Roman Rain

It’s raining. It’s been raining for a while now. Nothing like Seattle rain. This is a pitter-patter, a sprinkling, just after mist and just before drizzle. I like that Seattleites have so many words for rain. I’ve been told that the Eskimos (or should I be politically correct and say Inuit) have dozens of words for snow.

It’s raining. I decide it’s time I saw the Pantheon in the rain. I take a left out of the Campo and a right onto Vittorio Emanuele. I know this route well by now. A man under a massive umbrella comes toward me on the steps of Sant’Andrea della Valle. He has more umbrellas hanging by their handles off his left arm. He says Ciao or Good Morning. By now they have begun to sound the same. I walk past him without a word. I don’t feel guilt. I don’t want an umbrella so this is the way it must be.

It’s raining. Coming down a little harder now. Maybe this counts as a drizzle. Across the street I see a flock of brightly colored umbrellas. Reds and yellows and greens. Tourists. In my head I think, I don’t need an umbrella. I’m from Seattle. I’m made from tougher stuff than this.

It’s raining. I cross the street at Largo Argentina. I’m looking for the forno that I always pass on the way back from the Pantheon. The one I always pause at, and move on thinking, Another time. Now, in this last week, it is the time. I pass a bar and a panini place, and think I missed it. Impossible. Now I see it. There is an Italian woman in front of me, pointing to one of the flour, sugar, and magic creations in the window. I stare. Prego. It catches me off guard. Una questo. Questo? Si. I can order now. I watch as she struggles to pick it up in the tongs. I’m not quite sure what I pointed to. It is some sort of streusel-y pastry, with glaze and a dusting of sugar. I cringe as I realize this creation of magic will cost me 4 euro. Perhaps that is why, up until now, I have only looked.

It’s raining. Much harder now, as I peek outside the door of the warm, dry bakery. Two English women stop almost in front of me. It’s limoncello, yea? But you have to get the ones in the little shaped bottles, y’know. We’ll come back, right? They have umbrellas, and I am now beginning to regret not having mine. But I have come this far and I am not going back without seeing the Pantheon.

It’s raining. It is actually raining now. Rain that in Seattle would merit an umbrella without stares saying Outsider. My Birkenstocks are getting wet, which I know is against the rules. I can’t avoid the currents between the cobblestones; I just barely miss the polluted lake filled with cigarette butts and bottle caps.

It’s raining. It’s pouring now. My glasses are completely spattered and I can barely keep my eyes open, the drops are falling so fiercely. I hate wearing glasses in the rain. I can see the huge brown building looming before me. Almost there. It is treacherous coming down the slope. No tripping allowed here.

It’s raining. The spatter of the drops onto the marble is surprisingly loud. I come around the edge, near the columns, walking directly under one of the largest waterfalls cascading off the roof. My clothes are plastered to my skin, my hair dripping, and I have a terrifying thought. Is my skirt see-through? Can I walk into a church like this? I try to push the thought aside as the throngs camping out here to avoid the rain give me a collective looking up and down. Ignoring this, I weave around the squatters, and enter the building.

It’s raining. As I look up to the oculus, I see the drops falling through. From so high up, it looks like mist, but as it falls to the colored marble on the floor, it makes a soft tip-toeing sound. I install myself in a corner by a column, just in case my skirt is indeed see-through, and lean my head back. This is a position I have found myself in often, lately, staring up into ceilings. Most are frescoed. Now, however, my eyes are concentrating on a circle that seems to rise above the dome it is contained in.



It’s raining. Through the oculus, the drops seem smaller than those outside, but I think they are slowing as well. I hear the rumble of thunder, rather like the garbage trucks that barge through the Campo at prescribed hours each afternoon. I see flashes of light, for a moment thinking they are lightning, then realizing they are the flashes of cameras echoing off the walls.

It’s not raining. As I step outside, the storm has stopped. Rain in Rome is temperamental and short. The only indications that it did rain are the rivulets flowing through cobblestones and me, standing in front of the Pantheon, clothes hugging my body, and a ponytail ready to be rung out.

Gelato

I have a list, in my red moleskin journal. An important list, one that guides a part of my life in Rome. A list that perhaps I should be ashamed to admit I keep but am not.

A list of gelato flavors.

Gelato was one of the things everyone kept talking about before I came to Rome. Which flavors were the favorites. The decision to go with cream or without. I even got directions, a map on a scrap of paper from Kylie, a former co-worker, to the best gelato place ever. No street names. Just keep the Trevi on your left until you get to the t-shirt place and turn left. You’ll find it. [I still can’t believe I say things like “turn left after the Trevi” or “if you go past the Colosseum, you’ll see it.”]

For gelato, flavor selection is key. My general rule is to keep creamy flavors and fruity flavors separate. My number one rule, however, is No repeating flavors. The one time I broke this rule was in Florence. As part of our daily Quest, we were required to rate to gelato places: Perche No? and a second one of our choice. I felt that in order to adequately compare the two gelateria I needed to try the same flavor at both. I caved and ordered pistachio, one of my early favorites, at each one. Since then, however, I have not allowed myself to be a flavor repeater.

I have been thinking. I try new gelato flavors nearly every day. Which flavor is my flavor? Which flavor is most me?

I’m not blackberry. Brianna had her personal perfume made in Florence. She used blackberry. Blackberry is her gelato flavor. Blackberry is a sweet flavor, but not overly so, and has a bit of kick to it.

I’m not panna cotta. Panna cotta is Gabrielle. She is sweet and genuine and loyal.

I’m not ginger and cinnamon. The cinnamon is homey and warm, the ginger adds an unexpected spice. I’ve only seen it at one gelateria. Michelle is ginger and cinnamon.

I’m not pistachio. It might be my favorite flavor. It’s the only one I’ve had more than once. I’ve had it three times, to be exact. It is one of those classic gelato flavors. It is one that I tried because I thought I should, not knowing if I would like it, but which shot to the top of my list after the first spoonful. I think pistachio is Junko. It’s subtle, and slightly out of the ordinary. When I asked her about it, she said she was mango. I see that too.

I ask the apartment what gelato flavor I am. It’s funny, but the only two in agreement are Gabrielle and Brianna, who both say pistachio. Junko comes up with an answer the quickest, saying chocolate mint. Megan protests that there are too many flavors before narrowing it first to fruity, then berry. June proclaims me grape chocolate, her reasoning being that I am wearing purple shorts and a brown top. I ask Michelle last. She says rice and cinnamon. We recently discovered this flavor at Alberto Pica, around the corner from the Campo.

These are the flavors other people see in me. Are they different from the ones I see in myself? I suppose I see bits of them all, with the possible exception of grape chocolate. I had actually almost settled on frutti di bosco as my flavor. Rice and cinnamon seems appropriate not only because of the superficial reason that I miss rice, but it’s kind of an unusual combination of flavors. I never would have thought of myself as chocolate mint, but the recurring theme I see is the mixing of flavors.

On my last day in Rome, I plan to unashamedly order a grande gelato. The people in the store and those watching me on the street as I attack a gelato half the size of my head may think what they like. I will select all of my favorite flavors from these five weeks. Maybe then I will know what combination of gelato flavors I am, which complex recipe best describes me. I know that I can’t be summed up in one word, one flavor, one anything.

Firenze

It's not a cloister. Far from it. It's not exactly peaceful, either. The sirens are blazing me with their trademark blasts. Cars, buses, and motorcycles rumble their way by. I hear the radio static of the guy who looks like some sort of traffic controller across the road. A guy rows under the bridge in a sleek blue boat, making good time. He's already at the next bridge. I see runners and walkers. Sunday morning must be the time for exercise. I admire the two old women jogging by. They have the whole outfit, down to the last thread of spandex in those red shorts. I can spot the tourists too, made conspicuous by the hat-camera combination or the maps they clutch in their hands. I can see all down the riverbank from where I sit. The skyline slightly jagged from the rooftops of differing heights. So many windows, peeking out onto the scene before them.

San Francesco a Ripa Grande

I entered through the small doorway on the legs, the one connecting it to the neighbor chapel. I didn't have to bend my head. I first saw a blur of white. What caught my mind as I got closer were the folds of her dress. So stiff, yet somehow alive. I lean my head against a column, my hands pushing the postcard up against another. I'm in my safe spot - at the base of the columns. Her hand clutching at her chest seems real. I don't know what emotion she has just felt, but it's a strong one. The lighting highlights her face, makes the shadows of the folds even more pronounced. Whispers next to me. I think the woman is explaining the story of the statue. Another holds a guidebook. It's in Italian. She lies on something like the chaise of Pauline Bonaparte, but that's where the similarities end. Eyes closed. She thinks only proper thoughts.

Lost

Weaving through line, through the metal detectors, through a clothing check that made me feel as though I were back in middle school. Back when teachers would ask you to put your arms down to your sides and if your skirt was shorter than your fingertips you had to “borrow” a size extra large t-shirt. This time I don’t resent it, but am terrified by the tiny possibility that I will be the one pulled out of line. I enter to find myself in a slowly moving mass, a mass traveling through a space that I can’t adequately take in. Herded through the crowd, trying to spot Schuyler’s green shirt or Joel’s mop of hair ahead of me. Head swiveling left and right.

--

I started moving around the baldacchino, not sure how to go about seeing the rest of the church. Arms brush past me. Cameras click and flash everywhere. I say this about all the tourist sites, but somehow it seems more pronounced here.

I walk down a hall. I think it’s marked tesoro—treasury. People stop. They’re taking pictures of a list of all the popes. It’s long. Not sure if I’m surprised by that, or if I am, why I should be.

I station myself in a corner at the base of two columns, as I am wont to do. It feels like I’m hiding, but am peeking out onto the scene before me. I spot the Rafael that we saw last night. Christ Rising. Not sure if that is the right title or not, but that’s how I will remember it. I try to take a picture, but that’s the last one. I can’t take pictures in here.

My feet take me over to the other side of the nave. I’m in line to go into the chapel. “This is the room for prayer only.” I read the sign and am reminded again when I reach the door. It’s as if they’re trying to tell me something. I don’t pray. I am told No photo, however, and allowed to enter. I sit down at the back. The smell of incense is overpowering, and then there is a click. Someone has taken a photograph. I feel violated.

I look around. People sit, others kneel. I don’t recognize the painting above the altar. I see the Barberini coat of arms above the two doors. I’ve become strangely possessive over that. I close my eyes. I won’t fall asleep. I open them as a woman in a hat crosses in front of me to sit down. I’m not sure how much time passes, but I know it’s time for me to leave. I walk out, through the curtain that feels rich to my fingers.

I start walking upstream to the front of the church to see the Pieta. I know I’m walking the wrong way. A huge crowd of people in too many colors stands before it. It looks small behind the glass partition. I weave my way through two tour groups, the umbrella passes by on my left. People turn to let others in. I watch the screens on the digital cameras in front of me. I see the Pieta through others’ eyes. Some zoom, others do not. Vertical or horizontal?

The girl in front of me snaps and turns and there it is. I move forward and am standing front and center. Literally. Before the marble. I am immediately hemmed in by a Japanese couple. Irony of ironies. They discuss how little they see of Christ’s face. I wish I could touch the marble. It’s too far away.

I don’t take pictures here. I might be the only one. Did I really see the genius of Michelangelo?

I think about saying すみませんas I turn to leave but instead I am silent.

I keep moving back, fighting the wave of people in matching red t-shirts and see the lanyards of a different tour group. Too many flags to tell which is which. I can’t see anymore. My head tells me that I should go down to the crypt, or up to the dome. I can’t see anymore.

I am overwhelmed, and unsure of how much of this I’ll remember anyway. Of all the surreal visits to sights that I have heard so much about, this is the most so. I’m not actually walking through it. I float in and out of consciousness as my feet carry me through.

--

The sun is blinding, as I reach the doors. I slowly wake up to the sight of the piazza. I hear my name and see Michelle and Gabrielle coming up behind me. I’m no longer alone. I’m back to where I’m supposed to be.

I’m a little disappointed. That was the most lost and alone I had felt since coming to Rome. I liked it.

Campo Proficiency

Today I ordered a panino. All in Italian. It wasn’t much. I looked at the descriptions on the menu, and it told me the price right there (even though I understood her when she said cinque euro). But posso avere…porta via…si…grazie…and I stood outside, looking out onto the Campo at midday, a hot sandwich in one hand and satisfaction filling my entire being. This seemingly minor victory is the culmination of nearly daily dealings with the vendors, waiters, bakers, baristas, and salespeople of the market and its surroundings.



The first week, the Campo was only half-filled. Vendors were on holiday, late August in Italy. There were a few fruit vendors then. I picked up a banana and handed it to the gray-haired guy who seemed in charge. He said something unintelligible, then held up ten fingers. I took this to mean the banana was ten cents, dug a ten cent piece out of my wallet, and handed it to him. My first purchase in what would become my supermarket for the next five weeks.



When we returned from Florence, the Campo was in full bloom. Vendors everywhere, selling all manners of items from touristy bags and t-shirts to fresh fruit, jams, and assorted spices in unimaginable quantities. I chose a new fruit stand. I picked out peaches and handed them to the old lady behind the stand. She looked as though she had been doing this for a while. Her face was wrinkled and worn from years out in the sun; she reminded me of one of the crones in an old wives tale, as if she might pull out some magical remedies or mutter spells under her breath. The old lady talked to me only in Italian. By then I had learned numbers in Italian class and understood when she said “un euro settanta.”



On Monday, as we waited by Palazzo Farnese for our tour of the French Embassy, I watched as Susie ate a prosciutto and fig sandwich from the Forno on the west side of the Campo. Prosciutto and fig was a combination I had never thought of before. The sweet and savory, rather like our prosciutto and melon for the potluck. So on Tuesday, I made my first trip to the little forno, the one I now call the sandwich forno, to try one. I looked at the sandwiches lined up in neat rows behind the pristine glass case, the pizza bianca uniformly sliced and hugging equally neat rows of prosciutto, cheese, or veggies. I ordered in Italian, but was disappointed when he asked, “Take away?” Undeterred, I responded “Porta via.”



I went back to the forno on Wednesday. And on Thursday. It was the same guy working there both times. By my third trip, he was speaking to me only in Italian, and even if I didn’t understand him, I just pretended I did, and repeated the lines I knew were right. Questo…si…basta…grazie.

I found it frustrating, in the beginning. I couldn’t speak Italian, and yet I resented it when they spoke in English to me. In Japan, it was never like this. I was competent, confident in my ability to navigate in a foreign language. In Rome, I was thrown into something new. Yes, the words look like they could be English, but such looks can be deceptive. Though where I am is a far cry from fluency or even competency in Italian, I have learned to operate in my own small world, the microcosm of the Campo de’ Fiori.

Capella Sistina

It's smaller than I expected it to be, and the different pieces of the ceiling fresco are larger. All the pictures you see in textbooks make it look so small but I can clearly pick out The Creation of Adam, The Creation of Eve, as I dig back into my memory to Spring Quarter freshman year, Art History 203. I thought I was going to be an Art History major then. People around me sit, stand, stare, craning their necks upward, trying to memorize the lines on the ceiling. "No photos" the guard said. Does he get tired of seeing the Sistine? Or any of the other rooms here, for that matter? How does one become a guard at the Vatican? I spot Michelangelo in The Last Judgment. What would he have thought of us?

Piazza Navona

The fountain is covered in scaffolding. I'm disappointed. The obelisk just seems to shoot out of a piece of construction. I peek through the slats, a thick plastic wall barring my way and allowing me to see half of the Rio de la Plata...or is it the Danube? Mark will explain. I hear Chinese nearby. I see it's a woman on her cell phone. That's a language I used to hear a lot more of. Now it seems to be Italian, English, French, some German. I forgot my sunglasses. It's too bright. Is is possible to become overly dependent on sunglasses? I'm being silly.

Palazzo Barberini

I. Introduction

Maffeo Barberini, later Pope Urban VIII, was known for his patronage of the arts and his penchant for nepotism. Urban worked tirelessly to propel his family to the top of the Roman aristocracy; commissioning grand works of art was just one way he did so. Palazzo Barberini, the family’s palace on what was then the outskirts of Rome, is a spectacular example of both of Urban’s interests at work: his desire to establish the Barberini as an important noble family and his genuine interest in the arts. The palazzo exhibits ceiling frescoes never before seen in a secular palace, all with the goal of glorifying the pope and the Barberini family, and claiming their divine right to rule over the Papal States.

II. Personal and Family History

The Barberini came from Val d’Elsa, a Florentine territory, and first made their fortune by selling cloth. They intermarried with a number of prominent Florentine families before Francesco di Carlo Barberini became the first member of the family to rise high within the church. He was very influential in his nephew Maffeo’s career, helping him on a path that would end in his being crowned pope.

Young Maffeo was raised in his uncle’s household, studied at the Collegio Romano, and obtained a law degree before embarking on his ecclesiastical career. After his posting as papal nuncio to France in 1604-7, he was named cardinal by Pope Paul V. He was awarded the bishopric of Spoleto, and in 1611-14 was governor of Bologna, a post known to be a test for future popes.

He got his chance after the death of Pope Gregory XV in 1623. During the conclave, however, eight of the fifty four cardinals were struck dead by malaria. Maffeo was a candidate chosen in compromise, and he became the first pope to be elected by secret ballot. At first, however, only fifty three ballots could be accounted for, so Maffeo insisted on a new vote to avoid questions of his legitimacy and only then was he confirmed as pope, taking the name Urban VIII.

Throughout his rein, Urban was known particularly for his interest in the arts. He was a poet himself, had even published some of his works, and provided the accompanying inscriptions for the bases of his friend Bernini’s sculpture of Apollo and Daphne. As pope, his major work includes reconstruction on a number of churches, commissioning Bernini to build the baldacchino for St. Peter’s Basilica, and construction of his new family palace, Palazzo Barberini, on the Quirinal Hill.

The palazzo was built primarily for Urban’s three nephews, to showcase their new powerful and prestigious position, and to glorify the family name. Urban’s oldest nephew, Francesco, had been put into the church, as was typical for the eldest son in this time. He was made cardinal two months after his uncle became pope, at the age of 26. As the ecclesiastical head of the family, he was awarded a number of prestigious offices and benefices, including the position of secretary of state, becoming absentee abbot of the richest abbeys in the Papal States, Farfa, San Salvatore, and Grottaferrata, as well as, in 1632, becoming papal vice chancellor, the second most important position in the papal hierarchy. In 1633 he was made Archpriests of St. Peter’s; this was another very lucrative position. Much like his uncle, Francesco was known for his interest in the arts and sciences and his left behind a vast library at Palazzo Barberini.

The second nephew, Taddeo, was chosen to continue the Barberini dynasty as the heir to the family wealth and leader of the secular side of the family. In 1627, he married Anna Colonna, of one of the Roman royal families, further solidifying the Barberinis’ spot within the Roman nobility. He too received a number of political offices as a result of his uncle’s nepotism. Taddeo held the posts of general of the Church, governor of the Borgo and Castel Sant’Angelo, captain of the papal guards, and prefect of Rome. Taddeo is remembered for his arrogance and greed. It is said that as prefect of Rome, he ordered that all carriages be stopped to give him the right of way, and remain fully stopped until he had passed.

The youngest son, Antonio, was also put into the church, though the idea was that if Taddeo died without having produced heirs, Antonio would be able to renounce his vows without much difficulty. Antonio was always in the shadow of Francesco, but in 1627, Urban made him cardinal, and while perhaps not as prestigious, his posts were nearly as lucrative as his brother’s. Antonio became the principal link between the papacy and the Barberini alliance with the French, first as nuncio to Avignon in 1633, then as co-protector of France at papal court, and finally, as papal chamberlain in 1638.

The three nephews, particularly Francesco and Taddeo, were involved in the building of the palace, though Antonio was the primary occupant. In the later years, as Urban’s health declined, they took advantage of him and used his power to build up their own wealth and prestige. This is what caused a contemporary to remark that “if [Urban VIII] had reigned for only fourteen or fifteen years, instead of twenty-one, he would have been remembered as a good and even great pope” (Scott 6). The inquest by Innocent X, the subsequent pope, confirmed that the Barberini had accumulated 30 million ducats in land and in cash during Urban’s reign, twelve times the annual income of the Papal States. It is through these eyes that we view Urban’s pontificate, and this is why he is now remembered as the most nepotistic pope, not for his contributions to the arts.

III. History of the Palazzo

The land that the current Palazzo Barberini stands on passed through a number of hands before it was purchased by Cardinal Francesco Barberini. We can trace it back to 1549, when it was bought by Cardinal Rodolfo Pio da Carpi, who built a casino there. In 1565, Cardinal Guilio della Rovere bought it from da Carpi and in 1578; it was sold to Cardinal Alessandro Sforza. Sforza built a small palace on the grounds, and this was all that stood on the land when Francesco bought it in 1625. Though the property and the house were both considered too small for the newly powerful Barberini family, they negotiated for the property for two years and never considered tearing down the Sforza palace.

For six years after the purchase of the initial property, the Barberini purchased neighboring plots of land in order to enlarge the space. This was, after all, to be a step up from their house Via de’ Giubbonari, proclaiming their divine right to rule over the Papal States, and establishing their position at the highest level of Roman society.

To build their new palace, the Barberini hired papal architect Carlo Maderno, who by now was in his 70s, with long and illustrious career behind him. Though he died only a month after construction began on the palace, he is credited with much of the design. He was succeeded by Bernini, who at that time was renowned as a sculptor, but who had done very little architectural work. This was to be his first large architectural commission. Based on his very little experience, and on the architectural plans that survive, we can see that Bernini followed quite closely to Maderno’s original design, with the help of the older architect’s assistant, Francesco Borromini. The changes we do see are mostly in the details, for example, the introduction of sculpted figures or addition of reliefs on the façade. These show the influence of a sculptor, and it is quite likely that these revisions were the extent of Bernini’s changes.

The palace itself was shaped like an H, with wings on the north and south, connected by a central vaulted salone. The northern wing was built from the old Sforza palace, and intended to house the secular side of the family. Taddeo and Anna’s apartments were here, and it was this side that featured all of the ceiling frescoes. In fact, when the couple moved into the palazzo in 1632, there were already twenty three ceiling paintings. What is perhaps most ironic is that Taddeo and Anna only lived in this palace for two years. Anna insisted on moving back to their previous palace in 1634 because she was not having sons in the new one.

Figure 1. North Wing of Palazzo Barberini

The southern wing was entirely new, and this side was for the ecclesiastical side of the family, namely Cardinal Francesco. The two wings were connected by a vaulted salone; this is where Pietro da Cortona painted his masterpiece. The ceiling of the salone at that time was surpassed in size only by Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel ceiling, emphasizing the Barberinis’ role as pioneers in secular palace decoration and establishing their position through opulence.

Through the artwork commissioned by Urban VIII during his reign, we see similar themes, also echoed in the art of Palazzo Barberini. As discussed earlier, Urban emerged as the surprise winner of the papal election of 1623. Much of the artwork he commissioned therefore follows a theme of divine election. He and by association, his family, were chosen by God to rule over the Church and the Papal States.

Figure 2. Facade of Palazzo Barberini

As was also mentioned before, one of the main goals of the palace was to establish the family’s place in Roman society. Because they came from humble backgrounds, they needed to emphasize their current position and sought even to surpass some of the long-standing Roman aristocratic families, particularly the Farnese, whose palace they were intent upon outshining. To this end, the family used their literary skills to create “fresh allegorical programs based on exalted theological, astrological, poetic conceits as ideological support for social and political preeminence” (Scott 11). They incorporated new themes unprecedented in palace decoration and created a new standard for palaces that followed.

IV. Pietro da Cortona’s “Divine Providence”

During the Baroque period, certain conventions were established for ceiling painting. First, rooms in a palace were divided based on number of occupants and the rank of those occupants. Thus, the ceilings too, were conceived according to the number of rooms in an apartment and the rank of those that occupied it. These ceiling paintings were generally thought of in groupings, rather than individually. Similarly, the subject matter of the paintings was chosen based on the social status of the patron, the type of building, function of the room, and overhead location of the imagery. Ceiling paintings had an ideal station point. That is, there was one point from which was considered best to view a ceiling painting. Artists would consider where the viewer would enter the room, as well as the location of windows, as they painted. Also in the Baroque period we see the incorporation of family crests into the pictorial field of a painting. During the Renaissance, these usually appeared in the crowns of vaults, but during the Baroque they take center stage, and send a strong message about the status of the family. Lastly, the idea of optical persuasion reached its peak during this time. The creation of illusionistic domes and fake architecture moved beyond an amusing trompe l’oeil to persuade the viewer on an intellectual level that the event being depicted is taking place. The use of these techniques, particularly those pertaining to ideal station point and optical persuasion, can be seen in the salone of the palace.

The most famous ceiling painting in Palazzo Barberini is in the salone: Pietro da Cortona’s “Divine Providence.” What is perhaps the first thought of the viewer coming into the salone is its size. The room is long, and the ceiling vault is uninterrupted. Most Roman secular palaces of the time featured coffered, flat wood ceilings. Those that did have vaults were broken up with window embrasures and stucco enframements, leaving little room for elaborate paintings. The Barberini salone is the first example of an uninterrupted vaulted ceiling, and Cortona took full advantage of this in his work.

Most of what we know today about the iconography of Cortona’s ceiling is owed to Rosichino, a sweeper in the palace. The story goes that Rosichino, tired of being questioned by visitors about the meaning of the ceiling, set out to write a pamphlet detailing the iconography to give to the visitors to the salone. It is through him that we can now decipher the meaning of the complex, multi-scene ceiling. In the center, we see Divine Providence. Below her, Time and Saturn represent the present and the future. She is surrounded by the figures of Justice, Mercy, Eternity, Truth, Purity, and Beauty. Immortality crowns the arms of Urban VIII, and Faith, Hope, Charity frame the coat of arms with the laurel branches, as the three Barberini bees fly up the middle. Above, religion holds the keys and the personification of Rome holds the papal tiara . This sends the strongest message: Urban and his family were chosen by God to assume the highest post in Christendom.

Figure 3. "Divine Providence" by Pietro da Cortona (Scholars Resource)

The short cove directly below the main scene, depicts the story of Minerva overthrowing the giants. Here Minerva represents wisdom, and is a personification of the church, in defense of “ecclesiastical things”. On the cove opposite Minerva we see “the temporal government.” Authority and Abundance enter, while old men, children, and widows await their gifts. At the same time, Hercules casts out the Harpies. This represents the “chastisement of kings” and is a message to secular rulers who seek hegemony at expense of Papal States and prosperity of its citizens. Where Minerva represents the church, this represents the secular side of the family. Hercules is the virtuous hero, symbolizing the army of the pope, while the Harpies represent the avarice of the neighboring princes, who are kept at bay by Hercules.

Figure 4. Detail of Minerva (Scholars Resource)

On the south side of the salone, we see Moral Knowledge, holding a sacred text and a flaming urn, both indicative of the lofty knowledge she seeks. She is lifted by Divine Assistance, with Piety on the right. The south wing was for the cardinals, so this side sends an appropriately moral and religious message. On the right is Gluttony, embodied in Bacchus, personifying “the bad upbringing of youth.” On the left, Lasciviousness, as a reclining woman, who tries to defend herself against Chastity and the army of Chase Cupids.

Figure 5. Detail of Moral Knowledge (Scholars Resource)

On the north side, we see Dignity, who represents “rank of office.” On the right, Peace closes the temple of Janus as Furor is bound by Gentleness, both symbols of peace. On the left, Vulcan makes weapons at his forge. This is symbolic of preparations for war. Together, the two scenes are showing the “preparedness which is necessary for the defense of the provinces even in peace time.” (Scott 141) This depiction, on the side of the secular wing, indicates the importance of rational political leaders, and shows that the Barberini will seek to maintain peace, but will be prepared to fight if it is necessary.

Figure 6. Detail of Dignity (Scholars Resource)

These scenes symbolize a spiritual-temporal dualism within the papacy. The “Keys of Knowledge” represented by Minerva and Moral Knowledge refer to the pope’s authority in spiritual matters. The “Keys of Power” represented by Hercules and Dignity allude to peace and prosperity that result from the assertive authority and military preparedness of the papacy in temporal affairs. Together, they send an impressive message about the power and leadership of the pope.

The four octagonal medallions at the corners of the fresco are scenes from Roman history depicting the cardinal virtues. The animals below the medallions symbolize the same virtue. Scipio and the unicorn represent Temperance, Mucius Scaevola and the lion represent Fortitude, Titus Manlius and the hippogriff, Justice, and Fabius Maximus and the bear, Prudence.

Cortona also designed the fresco so that the four categories of symbolic imagery, mythological figures, allegorical personifications and virtues, historical personages, and bestiary animals, all occupy specific spaces in the pictorial system. Mythological figures are placed beyond the illusionistic frame, outside of the real space of the room, because they are the most distant from us. Allegorical personifications and virtues intervene into our space, showing that they are the most important. They are positive and Christianizing. The historical figures are part of the enframement but occupy a separate space, in a different realm from the other figures. The animals, because they are close to humans, move into the salone space. These spatial indications, whether they are within or beyond our space, give the viewer clues about those figures and images depicted.

According to Rosichino, the salone was open to “any person who could make a presentable appearance at the palace gate during the appropriate hours” (Scott 193). The fact that Rosichino went so far as to write a pamphlet detailing the meaning of the ceiling fresco indicates that many people did in fact view Cortona’s work. However, if the salone was open to the public (recognizing that “presentable appearance” could still apply only to a small percentage of the population), I wonder why the Barberini chose to make the fresco so inaccessible to their intended audience. The viewers would have recognized the Barberini coat of arms, and understood the symbology of it being crowned by a papal tiara, but many of the scenes on the side or end coves are less obvious. Though I believe that the message of the paintings would be stronger had they been more accessible to a large audience, the family may have wanted to display their literary knowledge through complex symbology. Those who did understand the fresco would have been part of an elite and exclusive group if this was the intention.

The iconography of Cortona’s ceiling is a complex but fascinating look into Baroque ceiling painting and offers great insight into the Barberini family and the messages they were trying to send to the outside world. While their lasting legacy may be one of nepotism, it is through their extensive patronage of the arts that we can understand more about the art of the time, and in the case of their palace, we have an example of a pioneer in ceiling paintings; one of the largest, most dramatic ceiling paintings of perhaps all time.

Works Cited

Blunt, Anthony. “The Palazzo Barberini: The Contributions of Maderno, Bernini, and Pietro da Cortona.” Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 21.3/4 (1958): 256-287.

Majanlahti, Anthony, “The Barberini,” selections from ch. 6 in The Families Who Made Rome. London, 2005.

Scholars Resource. Saskia, Ltd. September 20 2007. http://www.scholarsresource.com/browse/work/7874

Scott, John Beldon. Images of Nepotism: The Painted Ceilings of Palazzo Barberini. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1991.

Waddy, Patricia. “The Design and Designers of Palazzo Barberini.” The Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 35.3 (1976): 151-185.

Album Fotografico

Hollywood Set

Via Margutta 51. I was the first to spot the street sign. In my mind, I saw it half a century ago. Sun shining, children playing, loping stairways. Maybe you just can’t see this from the street. I half expected a young Gregory Peck to come out, maybe leading Audrey Hepburn on her first Roman adventure. Instead it is us on our Roman adventure. Standing outside the house numbered 51 on a quiet, empty street. I stretch my arms out, pull my left foot back, touching my toe to the ground. I embrace my inner Audrey.

Twenty-two seconds
I am someone else waiting
For happy endings

How to Become an Acrobat

Piazza del Popolo. First stop on Notte Bianca. It’s not as crowded as I imagined. Just wait for later. We wade our way in as the music starts. Two figures in white swing, back and forth. It’s like I’m back on the playground in elementary school willing myself to go higher and higher to touch the trees with my feet. There is a tightrope walker, and a Spanish duo with their theatrics: arms spread wide, palms to cheek in surprise. The Chinese boys, so young, vault on top of each other in their matching red outfits. It gets darker. We huddle closer, watching the white figures at the top of the piazza cartwheel and handspring across the way, looking more like cartoons than real people. The jump and bounce. Those figures stay with me all night.

町の角
人込み夜の
懐かしさ

(the city corner
on the crowded night
nostalgic)

Tour of the French Embassy

Tours are conducted in Italian or French. Do you understand, she asks us in Italian. Un po’ di. Kind of like my un peu francais. Would I understand more if she spoke Italian or French? I’m not sure. I concentrate hard as we move into the Palazzo. At some point, I can tell that she is French and not Italian, though she seems competent in the language. I look when she points up or across. I pick out single words that make me feel accomplished, as Lisa whispers answers that I only half-listen to. The language grabs me. I like this better than the Palazzo Vecchio tour in English. This is what I am supposed to be listening to, even if I don’t understand. I pick up on excitement, on piu importante. I don’t need anyone to tell me how to by hypnotized by the ceiling fresco.

The Italian
Asks Come ti chiami?
Her name is Marie

Il Foro Romano

This is the first time I have seen the Forum dark. Walking down the steps on the side, I squint to see what I can, to see how far I can. The first day we came here, the sun was shining almost too brightly. Now, most of it lies in darkness, and I can hear music coming from the Capitoline. I pause. I'm not sure who decided we had to make it to the Forum, but I'm glad we came. It seems peaceful among the noise, crowd, and chaos of the night, this one night of all nights. I let my eyes scan the Forum again. In the distance all I see are large masses, huddled together. It is safe.

Castel Sant'Angelo

From far away, it looks almost like a rough cupcake. I'm not sure where that imagery came from. We walked up across the Ponte Sant'Angelo and it was like walking across a moat. Now, from the top, I pretend to see everything. Well, most of Rome, at least. I can see St. Peter's Basilica, someone just pointed out to me the Pantheon. From here, I think it's even more surreal that I'm in Rome. People dash around to take pictures, forming groups that get larger and larger with the "you get in too's." Making memories. Photos do help. Maybe when I look at these photos a smile will come to my face and I'll think of the wind lifting hair and funny faces and giggles.

Judith Beheading Holofernes

I stumbled upon a Caravaggio. I never really thought I would. Wouldn’t I know ahead of time if there was going to be a Caravaggio where I was going? These are masterpieces; they wouldn’t be hiding just anywhere so that I might happen upon one. But stumble upon one I did.

I walked into the room, one of the apartments of Taddeo Barberini and Anna Colonna, and that was the first painting that caught my attention. Judith and Holofernes. For half a second (a half second that I am ashamed of), I thought, this can’t be right, I saw this in the Uffizi. That was the Artemisia Gentileschi painting of the same subject. I only had a brief glimpse of that one, enough to recognize it before I dashed off in search of leather. It’s a tough choice in Florence. The choice between leather and art.

Here, the blood spurts from Holofernes’ neck, but Judith doesn’t seem particularly frightened or enraged, as I was so certain she would be. She seems intent, as though concentrating very hard, but managing to look beautiful without spilling a drop of blood on her pristine dress. The nurse (I assume she’s a nurse; at any rate, the older woman in the picture) looks more emotionally involved, as she holds Judith’s skirt back for her, hands clenched over the folds of fabric.

Holofernes’ expression is one that I find hard to place. But when you think about it, how do you expect someone to look when their head is being cut off? I like to think that he knows what is about to happen, just before Judith acts. I dreg the depths of my memory in an attempt to recall the whole story. Why is Judith killing him? I come up empty, remembering only that Holofernes was evil, which in itself says very little.

The lighting makes the entire painting into a scene from a drama. As if these are characters playing out their parts on a stage, but that blood is real. This is no school children’s play. As I read more about the story, this rings true again and again.

Judith, cunning woman that she is, plots to kill the evil Holofernes by getting him drunk, and then beheading him. This is the classic tale of virtue overcoming evil, and we see this in the contrast between Holofernes’ violent body spasm and the inaudible scream that we know issued from his lips before he died, and Judith, distant and elegant. She is committing murder but it is justified because Holofernes is evil and she is saving us from him.

I keep thinking about the painting long after I leave Palazzo Barberini. More than the gruesomeness of Holofernes’ semi-attached head, I am impressed by Judith’s stalwart, yet elegant look. Her calm countenance in the midst of chaos is comforting. She remains resilient.

Il Pantheon

As I walked in, all I saw were cameras pointed up, and a mass of people. Going in further, I heard voices singing, saw people sitting in rows of chairs along the center of the Pantheon. Noise of tour groups, frustrated kids, and camera clicks dominate. Feet shuffle past me. Another wave has come in. But the singers, dressed in strangely normal, uncoordinated clothes, rise above this. This is the perfect place for sound to resonate. Flash again. I try to tune out the extraneous, can I hear the altos? Is this a service? Do normal people get to come and sit in the seats? Who are the singers?

Look

The Campo is the tourist center of the small city of Siena. The tower, billed as the tallest secular tower in Tuscany, stands here. Moving around the edge of the Campo one can see restaurants, tabacchi, souvenir shops, gelateria, and cafés, the necessities for most visitors to the area. It is the last one that we are concerned with here. Standing at the base of the tower, and looking toward 3 o’clock, we will find Key Largo, a small café, Rick Steves tells us. He recommends this particular café because one can sit without paying an additional charge. On this Sunday morning, we see five students, college-age, sitting in a row along the balcony of the café. The three boys and two girls all sit with notebooks and alternately write intently and stare out into the Campo, now filling with an assortment of tour groups, sun bathers, and families with young children.

If we move closer to the balcony of Key Largo, we can begin to hear snippets of the students’ conversation.

“Look,” points out one of the boys, “The shadow of the tower has moved since we got here.” In the 15 minutes the group has been sitting up there, the shadow has moved so that now it only covers about half of the group that had been sitting in its shade. A tour group with a flag has also tried to take advantage of this thin road of shade through the Campo. Others don’t mind the sun; a few have even brought towels to lie down on.

Two girls are walking toward the Campo now, each with a towel tucked under one arm and a bag slung over the opposite shoulder. They settle on a sunny spot on the north side of the Campo, not too far from the coffee drinkers at Key Largo. The girls spread out their towels, one green and one blue, bright flashes that break up the stony quilt of the cobblestones.

They are in close proximity to the constant stream of tour groups that make their way here for a two minute history of locale before continuing on to the Duomo, further up the hill.

They troop in with matching lanyards, following a flag, or sometimes, a closed umbrella. The next group that we see is a group of Japanese tourists. We know this not because of the mass of black-haired heads, but because all the women are dressed impeccably, wearing gloves and hats, and are constantly flapping fans. As their guide stops in the shade of the tower, the rest fall into line, creating a perfect rectangle within the larger shadow.

Turning back to Key Largo, two of the boys on the balcony are immersed in a conversation about Campo wildlife: pigeons. A group of them have gathered in front of the café, the attraction being a piece of bread that one of the sun bathing girls dropped; she felt sorry for them.

By the time we look back to the center of the square, the tour group has gone. There is nothing to indicate they were even there. The two girls, before positioned so perfectly to absorb the rays of the sun, now feel the shadow of the tower as it brushes over their feet. Is it time for lunch already? The girls roll up their towels, tuck them under their arms, and head away from the Campo and its shadow.

When we look back to Key Largo, we see the students have also noticed the time. They make note of the change in the shadow in their journals, and one by one, stand up and turn, bend their heads low to avoid hitting them in the doorway, and plod down the stairs.

“Ciao,” says the barista, who knows them after their second visit.

Ciao.

Siena - Santa Maria della Scala

The floor is only uncovered once a year, for a few months, to preserve it. I hear tapping noises - the sound of restorers, I assume, working on the middle section, which is the only part blocked from the touch of feet. Sounds resonate. Tour guides speaking into mics. Families, little children's voices in a multitude of languages. They're getting louder. I dislike the sound of feet stepping on wood. The marbles seems to soak up sound rather than throw it to the top of the dome. That is what I prefer.

San Giovanni

I am overwhelmed by the ceilings of most churches, but this is to an even greater degree. I have actually never seen anything quite like it. The columns and the ceiling seem to go up forever, I crane my neck to try to take it all in. I see the confessionals all have signs with languages written on them. I guess each priest here speaks three or four different languages. That is impressive. Or is it that they only have to be able to absolve people of their sins in a few different languages. Is that what it is? Sometimes my understanding of Catholicism gets a little funny.

Dutch tour group, 10 o'clock.

Piazza di Spagna

This is a good place to people watch. So many languages. Kids playing. Couples making out. An old man eating gelato next to a woman on her cell phone. Horse-drawn carriages await passengers. It must be hot for a horse. From here, I can see Yves Saint Laurent, Missoni, Dior. It's sticky outside, says the puppy sitting next to me. Click. Photo. Click. Have to prove I was here. Otherwise, people might not believe you. Oh, Vivian. What is it about the steps that draws all these people here? We walked up and then down and then part way up again, to sit. I wonder if it's just tourists, or do honest-to-goodness Romans come here too?

Train Music

I miss the songs of the train stations on the Yamanote Line
Takadanobaba, Shin-Okubo, Shinjuku

I miss the cats yowling at three in the morning
They made their own music

before Gerritt poured water on them from the balcony above
I miss the supermarket cashiers who

wrap tampons delicately
and unnecessarily in brown paper bags

I miss the schoolgirls with their cell phones
dripping Disney

and my favorite pastime:
staring at shoes on the metro

I miss Ichigoya:
To Foreign Students we only sell hamburger on Sunday

I miss Haagen-Dazs runs and the fifth floor
and sushi that slides around on a conveyer belt

I miss the escalators in building 14
and temples snuggled among skyscrapers and neon signs

I miss the waiting in the genkan, mail in 214,
waving and greeting my way down Waseda-Dori

I miss the songs of Takadanobaba, Mejiro, Ikebukuro

I am reminded of the music because I have my clock
It’s green and shiny and round

and has a train making its way around the face
stopping at stations and listening

I miss the songs of the train stations on the Yamanote Line

Il Colosseo

I find the Colosseum more imposing from the outside than the inside. I have a hard time visualizing what it must have looked like in ancient times. I wonder what that Japanese guy thought when we commandeered the stairs he was sitting on and Kelsea began her presentation. Strange Americans. He seemed a bit stunned, but what was he going to do. We had him surrounded. I think of the movie Gladiator. I suppose it's inevitable, but somehow I wish I had a more substantial visual reference for the Colosseum in ancient times. Not just Russell Crowe in armor.

Journal Buying

Tuesday, January 1^st. That’s what the first day of my journal says. In fact, I bought the journal and began writing in it on August 22^nd. I was hit by a wave of inspiration when I walked into a bookstore and saw stacks upon stacks of 2008 planners. What if I were to write my journal for Rome in one of those? Five weeks spread out, on paper at least, over the course of one year. Or would it be one year’s worth of experiences crammed into five weeks? I thought it was rather brilliant. It appealed to my admittedly wacky sense of the artistic. One problem, however. Upon closer examination, I found that the spaces between the lines in all those day planners were far too small to fit my large, loopy handwriting. I was disappointed. Thought maybe I’d go to the store by the Pantheon, the one Lisa had recommended, but on a whim, decided to check out the large chain store on the Corso (La Fetrinelli? I remember lots of red). I saw potential in the green journal with colored pages, but the sample was the last one. I took a second look at all the black moleskin journals that Italy is famous for, though I later learned that they are actually French in origin. No one wants to have the same journal as someone else. I figured at least a few people would choose one of these. I almost leapt at a weekly planner, which kept alive my hope for a calendar theme. My friend and shopping companion (and realistic voice, when necessary) Nanna pointed out, however, that half of the pages were unlined and that I probably would not use them. Disappointed anew, I saw her point. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a stack of journals I hadn’t seen before. There were sitting on a wooden frame in front of one of the bookshelves. They were red. Red moleskin. I thought of my friend Vivian, who has adopted “fierce” red as her favorite color. I may have to do the same. While others might have the classic, dignified black moleskin, how many people would go for fire-engine red? As I pulled open the cover, however, I discovered what would convince me that this was THE journal. It was a 2008 year-long planner. I could start from January 1^st. At this point, there was no question in my mind that I would buy this planner. The more I looked, the more I became convinced. It had a list of time zones of the world, measurement conversions, distances between places that I had never thought of measuring, a pocket. Maybe all of this information is useless. Maybe I will never actually reference it. But it is there. It is part of the personality of my journal. This bright red book with an international bent. It reminds me of the planner I bought in Japan, also red, with Rouge stamped across the cover. This one I intend to use in the conventional manner. It has maps of the subways of Tokyo, Osaka, Kyoto, London, Paris, and New York. No Rome, unfortunately. My international planners. The ones at the U Bookstore that I used to get every year, with the different colored covers; those just don’t do it for me anymore.

Fontana di Trevi

The shoe store says it opens at 3:00. I see a pair of red polka-dotted flats in the window for 7.50 euro. I know I should be admiring, taking in the Trevi, but it is so chaotic, so many people. Vendors call, cameras click, tour groups barge through. If I'm close enough, I can still hear the sound of the fountain as it gushes. We snapped our requisite tourist pic. Nanna did a bit of one-handed maneuvering. There are too many people coming and going to try to ask someone else. We prefer to be independent. After this, I want to look for the gelateria that Kylie recommended. Keep going until the t-shirt shop, and then make a left. Seems simple enough. But then again, I was looking at a drawing on a scrap of paper.

Arriva a Roma

I try to read and sleep on the train from Venice. First there is the man across the aisle. He has his music turned up to full volume and he only turns it off to answer his cell phone with a dignified “Pronto.” There is a man behind him. I can’t see his face, but he is on his cell phone nearly the entire time. I can’t understand him, but apparently he is swearing a lot, because the man across from him, the one in the orange and blue tank top who reminded me of Nicolo, gets the inspector to come talk to him, as there are children sitting nearby. The family of four is sitting in the quartet of seats in front of me. Their voices rise and fall unpredictably in my ears.

We slide into Termini. It takes longer than I expect. It’s a flurry as I grab my backpack, my suitcase, and stumble off the train. It’s dark outside. I follow the other passengers towards the lit terminal. Nanna and I know we have to find the subway. Down the stairs to Metro Linnea B. It’s dirty. The cement walls seem harsh, there is graffiti everywhere. It’s not like the clean, efficient subway network in Tokyo. The ticket machine is at least ten years old. I almost get stuck in the turnstile with my luggage, grabbing at the air for my ticket, now validated by the machine. The neon sign at the platform (only one?!) says the train will come in two minutes. There are fewer people than I imagined. An American guy comes up to Nanna and asks her in broken Italian if this is the train for Laurentina. She says yes in English as the train pulls up. The train itself is covered in graffiti, and the inside is dingy with a yellow glow.

We get off at the next stop; the station is empty. I see policemen and wonder if they, like their Japanese counterparts, give directions to lost tourists. We don’t stop to see, pulling our bags behind us up the stairs. I am glad I didn’t pack any more. Nanna takes charge when we get up to the street. I see angled intersections, cars parked haphazardly. We cross the street, passing a restaurant where people feast on dishes that tantalize my empty stomach. We have to find our hostel. We walk down to the end of the block, consult once more with the map, and then retrace our steps, convinced we took the wrong turn out of the station. Once more, we pass by the restaurant with the people chatting and eating, glasses clink. On the other side of the street, back near the exit of the subway station, we realize we had been in the right place. Or had been heading in the right direction. We dart through traffic again. Stare and in return are stared at by the people in the restaurant who by now are probably wondering where we are going. Down more steps. I can’t take in everything around me quite yet. I see a lot of stone, and houses with balconies sticking out, protrusions on faces.

We are going to #107. We check. We are at #65. Up a sloping cobblestone road. It’s almost like an alley, it is so narrow. It is dark. I wonder if we are even in the right place. The suitcases rattle loudly up the street. It doesn’t look like a place for a hostel. A few more steps, I tell myself once we reach #100. There it is. A plain brown building. It fits in with the ones on either side of it. And there is a small handwritten sign by the door. Italy Inn #83. I look back down the street with disdain, but having no choice, turn my suitcase around and let it rattle behind me, this time down the incline. As we pause before #83, ready to knock, a woman appears a little ways up the sidewalk. She is the proprietor of this tiny, two-room guesthouse, which appears to be located in the basement of her house. It is coincidence, more than irony, I suppose, that she is Japanese. My year in Japan continues to follow me, even in Rome.

Ciao Bella!

I'm still in Tokyo...will be for a couple more months...but am so excited to be going to Rome this summer!!