is brought up to his knees once more, hands drawn behind his back, as he stares once more at the hooded skeletons, whose heads are once again bowed to the floor. He feels the cold metal wrap around his wrists, and welcomes the warm palms of two men who prop him on his feet.
Legends of Rome, Assignment #20
Celebrazione dell’Eucaristia
Tra le molte cose dette e fatte
nel pomeriggio, nel monastero
fatto capire come vuole
la celebrazione dell'eucaristia
un’esperienza particolarmente bella
Celebration of the Eunuchs
The molten coast is dented and fat
With pomegranates, with monasteries.
A fat caper! Come see
The celebration of the eunuchs,
An experience particularly beautiful!
____________________________________
Agli Uomini
suo momento
A memoria d'uomo
facevano spettacolo
appaia agli uomini
è svolta in due tempi
non se stessa ma
fosse giusto
Ugly Women
This moment,
A memory of women
With spectacular faces!
Apparently even ugly women
Are svelte due to the temperature
(Not like your step mom).
False gusto.
____________________________________
Papa ha Mostrato
distacco evidente dal
il papa ha mostrato
per pochi minuti
promosso a pieni
la sacra liturgia
raccontavano le loro storie
Fathers who have Monsters
Distant evidence tells of
The fathers who have monsters
On each small poncho,
Who promise all a penny.
The sacred literature
Recounts their stories.
Tra le molte cose dette e fatte
nel pomeriggio, nel monastero
fatto capire come vuole
la celebrazione dell'eucaristia
un’esperienza particolarmente bella
Celebration of the Eunuchs
The molten coast is dented and fat
With pomegranates, with monasteries.
A fat caper! Come see
The celebration of the eunuchs,
An experience particularly beautiful!
____________________________________
Agli Uomini
suo momento
A memoria d'uomo
facevano spettacolo
appaia agli uomini
è svolta in due tempi
non se stessa ma
fosse giusto
Ugly Women
This moment,
A memory of women
With spectacular faces!
Apparently even ugly women
Are svelte due to the temperature
(Not like your step mom).
False gusto.
____________________________________
Papa ha Mostrato
distacco evidente dal
il papa ha mostrato
per pochi minuti
promosso a pieni
la sacra liturgia
raccontavano le loro storie
Fathers who have Monsters
Distant evidence tells of
The fathers who have monsters
On each small poncho,
Who promise all a penny.
The sacred literature
Recounts their stories.
The Stairs of Rome, Assignment #23
The Stairs to Rome
19
The toddler is kicking my seat; I cannot sleep. Em is nodding in and out between sleep and reading, waking up every hour to slide her pencil across a few pages of Dante in Love before her hand drops off and once again she slumbers. Shel is absorbed in her book, so intensely that my own eyes become weary as if it is I straining to discern each word in the dark. I look for sleep again, but the toddler is still restless. I look at the large screen that maps our progress – the yellow line still tapers off above the Midwest, as it did the previous time I checked. Eight hours to go, before the boarding, before another set of stairs up and down. They have closed all the shutters so that only the neon glow of the screens lifts the blanket of darkness.
I should be sleeping,
Closed shutters affect night.
The toddler still kicks.
20
Amsterdam airport,
Smoke silently fogs the air,
Neither night nor day.
The tapping of laptop keys drones into the background around me. I would join them, but I used up my batteries on the plane. I search for an outlet – but the boxy protrusions on the metallic poles are a mystery. Perhaps I missed it. I crawl around the seats, squinting at each square protrusion on surface. No outlets. Futilely I sink back in my plastic seat – tap, tap, tap. This is one of those inevitable stops in a journey – are there ever any direct routes to foreign lands? Traveling – we are no longer the kings of time, but enslaved.
21
Rome Center. Marble steps. Have I really entered through the same door? Just a second ago I stood before a colossal metal door, sprayed with neon hues of pink, orange, blue traced in illegible letters; dark green beneath. Now I have crossed to the other side, and a white staircase looms ahead. We all glance back at our bags.
Pile the luggage in the elevator; I will escort. I squeeze behind the metal doors, a book clamped on a shelf. I lose my balance – lucky there is no room to fall. Across the matte tiled floor, a few more steps, through a studio, five more steps – leave the bags.
22
Metal benches, as if a sculptor dismantled our green graffiti-decorated door and folded it into steps. The sun is different in Rome; her wrath bleaches our landscape white.
Roasting tourists, cook
Sweat salted palette, pickled
Perhaps gelato?
A walk to become familiar: four paths at each corner of the Campo de’Fiori. We head for the left path, thinking that it will direct us to the Pantheon. Our gelato is dripping. My head screams for shade, but the heat has made my legs languid, suffering in the beating sun longer. My heels wedge in the cracks between the cobblestones every fifth step – these roads are a climb. There is no one here but tourists – we all have the aimless, destination-less countenances that flag us as strangers. We are in the Campo again….where is Rome hiding her past?
25
Four hours ago we decided to watch a football match. Had we chosen earlier, we would have been seated. But the same climb nevertheless. First a set of stone steps lead into the Stadium, a crowd ahead pushing against the railing that separates the bottom level from the midsection. Contorting to piece through this puzzle, we are invited by a steep mountain of steps. We climb as we did the Colosseum. Shirtless, potbellied Italian men fill the seats, accompanied by their sons. Some college guys stand at the front. They begin to sing the Lazio chant, raising their arms like goalposts during an American football touchdown and clapping every now and then. Even the grandma – I would say she is at least 70 years old, bedecked in baby blue pants, balancing on neon blue wedged sandals, a blue-and-white scarf wrapped about her waist, over a light blue tee that read “100% Lazio” – even she joins the musical wave. Billows of smoke tar our lungs. Looking down I see the cloud looming above, a haze that separates us from the true fans.
Two players go down.
I missed the start, distracted
By smoke and chanting.
28
We sit on the steps watching the sounds of Florence cart by us: vendors in a secret line.
Child laughter, giggling
Wheels jolting on cobblestone
Church bells ringing time.
31
Climbing down the bus steps is even harder than the climb up, for debarking the No. 40 is an uphill swim against a rushing current of boarders. The bus is patient, why the haste? I am overcome by middle-aged women.
91
We wander the small streets of San Gimignano. No one lives here, not even those who work in the central restaurants – purely a town that people pass, a postcard town. We clamber up the tower, a spiral maze of metal grated steps and wooden ladders, to see the town.
Obscurity sinks below,
Light awaits us, clarity.
Observe from above.
97
We climb Italy’s Great Wall; in the distance a town in a snow globe. All of this for a taste of nine-generation old olive oil; I must buy a bottle home. The land around us sinks – a large volcanic cavern as if God’s fingers pushed the landscape down, like an eagle’s talon. The rising dome in the center sprouts the city of Civita.
Muscles strain, quads burn
Skin sizzles, hamstrings tighten
Steeper and steeper.
98
There are no more steps in the heart of Rome, just the flat but quaintly uneven cobblestone roads. If there are more, I will not be unaccustomed to climb. Mopeds zip by me as I slide to the side. I head towards L’Insalata Rica for a healthy portion of noodles. Which path should I take? The secret tunnel beneath the chapel, through the miniature gate? Or perhaps a stroll around the little shops with $5 jeans always on display?
Choices, once unknown
To the casual traveler.
Weaving streets my own.
19
The toddler is kicking my seat; I cannot sleep. Em is nodding in and out between sleep and reading, waking up every hour to slide her pencil across a few pages of Dante in Love before her hand drops off and once again she slumbers. Shel is absorbed in her book, so intensely that my own eyes become weary as if it is I straining to discern each word in the dark. I look for sleep again, but the toddler is still restless. I look at the large screen that maps our progress – the yellow line still tapers off above the Midwest, as it did the previous time I checked. Eight hours to go, before the boarding, before another set of stairs up and down. They have closed all the shutters so that only the neon glow of the screens lifts the blanket of darkness.
I should be sleeping,
Closed shutters affect night.
The toddler still kicks.
20
Amsterdam airport,
Smoke silently fogs the air,
Neither night nor day.
The tapping of laptop keys drones into the background around me. I would join them, but I used up my batteries on the plane. I search for an outlet – but the boxy protrusions on the metallic poles are a mystery. Perhaps I missed it. I crawl around the seats, squinting at each square protrusion on surface. No outlets. Futilely I sink back in my plastic seat – tap, tap, tap. This is one of those inevitable stops in a journey – are there ever any direct routes to foreign lands? Traveling – we are no longer the kings of time, but enslaved.
21
Rome Center. Marble steps. Have I really entered through the same door? Just a second ago I stood before a colossal metal door, sprayed with neon hues of pink, orange, blue traced in illegible letters; dark green beneath. Now I have crossed to the other side, and a white staircase looms ahead. We all glance back at our bags.
Pile the luggage in the elevator; I will escort. I squeeze behind the metal doors, a book clamped on a shelf. I lose my balance – lucky there is no room to fall. Across the matte tiled floor, a few more steps, through a studio, five more steps – leave the bags.
22
Metal benches, as if a sculptor dismantled our green graffiti-decorated door and folded it into steps. The sun is different in Rome; her wrath bleaches our landscape white.
Roasting tourists, cook
Sweat salted palette, pickled
Perhaps gelato?
A walk to become familiar: four paths at each corner of the Campo de’Fiori. We head for the left path, thinking that it will direct us to the Pantheon. Our gelato is dripping. My head screams for shade, but the heat has made my legs languid, suffering in the beating sun longer. My heels wedge in the cracks between the cobblestones every fifth step – these roads are a climb. There is no one here but tourists – we all have the aimless, destination-less countenances that flag us as strangers. We are in the Campo again….where is Rome hiding her past?
25
Four hours ago we decided to watch a football match. Had we chosen earlier, we would have been seated. But the same climb nevertheless. First a set of stone steps lead into the Stadium, a crowd ahead pushing against the railing that separates the bottom level from the midsection. Contorting to piece through this puzzle, we are invited by a steep mountain of steps. We climb as we did the Colosseum. Shirtless, potbellied Italian men fill the seats, accompanied by their sons. Some college guys stand at the front. They begin to sing the Lazio chant, raising their arms like goalposts during an American football touchdown and clapping every now and then. Even the grandma – I would say she is at least 70 years old, bedecked in baby blue pants, balancing on neon blue wedged sandals, a blue-and-white scarf wrapped about her waist, over a light blue tee that read “100% Lazio” – even she joins the musical wave. Billows of smoke tar our lungs. Looking down I see the cloud looming above, a haze that separates us from the true fans.
Two players go down.
I missed the start, distracted
By smoke and chanting.
28
We sit on the steps watching the sounds of Florence cart by us: vendors in a secret line.
Child laughter, giggling
Wheels jolting on cobblestone
Church bells ringing time.
31
Climbing down the bus steps is even harder than the climb up, for debarking the No. 40 is an uphill swim against a rushing current of boarders. The bus is patient, why the haste? I am overcome by middle-aged women.
91
We wander the small streets of San Gimignano. No one lives here, not even those who work in the central restaurants – purely a town that people pass, a postcard town. We clamber up the tower, a spiral maze of metal grated steps and wooden ladders, to see the town.
Obscurity sinks below,
Light awaits us, clarity.
Observe from above.
97
We climb Italy’s Great Wall; in the distance a town in a snow globe. All of this for a taste of nine-generation old olive oil; I must buy a bottle home. The land around us sinks – a large volcanic cavern as if God’s fingers pushed the landscape down, like an eagle’s talon. The rising dome in the center sprouts the city of Civita.
Muscles strain, quads burn
Skin sizzles, hamstrings tighten
Steeper and steeper.
98
There are no more steps in the heart of Rome, just the flat but quaintly uneven cobblestone roads. If there are more, I will not be unaccustomed to climb. Mopeds zip by me as I slide to the side. I head towards L’Insalata Rica for a healthy portion of noodles. Which path should I take? The secret tunnel beneath the chapel, through the miniature gate? Or perhaps a stroll around the little shops with $5 jeans always on display?
Choices, once unknown
To the casual traveler.
Weaving streets my own.
The Ecstasies, Assignment #15
[note: in the actual document these were side by side]
The Ecstasy of Beata Ludovica Albertoni
_______________________________________
Hands are grasping, clutching
At the fabric of her flowing robes.
Her legs scrunch into her body,
Rising waves of heat from her toes,
Which curl from the electricity.
The rest, hidden in the alcove
Until I move to front of her bed,
For the first time gazing at her
Rising orgasm,
Which seems to be
Emanating from between her legs,
Climbing up her torso, the currents
Swirling her robes.
A hand presses
Into her stomach, restraining
The flooding sensation;
But its effects are
Overcoming her control
As she struggles to contain it.
Fingers dive into her flesh, the
Marbled breast soft under her touch.
Shoulders fall back
As orgasm lifts her chest
Above the mattress;
Head craning back, barely
On the pillow.
Headdress beginning
To slip, the folds
Of which join
The sea of crevices
In her robes.
Her lips part, letting
Out breaths of ecstasy.
Her eyelids, open halfway
Eyes rolling back to gaze above
Into the light, which dances
Across her face, down her body,
And pulsates from her limbs
Through the sheets, the marble rug,
Spilling out towards us.
The Ecstasy of Saint Theresa
____________________________
Golden rays stream from the window
Lined with deep-yellow stained glass,
A white sun in a golden haze,
Beaming in a mixture of natural light.
She is penetrated by Cupid’s arrow,
And from his hand the love of God,
Pierces her flesh, wounding her with
His painful pleasure as she is lifted
By the neck of her robes.
He pulls his arrow back, still at the ready,
Relinquishes his grasp, fingers loosening,
Barely hooked on the edges of her robe.
Her arm falls limp, trailing her side,
Leg hanging off the cliff of ecstasy,
But toes still curled – remnants of bliss.
Head settles back into her linen robes,
In which the wind pushes sharp folds.
Cupid’s thin, gauzy robe is falling
Off his chest, joining the sea of
Curves and pleats, swirling like the
Coils of his blond locks.
His smile, a warm and knowing
Expression, unsurprised by her
Throngs of gratification.
She falls onto the rough stones,
The last moans exit her parted lips;
She is spent.
The Ecstasy of Beata Ludovica Albertoni
_______________________________________
Hands are grasping, clutching
At the fabric of her flowing robes.
Her legs scrunch into her body,
Rising waves of heat from her toes,
Which curl from the electricity.
The rest, hidden in the alcove
Until I move to front of her bed,
For the first time gazing at her
Rising orgasm,
Which seems to be
Emanating from between her legs,
Climbing up her torso, the currents
Swirling her robes.
A hand presses
Into her stomach, restraining
The flooding sensation;
But its effects are
Overcoming her control
As she struggles to contain it.
Fingers dive into her flesh, the
Marbled breast soft under her touch.
Shoulders fall back
As orgasm lifts her chest
Above the mattress;
Head craning back, barely
On the pillow.
Headdress beginning
To slip, the folds
Of which join
The sea of crevices
In her robes.
Her lips part, letting
Out breaths of ecstasy.
Her eyelids, open halfway
Eyes rolling back to gaze above
Into the light, which dances
Across her face, down her body,
And pulsates from her limbs
Through the sheets, the marble rug,
Spilling out towards us.
The Ecstasy of Saint Theresa
____________________________
Golden rays stream from the window
Lined with deep-yellow stained glass,
A white sun in a golden haze,
Beaming in a mixture of natural light.
She is penetrated by Cupid’s arrow,
And from his hand the love of God,
Pierces her flesh, wounding her with
His painful pleasure as she is lifted
By the neck of her robes.
He pulls his arrow back, still at the ready,
Relinquishes his grasp, fingers loosening,
Barely hooked on the edges of her robe.
Her arm falls limp, trailing her side,
Leg hanging off the cliff of ecstasy,
But toes still curled – remnants of bliss.
Head settles back into her linen robes,
In which the wind pushes sharp folds.
Cupid’s thin, gauzy robe is falling
Off his chest, joining the sea of
Curves and pleats, swirling like the
Coils of his blond locks.
His smile, a warm and knowing
Expression, unsurprised by her
Throngs of gratification.
She falls onto the rough stones,
The last moans exit her parted lips;
She is spent.
Folle Voles, Assignment #6
Il Colosseo
While She is tattered, Her marble face flaked and marred from time and toil, Her heart still drums a steady beat, and if one listens carefully at the first coos of dawn, one might be able to hear, behind the soft flutters of a new day, the stomps of Roman sandals beneath the cobblestones. During the day, walking the streets of Rome, I am distracted by the lure of cafes, the throngs that line gelaterias, the zig-zagging mopeds, the incessant pigeons, the street-hugging buses, the occasional whiffs of warm aromas and hot urine, the waves of pedestrians – modern life bustles above the streets. But I think many of us journey to Rome to find her past glory; that was my pursuit when I began a quest to find her once terrifying roar of glory.
I began my journey thinking that if I could stand amidst her ruins, I would find her story. I wandered to the one place everyone hears of but only some have seen, and even fewer have experienced. The Colosseum is now silent, despite the millions of people who flood its gates for a peek at the infamous site of both gore and praise. The wooden platform at the center (a stage for modern performers), the vendors selling plastic miniatures of the amphitheatre, the commercial guards canned within spray-painted chest armor – once glory, now travesty (I even see billboards advertising rum, which glow in a bottle with ridges like the columns of the Colosseum). I listened for Romans strolling for their afternoon baths; my ears met only the trot of carriages and tour advertisers shouting, “English guides!” I knew that the ancient glory still whispers under the streets, and I found her calling late one Saturday morning.
Whispers of Il Colosseo – the original past – came to my ears in a siesta dream. The sweet scent of wine sailed beneath my nose, blood-red ribbons swirling, flapping in the wind. Apollo was soaring across the sky, his rays piercing my eyes and illuminating the stands. A low humming boomed from the walls of the ancient amphitheatre as I stared at its arching walls – the anticipation before the show (the reenactment of Carthage) sharpened the air. An eagle loomed above, its screech piercing the tension. A giant crowd swarmed around a plump man selling tickets...
The bells toll; two in the afternoon, one of the hottest afternoons yet, a blistering 40 degrees. Rome is melting. Even the air is wavy from the heat. I looked back at the clock – the rest of Rome is hammocked for siesta, absconding from the afternoon heat. Stores are closed, which makes the streets look like they are lined with garage doors. I am on my way to see the battle of Carthage – a journey to the past through the roads of modern Italy.
I recruit Sal and Kay to join me on my quest as I begin to trot down the marble steps into Apollo’s fleece. We are certainly an odd sight. The few Romans who still roam the streets watch us – Sal, tall, in the lead as Kay and I, shorter, flank her on either side. We quicken our steps to a gallop, hopping into a slight dash once in a while until we reach la fermata – to Termini. The bus doors open and we raft a current – a sea of people flood out as if the Tiber was feeding through the opposite windows. We find a small eddy in the waves, and sneak aboard as the water wraps around us, suspending us in a swaying pool of sweat.
Termini. Trailing behind us is a five-block-long evaporating runnel of seawater that drips from our clothes. I hastily trot along the cobblestones, head flicking left and right, my hand hovering above my forehead like a sailor looking out to sea, squinting across the restaurants and…restaurants. The heat is drowning out all the senses…colors bleached white, buildings mirrored down the street, smells of heat, heat insulating our skin – a blue flag peaks out from around the corner! An eagle spreads across its sagging face. But the cement is melting beneath us; the streets are holding our ankles, as we struggle across its spongy surface, each step sinks deeper into the heat. We double our efforts.
An immediate coolness strikes us – a thousand kisses across our skin. We walk into throngs of blue – baby blue tee shirts, dark blue sweatshirts, sky blue jerseys, white fleeces. Two tanned faces watch our faces enter from behind the counter – watching three Chinese girls, flushed, beads of sweat condensing on our foreheads, a few droplets on our noses and lips. I step closer to the counter; a man with a prominent Roman nose accompanied by his daughter raises his bushy eyebrows….we tell him our quest.
We are too late, he says.
Perhaps the adrenaline is still pumping through my veins, for I heard his words but cannot take them to heart. Sal and Kay echo my hesitation to turn back immediately – our journey was limited to a 30-minutes bus ride, but our hearts had been set. We linger at the edges of the door – both not wanting to leave the comforts of air conditioning nor relinquish hope that She is still alive. Can She truly be lost forever?
The bushy-eyebrowed man peeks at us from the corner of his eye, furtive, pretending to fold jerseys behind the counter. Sal approaches his again….
He must have heard the pleading in her voice; glancing skeptically at our American attire, studying our faces, eventually he decides to test our worth – a second journey. Vediamo a Il Colosseo.
We dash across the hot-cold border without a flinch; the heat will have to wait, we part her drowning waves like the Red Sea, opening a direct path back to Termini. We climb down the subway stairs, the sun fading into a neon-yellow illumination of the underground tunnel. Sal crosses the gates first, feeding in her ticket through the machine. On the other side she begins to ask for directions: “Dov’e ----?”
Kay follows; I am blocked. My ticket will not allow me to pass the foolish plastic flaps. I feed in my ticket again – again I am met by the incessant red light. Upsidedown? Backwards? Right-side-up? I try every possible combination! The guard rolls his eyes, struts to my right and takes my ticket. He studies it for a minute – Sal and Kay are waiting for me! – and finally decides I am honest, and scans his badge that dangles from his neck. I rush the doors. Goosh! I slam against the plastic flap. I clutch my arm in embarrassment and limp over to my comrades as we gallop to our speedy pace. I skip to keep up as Sal weaves through the seas – switching current paths, sharp right, down the stairs, sharp right – halt!
The light at the end of the tunnel teased our anxiousness. We leap through the doors of the metro – fourth stop, then transfer to Tram No. 2.
The station exited into a small piazza. We currently stood along one edge, the metro behind us. A large gap – like an airport hangar – neighbored us on the right. Across was a shutter-lined wall of a paint-chipped building. To the right, a line of vendors sell heavy scarves. We turn into the hangar. A lone green train sits at the tracks, bearing a painted No. 2 on its forehead – we clamor on, but unease tickles our nerves. Sal communicates with the local passengers, none of who speak a single word of English, a surprising change from the internationality in centro. After a lot of gesticulating, we are sent off the train still not knowing where to find the tram….
Back in the piazza – no sides seem to lead to the right direction. We walk in small circles, studying each direction twice before inching forward a few steps only to look upon the same four edges. As we spiral toward the vendors I can feel my heart begin to sink, then suddenly lift as a small path obscured by the row of vendors fades into view, and to the right, tram tracks. We labor to follow the metal lines that snaked beneath our feet, like pulling on invisible ropes toward the quay.
We take seats on the No. 2 Tram; the plastic is hot from the sun. In front of us sits an old Italian woman who looks friendly enough; she smells of roasted garlic. Sal approaches her for guidance. Again hands fly into the air – a language of signs – but all we can understand after 5 minutes is a timid confirmation that we are on the right path. I pray we are. My back sticks to my shirt, glued by a thick film of moisture. My thighs are plastered to the plastic seats. I look at Sal – if I were a stranger, I would have guessed she had just finished a wrestling match and now returns home defeated. Her hair, once a nicely placed ponytail, now branch out to the continents of her face. Her muscles droop, melted by the sun. A slight gleam across her face shines from sweat. But her eyes, like mine, are beaten martyrs of hope.
Ahead of us the old woman begins a chat with the young man across from her – we were their topic of interest. While I could not ascertain their conversation, I could hear the entertained laughter – that seems to reflect their attitude toward us, an intrigued fondness that sprouts a willingness to help, but also teasing mockery – and the occasional Cinese. We are the punch-line of an unknown joke.
The woman begins to point frantically, and we follow her finger off the tram into a ghost town. The streets are soulless. The tram begins to inch away, as hesitant as we are to move. We see through the window the woman, who points to the horizon – there is nothing there. I look at Sal and Kay, and they stare back with the same doubtful expression. The young man begins to point in the other direction, with greater fervor. I turn to head in his direction, but soon we all stop as we watch a misdirected orchestra of arms and fingers directing this way and that. Our eyes cannot follow. The passengers grow restless, gesticulating even more, all pointing in different directions. My head is spinning.
The driver stops the tram and motions for us to return – we gladly dash aboard once again. The woman and young man are in a focused argument about the correct stop – we sink back into our sticky seats awaiting the final decision. The grains of time are sinking through – I gaze out at tree after tree lining orange colored buildings, the same scene scrolling across my window. No signs of life.
The tram stops – this time a definite stop. The woman gestures us to follow her; we descend into a swarm of street vendors selling clothes and scarves once again. She points us through a dense forest. The only word I can make out from her string of Italian is Piu. We huddle in the shade, dragging our feet along a gravel path into a shady park. A rusty fountain painstakingly drips water at its faucet – as languid as our feet. Time has slowed. Once again we ask for directions. “Dov’e ----?” The Italian woman, younger than the one on the tram, produces the same look – she does not understand our English, though she apologizes for not being able to help, and proceeds to giggle the same mocking adoration. We trek on. Past a white marble bridge lined with more vendors…
At the end a dozen Italian policemen form a macho circle between two large armored vans. Some are plump, others skinny. Some sport fashionable aviators, others rigid hats. All position their bodies in a prideful pose – one presses his shoulders back and raises his face to the sun, another leans an elbow on the van and grins proudly, another boasts with a leg propped on the side of the van. We test our luck – surely these gatekeepers of Rome can help us on our quest….
Too late, is the reply. Not possible today. My heart sinks to my ankles. We linger in front of this cloud of male ego just as we did back at Termini. But these men turned away from us – not a single drop of curiosity or willingness to help; they go back to their proud chuckles.
We hang our heads, walking against the current of people flooding past us. M- I could not catch the full name, for it was just a passing wind from an Italian family. They too do not speak a single word of English, with the exception of how to ask, “Do you speak English?” The boy points us across the marble bridge – which stretches across the Tiber back into the shady forest. We follow without thought – robots on an endless quest….
We are seekers of glory in an inglorious journey – shackled by heat, alienated by language, exiled to the borders. We are lost pilgrims, far away from home, estranged in a new land. Perhaps we are doomed to never find Rome as She was; perhaps she truly died in the Fall….
I closed my eyes to hear the roar of the crowds just before the start of the games. I fancy I hear a low drum shaking the grounds. The pummel of Roman sandals were flooding the entrances, I follow the crowds. That plump ticket seller was standing guard, circled by fans. I am taking each step cautiously, careful not to stir the fragile scene. The scream of an eagle wakes me – I stare upon an ocean of fans before me. They are decked in baby blue tees, navy blue jerseys, sky blue scarves wrapped about their hips. Large banners sway back and forth, from its flaps rise the soaring eagle. Without knowing it, I have arrived. The fans raise their arms, blow their whistles, chant their song: Forzo Lazio…!
Il Colosseo grows from the ground and erects its grandeur around me. I stare up at its bleachers packed with Romans. The games begin – two men already fall to the ground! We cannot contain our excitement! Rome, She is still beating.
Legend will tell the story of two sons of Rome: Lazio and Roma, whose age long battle is reminiscent of the twin rivalry at the birth of Rome. While the main players have changed, the search for glory is relentless, and seekers of glory – like me – continue to voyage on folle voles to be a part of the legend.
While She is tattered, Her marble face flaked and marred from time and toil, Her heart still drums a steady beat, and if one listens carefully at the first coos of dawn, one might be able to hear, behind the soft flutters of a new day, the stomps of Roman sandals beneath the cobblestones. During the day, walking the streets of Rome, I am distracted by the lure of cafes, the throngs that line gelaterias, the zig-zagging mopeds, the incessant pigeons, the street-hugging buses, the occasional whiffs of warm aromas and hot urine, the waves of pedestrians – modern life bustles above the streets. But I think many of us journey to Rome to find her past glory; that was my pursuit when I began a quest to find her once terrifying roar of glory.
I began my journey thinking that if I could stand amidst her ruins, I would find her story. I wandered to the one place everyone hears of but only some have seen, and even fewer have experienced. The Colosseum is now silent, despite the millions of people who flood its gates for a peek at the infamous site of both gore and praise. The wooden platform at the center (a stage for modern performers), the vendors selling plastic miniatures of the amphitheatre, the commercial guards canned within spray-painted chest armor – once glory, now travesty (I even see billboards advertising rum, which glow in a bottle with ridges like the columns of the Colosseum). I listened for Romans strolling for their afternoon baths; my ears met only the trot of carriages and tour advertisers shouting, “English guides!” I knew that the ancient glory still whispers under the streets, and I found her calling late one Saturday morning.
Whispers of Il Colosseo – the original past – came to my ears in a siesta dream. The sweet scent of wine sailed beneath my nose, blood-red ribbons swirling, flapping in the wind. Apollo was soaring across the sky, his rays piercing my eyes and illuminating the stands. A low humming boomed from the walls of the ancient amphitheatre as I stared at its arching walls – the anticipation before the show (the reenactment of Carthage) sharpened the air. An eagle loomed above, its screech piercing the tension. A giant crowd swarmed around a plump man selling tickets...
The bells toll; two in the afternoon, one of the hottest afternoons yet, a blistering 40 degrees. Rome is melting. Even the air is wavy from the heat. I looked back at the clock – the rest of Rome is hammocked for siesta, absconding from the afternoon heat. Stores are closed, which makes the streets look like they are lined with garage doors. I am on my way to see the battle of Carthage – a journey to the past through the roads of modern Italy.
I recruit Sal and Kay to join me on my quest as I begin to trot down the marble steps into Apollo’s fleece. We are certainly an odd sight. The few Romans who still roam the streets watch us – Sal, tall, in the lead as Kay and I, shorter, flank her on either side. We quicken our steps to a gallop, hopping into a slight dash once in a while until we reach la fermata – to Termini. The bus doors open and we raft a current – a sea of people flood out as if the Tiber was feeding through the opposite windows. We find a small eddy in the waves, and sneak aboard as the water wraps around us, suspending us in a swaying pool of sweat.
Termini. Trailing behind us is a five-block-long evaporating runnel of seawater that drips from our clothes. I hastily trot along the cobblestones, head flicking left and right, my hand hovering above my forehead like a sailor looking out to sea, squinting across the restaurants and…restaurants. The heat is drowning out all the senses…colors bleached white, buildings mirrored down the street, smells of heat, heat insulating our skin – a blue flag peaks out from around the corner! An eagle spreads across its sagging face. But the cement is melting beneath us; the streets are holding our ankles, as we struggle across its spongy surface, each step sinks deeper into the heat. We double our efforts.
An immediate coolness strikes us – a thousand kisses across our skin. We walk into throngs of blue – baby blue tee shirts, dark blue sweatshirts, sky blue jerseys, white fleeces. Two tanned faces watch our faces enter from behind the counter – watching three Chinese girls, flushed, beads of sweat condensing on our foreheads, a few droplets on our noses and lips. I step closer to the counter; a man with a prominent Roman nose accompanied by his daughter raises his bushy eyebrows….we tell him our quest.
We are too late, he says.
Perhaps the adrenaline is still pumping through my veins, for I heard his words but cannot take them to heart. Sal and Kay echo my hesitation to turn back immediately – our journey was limited to a 30-minutes bus ride, but our hearts had been set. We linger at the edges of the door – both not wanting to leave the comforts of air conditioning nor relinquish hope that She is still alive. Can She truly be lost forever?
The bushy-eyebrowed man peeks at us from the corner of his eye, furtive, pretending to fold jerseys behind the counter. Sal approaches his again….
He must have heard the pleading in her voice; glancing skeptically at our American attire, studying our faces, eventually he decides to test our worth – a second journey. Vediamo a Il Colosseo.
We dash across the hot-cold border without a flinch; the heat will have to wait, we part her drowning waves like the Red Sea, opening a direct path back to Termini. We climb down the subway stairs, the sun fading into a neon-yellow illumination of the underground tunnel. Sal crosses the gates first, feeding in her ticket through the machine. On the other side she begins to ask for directions: “Dov’e ----?”
Kay follows; I am blocked. My ticket will not allow me to pass the foolish plastic flaps. I feed in my ticket again – again I am met by the incessant red light. Upsidedown? Backwards? Right-side-up? I try every possible combination! The guard rolls his eyes, struts to my right and takes my ticket. He studies it for a minute – Sal and Kay are waiting for me! – and finally decides I am honest, and scans his badge that dangles from his neck. I rush the doors. Goosh! I slam against the plastic flap. I clutch my arm in embarrassment and limp over to my comrades as we gallop to our speedy pace. I skip to keep up as Sal weaves through the seas – switching current paths, sharp right, down the stairs, sharp right – halt!
The light at the end of the tunnel teased our anxiousness. We leap through the doors of the metro – fourth stop, then transfer to Tram No. 2.
The station exited into a small piazza. We currently stood along one edge, the metro behind us. A large gap – like an airport hangar – neighbored us on the right. Across was a shutter-lined wall of a paint-chipped building. To the right, a line of vendors sell heavy scarves. We turn into the hangar. A lone green train sits at the tracks, bearing a painted No. 2 on its forehead – we clamor on, but unease tickles our nerves. Sal communicates with the local passengers, none of who speak a single word of English, a surprising change from the internationality in centro. After a lot of gesticulating, we are sent off the train still not knowing where to find the tram….
Back in the piazza – no sides seem to lead to the right direction. We walk in small circles, studying each direction twice before inching forward a few steps only to look upon the same four edges. As we spiral toward the vendors I can feel my heart begin to sink, then suddenly lift as a small path obscured by the row of vendors fades into view, and to the right, tram tracks. We labor to follow the metal lines that snaked beneath our feet, like pulling on invisible ropes toward the quay.
We take seats on the No. 2 Tram; the plastic is hot from the sun. In front of us sits an old Italian woman who looks friendly enough; she smells of roasted garlic. Sal approaches her for guidance. Again hands fly into the air – a language of signs – but all we can understand after 5 minutes is a timid confirmation that we are on the right path. I pray we are. My back sticks to my shirt, glued by a thick film of moisture. My thighs are plastered to the plastic seats. I look at Sal – if I were a stranger, I would have guessed she had just finished a wrestling match and now returns home defeated. Her hair, once a nicely placed ponytail, now branch out to the continents of her face. Her muscles droop, melted by the sun. A slight gleam across her face shines from sweat. But her eyes, like mine, are beaten martyrs of hope.
Ahead of us the old woman begins a chat with the young man across from her – we were their topic of interest. While I could not ascertain their conversation, I could hear the entertained laughter – that seems to reflect their attitude toward us, an intrigued fondness that sprouts a willingness to help, but also teasing mockery – and the occasional Cinese. We are the punch-line of an unknown joke.
The woman begins to point frantically, and we follow her finger off the tram into a ghost town. The streets are soulless. The tram begins to inch away, as hesitant as we are to move. We see through the window the woman, who points to the horizon – there is nothing there. I look at Sal and Kay, and they stare back with the same doubtful expression. The young man begins to point in the other direction, with greater fervor. I turn to head in his direction, but soon we all stop as we watch a misdirected orchestra of arms and fingers directing this way and that. Our eyes cannot follow. The passengers grow restless, gesticulating even more, all pointing in different directions. My head is spinning.
The driver stops the tram and motions for us to return – we gladly dash aboard once again. The woman and young man are in a focused argument about the correct stop – we sink back into our sticky seats awaiting the final decision. The grains of time are sinking through – I gaze out at tree after tree lining orange colored buildings, the same scene scrolling across my window. No signs of life.
The tram stops – this time a definite stop. The woman gestures us to follow her; we descend into a swarm of street vendors selling clothes and scarves once again. She points us through a dense forest. The only word I can make out from her string of Italian is Piu. We huddle in the shade, dragging our feet along a gravel path into a shady park. A rusty fountain painstakingly drips water at its faucet – as languid as our feet. Time has slowed. Once again we ask for directions. “Dov’e ----?” The Italian woman, younger than the one on the tram, produces the same look – she does not understand our English, though she apologizes for not being able to help, and proceeds to giggle the same mocking adoration. We trek on. Past a white marble bridge lined with more vendors…
At the end a dozen Italian policemen form a macho circle between two large armored vans. Some are plump, others skinny. Some sport fashionable aviators, others rigid hats. All position their bodies in a prideful pose – one presses his shoulders back and raises his face to the sun, another leans an elbow on the van and grins proudly, another boasts with a leg propped on the side of the van. We test our luck – surely these gatekeepers of Rome can help us on our quest….
Too late, is the reply. Not possible today. My heart sinks to my ankles. We linger in front of this cloud of male ego just as we did back at Termini. But these men turned away from us – not a single drop of curiosity or willingness to help; they go back to their proud chuckles.
We hang our heads, walking against the current of people flooding past us. M- I could not catch the full name, for it was just a passing wind from an Italian family. They too do not speak a single word of English, with the exception of how to ask, “Do you speak English?” The boy points us across the marble bridge – which stretches across the Tiber back into the shady forest. We follow without thought – robots on an endless quest….
We are seekers of glory in an inglorious journey – shackled by heat, alienated by language, exiled to the borders. We are lost pilgrims, far away from home, estranged in a new land. Perhaps we are doomed to never find Rome as She was; perhaps she truly died in the Fall….
I closed my eyes to hear the roar of the crowds just before the start of the games. I fancy I hear a low drum shaking the grounds. The pummel of Roman sandals were flooding the entrances, I follow the crowds. That plump ticket seller was standing guard, circled by fans. I am taking each step cautiously, careful not to stir the fragile scene. The scream of an eagle wakes me – I stare upon an ocean of fans before me. They are decked in baby blue tees, navy blue jerseys, sky blue scarves wrapped about their hips. Large banners sway back and forth, from its flaps rise the soaring eagle. Without knowing it, I have arrived. The fans raise their arms, blow their whistles, chant their song: Forzo Lazio…!
Il Colosseo grows from the ground and erects its grandeur around me. I stare up at its bleachers packed with Romans. The games begin – two men already fall to the ground! We cannot contain our excitement! Rome, She is still beating.
Legend will tell the story of two sons of Rome: Lazio and Roma, whose age long battle is reminiscent of the twin rivalry at the birth of Rome. While the main players have changed, the search for glory is relentless, and seekers of glory – like me – continue to voyage on folle voles to be a part of the legend.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Postcards of Ponte Sisto, Assignment #7
Ponte Sisto
– Part 1
Heat smothers the Ponte Sisto in a blanket of silence; the Tiber is calm. But the tranquility if transient, the remnants of life still lingering in the air. The reek of hot urine billows from the steps – not too long ago the arch was a night’s shelter. The revetments along the banks are streaked with neon spray paint – graffiti clashes with the natural tones of the river; months ago teenagers had a few drinks and painted their night on the walls. White spots sail on the river like origami canoes. I’m not wearing my glasses so I go for a peak – perhaps distant seagulls? No, a collection of plastic bottles, soiled napkins, old newspapers – some float along the gentle currents, others sway, netted in the puke-green foam that loiters at the edges of the banks.
Heat smothers the Ponte Sisto in a blanket of silence; the Tiber is calm. But the tranquility if transient, the remnants of life still lingering in the air. The reek of hot urine billows from the steps – not too long ago the arch was a night’s shelter. The revetments along the banks are streaked with neon spray paint – graffiti clashes with the natural tones of the river; months ago teenagers had a few drinks and painted their night on the walls. White spots sail on the river like origami canoes. I’m not wearing my glasses so I go for a peak – perhaps distant seagulls? No, a collection of plastic bottles, soiled napkins, old newspapers – some float along the gentle currents, others sway, netted in the puke-green foam that loiters at the edges of the banks.
– Part 2
Right below the steps of the Ponte Sisto is a blur of lights and chatter. I peak across the edge of the bridge: lights run along the river, sparklers posted in a row on one side, doubled by the golden halos reflected on the glassy onyx surface of the Tiber. The noises of the night market washes across the bridge and all that runs beneath it. Music – a band of drums and trumpets – fill the silence I remember from yesterday. The night is not any cooler, but heavy air has lifted. The warm scent of roasting meat replaces my memory of pungent odor in the afternoon. A golden bag of red and orange stripes dangles from a painted black hook, next to Indian blues and greens – small glued mirrors on the outside – like a Chinese lantern.
Right below the steps of the Ponte Sisto is a blur of lights and chatter. I peak across the edge of the bridge: lights run along the river, sparklers posted in a row on one side, doubled by the golden halos reflected on the glassy onyx surface of the Tiber. The noises of the night market washes across the bridge and all that runs beneath it. Music – a band of drums and trumpets – fill the silence I remember from yesterday. The night is not any cooler, but heavy air has lifted. The warm scent of roasting meat replaces my memory of pungent odor in the afternoon. A golden bag of red and orange stripes dangles from a painted black hook, next to Indian blues and greens – small glued mirrors on the outside – like a Chinese lantern.
– Part 3
I huddle in a corner of the Ponte Sisto, trying to avoid the traffic of people and the African vendors who camp on both sides of the bridge. Most people, as I usually do, quicken their pace as they pass, pretending not to feel their following gaze. A dog splays on its side, all four paws jutting out like toothpicks. It is motionless, not even the ebbs of breathing – I hope it’s not dead, but I don’t dare to take a closer look. On the opposing side two dark men are smoking something – the pipe of choice I cannot see, only the dirty light grey puffs of smoke that smells of burning weeds and hovers in front of their faces (looks like an armadillo sniffing a mushroom.)
I huddle in a corner of the Ponte Sisto, trying to avoid the traffic of people and the African vendors who camp on both sides of the bridge. Most people, as I usually do, quicken their pace as they pass, pretending not to feel their following gaze. A dog splays on its side, all four paws jutting out like toothpicks. It is motionless, not even the ebbs of breathing – I hope it’s not dead, but I don’t dare to take a closer look. On the opposing side two dark men are smoking something – the pipe of choice I cannot see, only the dirty light grey puffs of smoke that smells of burning weeds and hovers in front of their faces (looks like an armadillo sniffing a mushroom.)
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Journal, Assignment #1
Journey for a Journal
The leather-bound journals were all over 50 euros – they were quite splendid in their antique appearance. I flipped through the pages of the other decorous journals – flowery imprints, smoothed covers, laced ties – these were the journals that I think of in black-and-white movies where the beautiful debutante keeps her secret thoughts and plays with her take on gossip and love. I was drawn here just as I was drawn to Breakfast at Tiffany’s – for the romanticized and subtle glamour.
I picked up one with lace-trim and a ribbon tie and mused over my first potential words.
Rome is a painting to be explored, a city whose beauty is captured in the bouquets that line the Piazza Navona, the vines that caress the buildings, the sunsets that sink below the flat rooftops…
I paused to laugh at my own pretentiousness. My thoughts were as flowery and imitated as the conjured petal-winged butterflies that flutter on the cover. I laid this down, and instead sprung for one with hand-sewn bindings – a more homely appearance.
Rome is a ruin beneath ruins – fragments of the past scattered about the city – the past caged behind glass windows…
I could have written this while still in Seattle studying architectural slide shows and figures in history texts. I had built up the city – inevitable for a city as infamous and glorified as Rome! – as much as these inflated prices. I would have filled these pages with an idealized manuscript of what I could produce of Rome rather than what Rome has shown me – a specious inspiration that strays from genuine experience. If I had sprung for this glorified task, I would have written vicariously.
I scurried to the office supplies store – 15 minutes before I need to be back in the Piazza del Biscione for another group activity. Not quite sure how many more steps away until I would turn the corner to find the shop doors awaiting me, I quickened my pace. We all began to feel the time ticking faster and some girls slowed in hesitation; one by one they pulled from my flock and turned back. I continued with determination. I was left to judge time by the number of snapshot moments – the last wristwatch returned back to the piazza.
It was certainly not the image of the celebrated journals of famous writers. A notebook, a spirally-bound collection of paper – pigna nature, actually – priced for just three euro. Simple enough that I was not tempted to invent grandeur on its pages; available for my observations, like the covered woman who crouches in the corner right before the shop. She is dressed as if of Mideast descent: her head wrapped in a gauzy wine red sari, her shrunken body draped by loose linen fabric, also a deep hue of red. Her olive skin tanned to the brown of dying leaves after a night of rain. She bowed her head, her forehead scraped the cobblestones, her disheveled hair flowed through the cracks. She was still and silent. I was reminded of ancient Chinese displays of humility and shame, bowing to the ground at the feet of honorable leaders and ancestors. I remembered the ticking seconds on the clock and rushed past her – stopping after a few steps, drawn to show her kindness – but the ticking was growing louder and I blocked her from my mind. Even today I wonder about her story – was she genuine or was she another figure on the Roman canvas?
The leather-bound journals were all over 50 euros – they were quite splendid in their antique appearance. I flipped through the pages of the other decorous journals – flowery imprints, smoothed covers, laced ties – these were the journals that I think of in black-and-white movies where the beautiful debutante keeps her secret thoughts and plays with her take on gossip and love. I was drawn here just as I was drawn to Breakfast at Tiffany’s – for the romanticized and subtle glamour.
I picked up one with lace-trim and a ribbon tie and mused over my first potential words.
Rome is a painting to be explored, a city whose beauty is captured in the bouquets that line the Piazza Navona, the vines that caress the buildings, the sunsets that sink below the flat rooftops…
I paused to laugh at my own pretentiousness. My thoughts were as flowery and imitated as the conjured petal-winged butterflies that flutter on the cover. I laid this down, and instead sprung for one with hand-sewn bindings – a more homely appearance.
Rome is a ruin beneath ruins – fragments of the past scattered about the city – the past caged behind glass windows…
I could have written this while still in Seattle studying architectural slide shows and figures in history texts. I had built up the city – inevitable for a city as infamous and glorified as Rome! – as much as these inflated prices. I would have filled these pages with an idealized manuscript of what I could produce of Rome rather than what Rome has shown me – a specious inspiration that strays from genuine experience. If I had sprung for this glorified task, I would have written vicariously.
I scurried to the office supplies store – 15 minutes before I need to be back in the Piazza del Biscione for another group activity. Not quite sure how many more steps away until I would turn the corner to find the shop doors awaiting me, I quickened my pace. We all began to feel the time ticking faster and some girls slowed in hesitation; one by one they pulled from my flock and turned back. I continued with determination. I was left to judge time by the number of snapshot moments – the last wristwatch returned back to the piazza.
It was certainly not the image of the celebrated journals of famous writers. A notebook, a spirally-bound collection of paper – pigna nature, actually – priced for just three euro. Simple enough that I was not tempted to invent grandeur on its pages; available for my observations, like the covered woman who crouches in the corner right before the shop. She is dressed as if of Mideast descent: her head wrapped in a gauzy wine red sari, her shrunken body draped by loose linen fabric, also a deep hue of red. Her olive skin tanned to the brown of dying leaves after a night of rain. She bowed her head, her forehead scraped the cobblestones, her disheveled hair flowed through the cracks. She was still and silent. I was reminded of ancient Chinese displays of humility and shame, bowing to the ground at the feet of honorable leaders and ancestors. I remembered the ticking seconds on the clock and rushed past her – stopping after a few steps, drawn to show her kindness – but the ticking was growing louder and I blocked her from my mind. Even today I wonder about her story – was she genuine or was she another figure on the Roman canvas?
First Impression of Rome, Assignment #2
Roman Salad
The heat is seeping into the airport; the air conditioning is losing to waves of smothering humidity lingering like a rainy cloud at the edges of the building. It makes us sluggish, but others around us seem unaffected. People buzz around me – travelers arriving and departing dart across the smoothed tiled floor, weaving between bags and carts. Here I am insignificant – no one takes notice of the path of a little Chinese girl dragging along two matching green suitcases, no one except the one airport security officer. Blue collared uniform, short-sleeved, ironed, stiff black slacks, polished shoes – he is liked a cardboard cutout. His are the first Italian words I hear – and I cannot recall a single syllable. He speaks with a heavy Italian accent, so much so that for 5 minutes I recite my flight itinerary because I mistake where were you born for where did you board. No one around me takes notice, just pass by as if I was just another support column.
A line of cab drivers are recruiting tourists – we are the most tourist-looking of them all. As we slow our pace, looking around for signs of the Concora, we are bombarded with travel offers. It is not difficult to single us out – Hank has the all-American backpacker image, but perhaps he could have slipped in the crowd if he was not then accompanied by two Chinese girls and a Sri Lankan. We are a visual focus, like statues in a museum where others circle quickly about, studying us but never losing speed, as we remain still.
Rome is much quieter than I had imagined. We sit gazing through the windows of our Mercedes Taxi-Van at the square buildings that lined the streets, shaded behind olive green leaves and swaying branches. Everything is still – the only cars I see are parked along the streets, compact and miniature, squeezed together between the occasional Japanese SUVs.
The city is glazed – perhaps because I am still dazed from the 20 hours of travel – with a blanket of earthy tones: the tarred-brown of wooden shutters; the rough orange paint that seem blended from a distance, but likely chipped if closely inspected, like erected croutons; the dark greens of the foliage, which remind me of spinach; the occasional red petals that enliven the duller tones, like cherry tomatoes in a Roman salad. This is not the Rome I pictured – where is the sense of history living behind crumbling architectural feats? Where are the people? The streets are soulless, not even a stray cat roams the sidewalks, no flashes of tourists snapping photographs; stark contrast to Fiumicino. I leave my camera sitting in my bag, thinking that if I did take a picture, no one would believe this was Rome (Madrid perhaps, but not Rome).
Only tourists – flagged by their adornment of large backs, sluggish pace, wandering eyes, and cameras of all sizes strung around their necks – roam the streets under the beating sun. Where are the Romans? The van drives through the streets as if the people were street décor (lamps, hedges, garbage cans); safe distance is never in consideration. A middle-aged, tanned man is washing his hands and drinking from a small rusty pipe that tapped into an underground water supply. I have heard that the water in Italy is the best; I speculate that this man was the first Roman local I encountered, for his movements are familiar not awkward, requiring little thought for a normal sip of water on a hot afternoon.
We sit on sizzling metal bleacher that stood alone in a corner of the Campo dei Fiori, gelatos in hand. Neon graffiti streaks pink, baby blue, and yellow across the seats. The sweetness of my 2-euro melone gelato pickles my throat – perhaps this was not the best place to have gotten gelato. I grow thirstier with each lick, and the rusty fountain looks more appealing. This time I watch as sweat-sullen tourists would approach the flowing water with hesitant woes and leave with smiling satisfaction. I watch as small kids covered in sticky-white gelato are escorted over by their parents for a refreshing cleaning. I watch as Hank waits among the doleful, wondering how he should bend and twist to be able to quench his thirst; a small child runs up and plugs the pipe, causing water to arch through a small hole at the top of the pipe – a drinking fountain. Hank runs back, a smile across his face, having learned a valuable Roman lesson.
The heat is seeping into the airport; the air conditioning is losing to waves of smothering humidity lingering like a rainy cloud at the edges of the building. It makes us sluggish, but others around us seem unaffected. People buzz around me – travelers arriving and departing dart across the smoothed tiled floor, weaving between bags and carts. Here I am insignificant – no one takes notice of the path of a little Chinese girl dragging along two matching green suitcases, no one except the one airport security officer. Blue collared uniform, short-sleeved, ironed, stiff black slacks, polished shoes – he is liked a cardboard cutout. His are the first Italian words I hear – and I cannot recall a single syllable. He speaks with a heavy Italian accent, so much so that for 5 minutes I recite my flight itinerary because I mistake where were you born for where did you board. No one around me takes notice, just pass by as if I was just another support column.
A line of cab drivers are recruiting tourists – we are the most tourist-looking of them all. As we slow our pace, looking around for signs of the Concora, we are bombarded with travel offers. It is not difficult to single us out – Hank has the all-American backpacker image, but perhaps he could have slipped in the crowd if he was not then accompanied by two Chinese girls and a Sri Lankan. We are a visual focus, like statues in a museum where others circle quickly about, studying us but never losing speed, as we remain still.
Rome is much quieter than I had imagined. We sit gazing through the windows of our Mercedes Taxi-Van at the square buildings that lined the streets, shaded behind olive green leaves and swaying branches. Everything is still – the only cars I see are parked along the streets, compact and miniature, squeezed together between the occasional Japanese SUVs.
The city is glazed – perhaps because I am still dazed from the 20 hours of travel – with a blanket of earthy tones: the tarred-brown of wooden shutters; the rough orange paint that seem blended from a distance, but likely chipped if closely inspected, like erected croutons; the dark greens of the foliage, which remind me of spinach; the occasional red petals that enliven the duller tones, like cherry tomatoes in a Roman salad. This is not the Rome I pictured – where is the sense of history living behind crumbling architectural feats? Where are the people? The streets are soulless, not even a stray cat roams the sidewalks, no flashes of tourists snapping photographs; stark contrast to Fiumicino. I leave my camera sitting in my bag, thinking that if I did take a picture, no one would believe this was Rome (Madrid perhaps, but not Rome).
Only tourists – flagged by their adornment of large backs, sluggish pace, wandering eyes, and cameras of all sizes strung around their necks – roam the streets under the beating sun. Where are the Romans? The van drives through the streets as if the people were street décor (lamps, hedges, garbage cans); safe distance is never in consideration. A middle-aged, tanned man is washing his hands and drinking from a small rusty pipe that tapped into an underground water supply. I have heard that the water in Italy is the best; I speculate that this man was the first Roman local I encountered, for his movements are familiar not awkward, requiring little thought for a normal sip of water on a hot afternoon.
We sit on sizzling metal bleacher that stood alone in a corner of the Campo dei Fiori, gelatos in hand. Neon graffiti streaks pink, baby blue, and yellow across the seats. The sweetness of my 2-euro melone gelato pickles my throat – perhaps this was not the best place to have gotten gelato. I grow thirstier with each lick, and the rusty fountain looks more appealing. This time I watch as sweat-sullen tourists would approach the flowing water with hesitant woes and leave with smiling satisfaction. I watch as small kids covered in sticky-white gelato are escorted over by their parents for a refreshing cleaning. I watch as Hank waits among the doleful, wondering how he should bend and twist to be able to quench his thirst; a small child runs up and plugs the pipe, causing water to arch through a small hole at the top of the pipe – a drinking fountain. Hank runs back, a smile across his face, having learned a valuable Roman lesson.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Castel Sant Angelo
Introduction
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Since the 1930s, it has been featuring galleries of past military weapons and 16th Century artwork. But the Castel Sant Angelo hardly began as a museum (pictured on the left). Rather the building was originally a mausoleum, but evolved to serve as a castle, a prison, and a papal residence through the Middle Ages and the Renaissance. It has been transformed over the years into the formidable structure we now gaze upon. Within its walls is a layered history.Publius Aelius Hadrianus (Hadrian) constructed his mausoleum in Ager Vaticanus (later expanded and known as the Borgo before its incorporation into Rome) in 135, which was later completed by son Antoninus Pius in 139. This served as an imperial tomb for succeeding emperors until Emperor Septimus Severus (who reigned from 193 to 211). But its function as a mausoleum only lasted for a century.
The mausoleum was incorporated into Emperor Aurelian’s wall in 271, which enclosed the city of Rome: all seven of its hills, the Campus Martius, and Trastevere. From then on, possession of this fortress was highly contested. For the following centuries, Romans defended against foreign invaders at these walls. In 410 it was sacked by the Goths of Alaric, who carried off the original décor and imperial urns. Under the reign of Thedoric (474 to 526), after its slow transformation into a castle, the edifice was used as a prison, temporarily becoming known as Carceri Theodorici. In 537, statues were broken down to use as projectiles in battle against Goths of Vittige. This became a powerful symbol as the citadel of Rome. It was finally renamed during the Middle Ages, when, according to legend, Saint Gregory the Great crossed to Tiber in 590 to gaze upon an angel sheathing its sword (later commemorated by the statue seen on the left), announcing the end of the plague. Thus, Hadrian’s mausoleum came to be – in both function and name – the Castel Sant Angelo (Castle Saint Angelo).Fighting over its possession did not cease for the next millennium. In the 12th century, popes would join in the struggle popes and antipopes contested for the castle during the Great Schism. Several popes and their papal families resided within the castle, including the lavish Farnese family during the reign of Pope Paul III. Several popes added installments to reconstruct and refortify the castle. Pope Urban VIII even provided castle with bronze cannon taken from the Pantheon portico. At the same time, invading forces were still attacking. In 1378 the castle was actually destroyed by citizens of Rome, who were discontent with foreign domination. Later, in 1527, it was invaded by the troops of Charles V during the infamous Sack of Rome. From 1849 to 1870, the castle came under French occupation.
Function and Form of the Castle
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The structure of the castle is as layered as its history (the floor plan is seen on the left to give a general sense of the many layers in the building). While the blueprint of Hadrian’s mausoleum is traceable, the castle has been continuously destroyed and pillaged, reconstructed and redecorated, until its present state. For this reason, the castle houses numerous small chambers that served as prison cells, underground oil stores, and various silos in addition to lavish papal apartments. In general, the castle is an expanded version of the mausoleum, with new levels and rooms climbing up from the level of the imperial tomb.
Traces of the Mausoleum
The original mausoleum was approached by a bridge, now known as Ponte Sant Angelo (also known as Ponte Adrianus or Ponte Aelius). There used to be gilded bronze peacocks outside, which were an allusion to the Sun God because their tails were associated with the eyes of the sun. These are now in the Musei Vaticani. This reference to the Sun God will be seen in many features of the mausoleum. The ten angels that adorn the two sides of the bridge were a later addition, designed in 1688 by Gian Lorenzo Berbini (two of the originals were moved to Sant Andrea delle Fratte). Statues of Saint Peter and Saint Paul at ends were situated by Clement VII in 1534.
The original mausoleum was approached by a bridge, now known as Ponte Sant Angelo (also known as Ponte Adrianus or Ponte Aelius). There used to be gilded bronze peacocks outside, which were an allusion to the Sun God because their tails were associated with the eyes of the sun. These are now in the Musei Vaticani. This reference to the Sun God will be seen in many features of the mausoleum. The ten angels that adorn the two sides of the bridge were a later addition, designed in 1688 by Gian Lorenzo Berbini (two of the originals were moved to Sant Andrea delle Fratte). Statues of Saint Peter and Saint Paul at ends were situated by Clement VII in 1534.
The mausoleum itself had an 89-meter square base composed of a double wall of marble-faced travertine and brick (left). Its façade was decorated with friezes of garlands and lion heads, pilasters, marble revetment, and ashlars. It supports a 69-meter round tower, constructed from peperino and travertine overlaid with marble. (Peperino is composed of basalt and limestone typically used for fountain basins, which is a fitting choice for the castle due to its proximity to the Tiber which is often subject to flooding.) Above was a spread of cypress trees. In the center the earthen tumulus stood an altar bearing Hadrian on a horse-drawn chariot, linking him to the Apollo, the Sun God. Numerous statues would have adorned the mausoleum inside and out, but many were destroyed in battle or taken to the Musei Vaticani.An Inscription by Hadrian’s son Antonius Pius, who finished the mausoleum for his parents, is carved above the original entrance. It reads:
IMP. CAESARI DIVI TRAIANI PARTHICI FILIO DIVI NERVAE NEPOTI TRAIANO ADRIANO AUGUSTO PONT. MAX. TRIB. POT. XXII IMP. II COS. III P.P. ET DIVAE SABINE IMP. CAESAR T. AELIUS HADRIANUS ANTONINUS AUG. PIUS PONTIFEX MAX. TRIBUN. POTEST. II COS. II DESIGN. II P.P. PAREMTIBUS SUIS
Imperator Caesar Titus Aelius Hadrian Antoninus Augustus Pius, Pontifex Maximus, twice holder of tribunician power, twice consul, three times consul designate, Father of his Country,[dedicates this] to his parents, Imperator Caesar Hadrian Augustus, son of Divine Trahan Parthicus, grandson of Divine Nerva, Pontifex Maximus, with tribunician power twenty-two times, imperator twice, consul three times, Father of his Country, and the Divine Sabina.
The previous entrance to the mausoleum is roughly 3 meters below the current entrance, due to the rise of the riverbed and the structural transformations over the years. At the entrance is a small niche that previously housed a statue of Emperor Hadrian.
The castle lost its splendor until the 12th century. The only remaining feel of a mausoleum is the 125-meter spiraling ramp leading to the sepulchral cella (the imperial tomb, ramp seen on left image). There are four tall ventilators leading past the earthen tumulus, which drained into a system running under the ramp. Originally, the walls had a marble façade and the ground was paved with a black-and-white mosaic. Vaults were decorated with stuccoes and frescoes. As visitors travel upward, rising about 12 meters on this annular corridor and circling about the tomb in an anticlockwise fashion, Hadrian’s purpose is revisited. This guided path is a feature of many tombs, such as the mausoleum of Augustus (which served as a model for Hadrian’s mausoleum) and Trajan’s column. However, the concept of a ramp leading into a cella is a novel feature.The circumambulation served as a metaphor for the cosmos in that visitors circulate Hadrian’s ashes just as planets orbit the Sun, another link between Hadrian and the Sun. The ties that Hadrian made between himself and the Sun imbued his reign with divinity. This “cosmic kingship” was a theme begun under Augustus that invested divine power in the ruler. This concept allowed Hadrian to control the passing of power to his successors, for each subsequent emperor was imbued with the divine legitimacy of the previous ruler. It was also believed that the circumambulation harnesses the regenerative abilities of the universe, so that each passing would symbolically revive his soul. This was a prominent belief at the time, and because Romans believed that immortality was achieved through the imprint of memory in future generations, the circular form was crucial to the mausoleum, and to Hadrian’s purpose.
Along the ramp, lighting is limited until the imperial tomb is reached – a square room, 8-meters in length. There are windows on two walls that brighten the square room, shining on the imperial urns that would have stood in the center. Only the travertine blocks of the walls and some fragments of marble decoration have survived. The porphyry of Hadrian was taken for use in Innocent II’s tomb in the Lateran, and later destroyed in the fire of 1360.
The Medieval Features of the Castle
After its gradual transformation into a fortress, this spiraling ramp was an important feature for rapid return to safety. Riders on horseback used the spiraling ramp and the small wooden bridge that sits across the imperial tomb to smoothly travel within the protection of the castle walls. There was a drawbridge that led to a guard room at the foot of a set of stairs (Staircase of Alexander VI), which crossed the imperial tomb with a drawbridge, later replaced with a bridge designed by Valadier in 1822.
During these battling years the castle was fortified with ramparts and four bastions (named Saint Mark, Saint Matthew, Saint John, and Saint Luke). These were begun by Nicholas V in the mid 1400s, and later continued by Antonio da Sangallo il Vecchio under Alexander VI. An outer ward with a defensive ditch was added by Pius IV. A moat also previously encircled the walls during the 15th century. There are still wooden catapults, rusty cannons, and marble cannon balls found in various courtyards and bastion terraces. All these additions were vital to the function of the structure as a castle, especially because Rome would be continuously attacked at the borders.
The majority of the castle still retains its medieval rustic appearance. Aside from the fortification elements, small dimly-lit rooms are ubiquitous around the castle. Most of these were utilized as underground oil stores, grain silos, artillery storage, barracks, and prisons (an oil store is pictured on the right). The prisons, which held military and political prisoners, tend to be secretive and hidden. The Italian government used these rooms as barracks and prisons even in the 19th century. Some of the original vaults were converted into a prison, one of which is tagged to be that of Benvenuto Cellini, a favored artist by the Farnese later imprisoned for the embezzlement of Clement VII’s jewels.Additions for Papal Residence
The spiral ramp was still important to the castle as a defending fortress, but unnecessary for residential access. When the castle came under papal possession in the 12th century, several reconstructive changes transformed the medieval fortress into a papal residence. The coat-of-arms of various papal families can be found throughout the castle (the Medici crest, the fleurs-de-lis of the Farnese, the Barberini bees, just the name a few). Under Leo X, an elevator – the shaft of which is located in one of the vaults – was created and later restored by Clement XII in the 18th century. While no longer in use today, the elevator was previously used as a convenient access to the papal apartments. The earthen tumulus which originally crowned the castle was excavated for the construction of the papal apartments, which in turn obstructed the vaults above the ramp.
From the tomb, the previous staircase led to the right, into the Courtyard of Alexander VI, a space that served as a theatre used by Leo X and Pius VII. However, Pope Paul III commissioned Antonio da Sangallo the Younger (among numerous other projects) to close this path and force the staircase to the left, leading up into the Courtyard of the Angel (left). This courtyard holds a marble statue of an angel sheathing its sword – the Archangel Michael – a pillar of protection whose image is ubiquitous throughout the castle. The original angel, believed to have been carved by a follower of Guglielmo della Porta, stood on the summit of the Castle during the time of Pope Paul III. It was later removed to the courtyard and replaced with later designs of angel statues. The current angel that stands against the left wall of the courtyard was designed by Raffaello da Montelupo, which is visible from one of the windows from the tomb below. The current angel on the summit of the castle is one designed by Verschaffelt in the 18th century, erected as a tribute to the vision of Gregory the Great.It is also speculated that the Chapel of Leo X, which stands in the southeast corner of this level, may have been erected in the same place as the original chapel erected in the 8th century in honor of the appearance of Gregory’s angelic vision. Depictions of Madonna and Child (a relief by Raffaello da Montelupo and a painting by Tadeo Gaddi) lined the altar and walls of the chapel.
Along the outer perimeter of the courtyards are papal apartments, oil stores, and historical prisons. The Hall of Justice, which sits directly above the imperial tomb, adjoins the two semicircular courtyards (Courtyard of Alexander VI and Courtyard of the Angel). This room was previously used as a tribunal, consistent with the iconography on the walls: there is a large fresco of the Saint Justice by Domenico Zaga, painted in the mid 1500s. The Castel Sant Angelo became a safe house for many important political and judicial figures in the 16th and 17th centuries. Adjoining the Hall of Justice is the Salle d’Apollo (right), an apartment room of Pope Paul III, lavishly decorated with frescoes of the Olympic deities.A stone staircase leads from the courtyards up into the loggia of various popes, which were constructed to serve as residence for the papal family members. The north loggia, decorated with frescoes, stuccoes, and Mannerist grotesques by Antonio da Sangallo the Younger in the 1543, was constructed under Paul III. The south loggia, designed by Giuliano da Sangallo under Julius II, faces the river. The Galleria of Pius IV, a semicircular terrace, overlooks the city and the bastion terraces holding various cannons and artillery.
Also viewed from the terrace is the long covered passageway that links the castle to the Vatican. Constructed in 1277 by Nicholas III, and reconstructed and used by Alexander VI in 1494, this walkway was used by various popes as an escape route from the Vatican to the refuge that is the Castel Sant Angelo. Gregory VII fled for its protecting walls in 1084; Cola di Rienzo did the same in 1347. Clement VII, plus 1000 followers (of which 13 cardinals, 18 bishops), also used the path in 1527 to flee from the troops of Charles V.
Another set of stone steps lead to the Farnese apartments – the room of Paul III (Sala Paolina). Paul III was born Alessandro Farnese, and resided as pope from 1534 to 1549. Raised high in the castle and accessed through climbing numerous small staircases and narrow hallways, the pope was well protected by layers of guarded paths. The room, decorated from 1542 to 1549 by various artists such as Antonio da Sangallo the Elder, Pierin del Vaga, Marco da Siena, and Pellegrino Tibaldi. An inscription runs around the ceiling of the room, which reads:
QVAE OLIM INTRA HANC ARCEM COLLAPSA IMPEDITA FOEDATA ERANTEA NVNC A PAVLO TERTIO PONTIFICE MAXIMO ADSOLIDAM FIRMITATEM COMMODAM VTILITATEM
All the things on the castle that had long fallen into ruin, were out of use or had been destroyed, could now be seen erected again, rearranged properly and embellished by Pope Paul III, as Supreme Pontifex, solid and stable for comfortable use in a context of refined beauty.
This is reminiscent of the reconstruction programs discussed in many of the other sites, how later rulers and families incorporate ruins into their own palaces, layering their own history over the past.
The artwork in the room (a portion is seen in the image on the right) depicts the figures involved in the history of the castle, including an image of Hadrian – reminding viewers of the founder of the original mausoleum. Again, an image of the Archangel Michael stands on the adjacent wall. A man seen going through a false door has been speculated to be Pellegrino Tibaldi, a lawyer who defended Beatrice Cenci during the infamous trial of patricide of the Cenci family, but this was likely painted years before the event. Another theory supposes this figure to be Fulvio Orsini, a historian at the court of Paul III.
Additional iconography of the room tells tales of conquest in the history of Rome, including the conquests of Alexander the Great and Homer’s Illiad. The images on the walls are interwoven with fleurs-de-lis, the symbol of the Farnese family also present on their coat-of-arms. These remind us of the military beginnings of the Farnese, and also boast the pope as a Roman leader in his city with great military strength. Paul III spent great efforts identifying himself as Roman tas a departure from previous family images, such as the Spanish Borgias and the Florentine Medici. His political praise is further emphasized by writing on the ceiling vault, which reads Festina Lente, a tribute to the skill of taking action after reflection.
The adjoining room (room of Persus) shows a lot of iconography that suggest its use for the castellan of the Castel Sant Angelo during the time of Paul III, Tiberio Crispo. A frieze of maidens, cupid, and unicorns reveal the liberation of Andromeda when Medusa was slain by the son of Jupiter. The image of unicorns is repeated throughout the room, a symbol for purity and a heraldic symbol for Tiberio Crispo, who likely used this room to hold audience.
The Library and Treasury are joined by a narrow, frescoed passageway from the apartment; this is where Paul III stored his archives. As the papal residence took over most of the castle, the fortress offered not only safety to the popes but also to their property: it preserved pontifical treasure and papal archive documents.
Renovation and Reconstruction
Time and battle have worn the castle in every century – from the splendor of the mausoleum during Hadrian and his successors to the extravagant artwork under various popes of the 16th and 17th centuries. Reconstruction began under Boniface IX in hopes of restoring some of the original appearance. Pope Nicholas V (who presided from 1447 to 1455) commissioned the brick crowning cylindrical nucleus of center that still remains, which was later finished by Alexander VI. Julius II (1503 – 1013) commissioned Sangallo the Younger and Bramante for reconstruction. The Medici pope Leo X embellished the papal apartments and had the elevator constructed. Innocent XIII later restored the apartments of Paul III, preserving and adding his own touches to the room.
Conclusions
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The Castel Sant Angelo was symbolically powerful throughout the ages. Not only does it provide a cosmic effect for visitors of Hadrian’s mausoleum, the castle came to stand for both glorious victory and imminent threat, for the struggle to survive and the site for death. It was a sign of rebirth after the Plague (images of the angel) but it was reminiscent of foreign invasion. It was a papal refuge, but was also the site of imprisonment and decapitation. The Cenci family was executed on the Ponte Sant Angelo. I was particularly surprised by the numerous mentions of the castle in literature and biographies of the artists such as Caravaggio and Michaelangelo. For us today it does not hold this representative power as much, but it still stands, beaten down but formidable. The Castel Sant Angelo reminds us of the history of Rome – a series of building, destruction, and rebuilding in a battle for power and wealth.
Bibliography
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Boatwright, Mary Taliaferro. Hadrian and the City of Rome. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1987.
Boatwright, Mary Taliaferro . Hadrian and the Cities of the Roman Empire. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2000.
Davies, Penelope. Death and the Emperor, Roman Imperial Funerary Monuments from Augustus to Marcus Aurelius. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000.
Foster, Brett and Marcovitz, Hal. Bloom’s Literary Guide to Rome. New York: Infobase Publishing, 2007.
Freeman, Charles. "Hadrian's Hall." History Today 57(2007): 10-11.
Hetherington, Paul. Medieval Rome, a Portrait of the City and its Life. New York: St. Martin’s Press, Inc., 1994.
King, Ross. Michelangelo and the Pope’s Ceiling. New York: Penguin Books, 2003.
Lavagnino, Emilio. Castel Sant Angelo. Rome: Libreria dello Stato, 1950.
Macadam, Alta. The Blue Guide: Rome and environs. London: A & C Black, 1994.
MacDonald, William Lloyd. Hadrian's villa and its legacy. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1995.
Prose, Francine. Caravaggio, Painter of Miracles. New York: HarperCollins Publishers, 2005.
Boatwright, Mary Taliaferro . Hadrian and the Cities of the Roman Empire. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2000.
Davies, Penelope. Death and the Emperor, Roman Imperial Funerary Monuments from Augustus to Marcus Aurelius. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000.
Foster, Brett and Marcovitz, Hal. Bloom’s Literary Guide to Rome. New York: Infobase Publishing, 2007.
Freeman, Charles. "Hadrian's Hall." History Today 57(2007): 10-11.
Hetherington, Paul. Medieval Rome, a Portrait of the City and its Life. New York: St. Martin’s Press, Inc., 1994.
King, Ross. Michelangelo and the Pope’s Ceiling. New York: Penguin Books, 2003.
Lavagnino, Emilio. Castel Sant Angelo. Rome: Libreria dello Stato, 1950.
Macadam, Alta. The Blue Guide: Rome and environs. London: A & C Black, 1994.
MacDonald, William Lloyd. Hadrian's villa and its legacy. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1995.
Prose, Francine. Caravaggio, Painter of Miracles. New York: HarperCollins Publishers, 2005.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
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