Rome, Travel

The Healing Powers Of Rome: An Exercise In Purposeful Living

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Me standing in an ancient bar at Ostia Antica. Inscription: “Fortunatus says: Since you are thirsty, drink wine from the crater.”

The day before I left for Rome, I made several frenzied phone calls and errands, all to do with my health. Doctors, health insurance, pharmacies, more doctors, my boyfriend to calm my overwrought nerves, my best friend to try to reassure me that I would actually enjoy my abroad experience, more doctors, a different pharmacy…and so it went. After about two months of unknown ailments, eight different prescriptions, a stomach infection and a tonsil the size of a golf ball, followed by tonsil surgery that left me exhausted and frustrated, I was determined to be fully stocked for my current medical situation as well as preemptively medicated for every possible condition that could arise in my four months in Rome. I was certain that I would end up with some strange incurable ailment in a hospital with doctors who I couldn’t communicate with and were probably uncivilized and definitely incompetent. Physically, mentally, emotionally…I was a bit of a wreck.

I always remember in the first couple of days after our arrival, my friend (joking in the most PLS-y of ways) telling me, “Don’t worry, ancient people came to Rome for healing all the time. It’ll work for you too.” My knee-jerk response was a sort of self-righteous dismissal, thinking You have no idea what these last few months have been like. And yet, after the first couple of days…it happened. I didn’t end up using a single one of those prescriptions. In fact, I rarely took so much as an Advil. All of the ailments I had been dealing with cleared up, as did a few I didn’t even know I had.

Call it whatever you want, but Rome healed me. In more ways than one.

At that point in my small laundry list of medical woes (one of which, appropriately, was directly caused by overmedication), getting through a semester healthy may as well have been coming to the temple of Aesculapius as a leper and miraculously walking away clean. That temple, by the way, was conveniently located a mere ten-minute walk from my apartment, on Tiber Island. Coincidence? No chance. A modern hospital now resides in its place, full of I’m sure, civilized, multilingual, and (fairly) competent doctors. I wouldn’t know — I didn’t need them.

But Rome also healed me in a deeper way, one that I didn’t quite grasp the full impact of until I returned home.

“I sometimes fancy,” said Hilda, on whose susceptibility the scene always made a strong impression, “that Rome—mere Rome—will crowd everything else out of my heart.” ―Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Blithedale Romance

Trying to imagine a semester with no extra jobs, no internship, no writing, no editing, and for the love of Jupiter, class only three days a week, had been unthinkable to me. What am I going to do with all that time? Despite living in a city with an unlimited possibility for exploration and discovery, I was convinced I would be bored, antsy, frustrated by my own non-productivity. More incorrect, I could not have been.

Living in Rome was a four-month long exercise in slowing down the usually frantic processes of my own mind, and throughly and actively experiencing the present. With virtually no responsibility (sorry JCU, it’s the truth), rather than anxious I felt liberated. As someone who genuinely enjoys the mental yoga of having seven activities on my plate at once, that fact in itself was a revelation.

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Rome: A Retrospective

Rome, to me, was a city with a profound lack of immediate gratification. You want soccer tickets? Too bad, every tabaccheria is closed. Milk for your cereal? Sorry, the store owners are taking a nap. Taking a bus to class? Great, because it’s promptly thirty minutes late. And no one else even seems to notice. Need your permesso di soggiorno? Cool, it’ll come after you leave. Trying to check Twitter? Try again in six hours when you get your hands on WiFi. Your check? What the hell do you need that for?

Sometimes, I really did just want the damn check. After three hours or so, it tends to get to that point. But really, what did I need it for? Where was I going? Answers: Nothing. Nowhere. It didn’t take long for me to realize that the constant itch I felt to go somewhere else was habit, but not necessity. I could just sit here. I could just be here.

Aptly described by my high school math teacher in a newspaper article as, “she always seemed about 90 percent with me in class, and 10 percent thinking about what was next,” this lesson could not have come to someone who needed it more. Romans walk a solid third of the speed of New Yorkers and eat a solid six or seven times slower (let’s call the coffee drinking and driving inexplicable aberrations). For the most part, though, the speed felt glacial. And for the most part, I was grateful to be taken in by it.

Since my triumphant return to America (I literally chanted “USA! USA!” in the airport when anything efficient happened), I’m already getting more than a little bit nostalgic for the slow, deliberate ways of the Romans and their way of making every moment feel deeply and purposefully lived-in. I honestly believe that not having access to our phones much of the time played a huge role in that. Not only in the feel of purposeful and active living, but in the twenty-some of us getting to know each other as well as we did.

Unfortunately, almost as soon as I returned, so did the compulsive need to check my texts, Twitter, Facebook, Instagram…the list goes on. And spending the last week and a half working exclusively online and in large part on Twitter, my brain functioning has once again come to mirror my frantic clicking from one article to another. I already have a predisposition for that mental pace — media only expedites the process. Placing 100 percent of my focus on one subject has once again become a rarity.

In Rome? Wasn’t a problem. I would allow myself to focus on one single thing for long periods of time (yes, even a single painting for the hour it took Tegs to describe it), and that ability was both calming and comforting. Try as I might to duplicate that level of mental clarity, I know I will only be able to get so far. There will always be something special about how I felt, thought, lived, for those four months. And for that Rome, I thank you.

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Photos, Rome

Black And Whites From A Weekend In Roma

This weekend after things between London and I got pretty hot and heavy (And then you come in. With your hot. And your heavy.), I spent the weekend rekindling the flame with my first love, Rome. I checked several Rome to-dos off my list, including the Colosseum, Forum, and Palatine, the Ara Pacis, the Mouth of Truth, Piazza Navona’s unexpectedly awesome Chiesa Sant’Agnese in Agone, and Chiesa di San Luigi in Francesi with its three Caravaggio’s. As the weather was positively glorious, we spent much time wandering through some of our favorite increasingly tourist-filled places – Piazza del Popolo, Piazza Navona, Campo de’ Fiori, Fontana di Trevi, the Jewish Ghetto, and of course, our hood, Trastevere – and discovering several new must-eats, Pizzeria di Buffetto and Gelateria del Teatro among the tops. And so, I emerge with some photographs I don’t despise, a profound rarity for me. Behold.

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Rome

A Very Notre Damey Easter

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Dear brothers and sisters, to all of you who are listening to me, from Rome and from all over of the world, I address the invitation of the Psalm: “Give thanks to the Lord for he is good; for his steadfast love endures for ever. Let Israel say: ‘His steadfast love endures for ever'” (Ps 117:1-2).”

Just a quick note about Easter, because being at the Vatican for Easter this close to Papa Francesco and not saying anything about it would be shameful. Yes tourists invaded my hood and caused cab prices to skyrocket, yes it was crowded, yes we stood for a long time, yes the Rome kids were jaded (Can you tell?) because we felt like we had just been there for the clave, and yes, it was a fantastic experience. I found the mass being said in all different languages to be one of the more moving parts of the day, along with Papa Francesco greeting everyone and kissing babies. The guy is just straight up heartwarming. But the best part of the weekend was without a doubt the Domer invasion. It was awesome to see everyone, catch up, and remember just how phenomenal senior year is going to be.

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Some nerds I know

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Food, Rome, Travel

Best Week Ever: Eric, Franny, And A German Excursion

“Once you have traveled, the voyage never ends, but is played out over and over again in the quiestest chambers. The mind can never break off from the journey.” – Pat Conroy

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Of course my current literary hero Pat Conroy would step in at a time like this to beautifully articulate how I’m feeling. Yes, Eric left yesterday morning, and yes, I was extremely sad to see him go, but this week is something that I could never forget if I tried, because it was less something I did or something that happened to me than something that will always be a part of me, a microcosm of these entire four months. So I refuse to stay sad, because I’m just so grateful that it happened.

I also just realized that I took 585 pictures…so just from a practical standpoint, forgetting seems rather implausible.

The first few days of the week consisted of La Boccaccia, magic balls, fancy beer at Ma Che Siete Venuti a Fa, dinner at Romolo and Taverna Trilussa  – which obviously means artichoke pasta and balsamic steak – and…in non-gastronomic news, some cathedral hopping and Rick Steves walks, because Eric gets separation anxiety without Rick in hand. Let’s talk churches real quick: On Sunday we went to mass at the Pantheon, Wednesday morning we had Renaissance Rome which took us to Santa Maria del Popolo with Tegsy, and we also hit the main basilicas of Rome: the Vatican, Santa Maria Maggiore (where Bernini’s tomb is), and St. John Latteran. I have yet to make it to Paul Outside the Wall, but I will soon.

Wandering through the Jewish Ghetto and Trastevere with Rick as our guide also brought us to Santa Cecilia and Santa Maria in Trastevere, but more importantly, to the greatest Italian artisan cookie place in all the land, Biscottificio Artigiano Innocenti (which I also frequented today). Sweet fancy Moses are these cookies amazing. My favorites are the almond squishy-inside dark chocolate dipped ones (sounds better in Italian), and the beignets. I’m so sorry we didn’t get one of those Eric…but damn.

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On Wednesday, we made the trek to Villa Borghese which, even despite the somewhat dreary weather, was well worth it. It is the place where one man almost singlehandedly spurred an entirely new artistic movement: the movement Baroque, the man Bernini. My God, his statues make David look like it was made with PlayDoh during kindergarten recess. Possible exaggeration, but honestly the movement and emotion he is able to coax out of a solid block of marble is mesmerizing.

apollo and daphne back apollo and daphne front

I’m even a little bit upset by these pictures because they don’t even nearly do this masterpiece justice. The work is Bernini’s Apollo and Daphne, depicting Apollo post-Cupid arrow to the buttocks attempting to rape the beautiful Daphne, who prays to her father to save her and thus is transformed into a tree. Bernini manages to capture that entire sequence of events, in one single statue. Starting from the back of the statue, you see love-stricken Apollo chasing a woman, who as you continue around to the right begins to take shape. As you continue to circle it, you begin to the see the roots growing from Daphne’s feet, the leaves from her fingertips, her strained but flawless facial expression – it’s not a still image, but a transformation that you are watching unfold. How a human being could stare into a block of marble, see this and bring it to fruition is so beyond me I can’t even pretend to comment, but experiencing it was one of the greatest pleasures I’ve had among all the art I’ve seen here.

SONY DSCBut of course, even that magnificent experience was nothing compared to CLAVE 2013. Because obviously, the election of a new pope becomes infinitely cooler when you abbreviate it. Exhausted post-Villa Borghese, Eric and I decided that the effort required to make it from our Testaccio B&B to the Vatican was quite necessary, and my God was it. For most a once in a lifetime event just to witness the election of a new pope, we actually witnessed the election of a new pope. The atmosphere was indescribable – the multitude of sisters tearing up in the midst of one of the greatest moments of their lives, the Italian woman with her young son in front of us joking that the pope must be Italian, because if he was German or American he would’ve shown up by now, all of us Notre Dame kids huddling together for warmth and shelter from the rain, the South American priests behind us crying tears of joy and telling us what Papa Francesco was saying…it all amounted to one of the most moving experiences of my life. No matter what you believe or how you feel about the Church, it was impossible not to be affected by the historic magnitude and emotional involvement of the event. If there is any experience in my life I can accurately describe as humbling, that was it.

Munich

20130314_104509Thursday morning meant an impossibly early wake up and taxi to the airport but a worthwhile early arrival in Munchen, which is apparently what Muncheners call their own city, as the Deutschland is their country. Who knew?

Our first hour in Munich was an experience in itself. We arrived at the train station at the exact moment the train was supposed to arrive. We followed signs that pointed us toward the bus we had to catch in the most clear and efficient way possible. We boarded said bus, buying tickets in about thirty seconds from the driver, and it departed at the precise minute advertised. The bus was almost silent. We whispered so as not to disturb the somewhat eerie peace, a word I have never in my life used to describe public transportation. We walked the absolutely pristine and for the most part silent streets, and no one tried to sell us anything, asked for money, sketched on me, or accosted us in any way. We were walking around in a sort of mystified silence until one of us finally commented on the startling cleanliness of the place – Just then, we passed a shopkeeper sweeping invisible dirt from his sidewalks. There may have been five pebbles. At the most. Compared to Italy, it was just so strikingly civilized, so…comically German.

20130314_113034We hit up the Viktualienmarkt (complete with Maypole) for some morning wursts and beer – When in Germany right? The consensus came out: bratwurst delicious as expected, weisswurst a little bit…creepy. Sure I’m glad I tried stark white squishy boiled veal sausage that you have to peel the casing off, but I think once will last me a lifetime.

In Italy, climbing their tallest buildings involves medieval stairs on stairs on stairs, complete with sometimes impossibly slanted angles, odd curves, and uncomfortably low ceilings to emerge onto a balcony thousands of feet in the air with nothing but a waist-high wall between you and imminent death. In Germany, you take a modern elevator to a fully enclosed landing. Oh how the contrasts abound.

Aside from the mandatory Rick Steves walk, encompassing the center of Munich, its Old and New Town Halls, the famed glockenspiel, and St. Peter’s basilica, the day’s main attraction was the Munich Residenz, where those pesky Wittenbachs’ lived for some inordinate amount of time. My favorite was most definitely the massive wall sculpture composed entirely of shells, complete with shell women, from whose bosoms’ wine used to flow. I assure you do not jest. Observe.

20130314_153531The treasury also featured some interesting pieces including a prayer book that belonged to Charlemagne’s nephew, crowns on crowns, a gold reconstruction of Trajan’s Column, and several pieces of jewelry I requested as belated birthday presents. Who doesn’t need a massive pearl-encrusted stomach piece?

As the German food odyssey continued, Augustiner-Brau was the absolute perfect choice for dinner. We tried their dark beer and a Radler, which is light beer and lemon soda (surprisingly, not my favorite). However, the food was out of control: pork cooked in beer gravy with a potato dumpling, and the glory that is spaetzle. I have to tell you, while nothing about cheesy potato pasta with fried onions on top sounds bad, it also sort of sounds like a special at TGIFridays rather than a national delicacy. I could not have been more wrong.

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Following our incredible meal, we braved the hordes of Japanese tourists in mickey mouse ears at where else: Hofbrauhaus. Apparently, I only like dark beer in Germany – my palate is really authentic like that. There were also pretzels. Always pretzels.

Fussen

On Friday morning we boarded a train to the picturesque town of Fussen, which would be our home base for visiting the castles of Mad King Ludwig – first his boyhood home Hohenschwangau (High Swan Land) and then his dream palace, the made-famous-by-Disney SONY DSCNeuschwanstein (New Swan Stone), which is just as fantastical on the inside as its exterior. And considering the plan for the building was drafted (as an homage to Richard Wagner no less) by a stage designer rather than an architect, that is a fairly impressive feat. This quote from a letter from Ludwig to his buddy Wagner adds substance and meaning to the incredible sight that is Neuschwanstein.

“It is my intention to rebuild the old castle ruin of Hohenschwangau near the Pöllat Gorge in the authentic style of the old German knights’ castles, and I must confess to you that I am looking forward very much to living there one day […]; you know the revered guest I would like to accommodate there; the location is one of the most beautiful to be found, holy and unapproachable, a worthy temple for the divine friend who has brought salvation and true blessing to the world.” -Ludwig II

It also makes it all the more tragic that poor Ludwig spent almost 20 years working on the castle without coming close to finishing it, and only lived in it for 172 days until his mysterious demise. On June 13, 1886, just a couple of days after being declared insane, Ludwig went on a walk with the very doctor who made the assessment, and neither was ever seen alive again. Bruises on the doctor’s neck seemed to indicate that Ludwig murdered him and then killed himself. However, Ludwig was 6’4″ and a strong swimmer, the water he supposedly drowned himself in was something like three feet, and there was no traces of water in his lungs. Many – including, I think, the people who run the castle tours today – believe their crazy king was murdered and framed.

“I wish to remain an eternal enigma to myself and to others.” –Luddie II *Cue creepy music*

SONY DSCFollowing my very first and quite monumental love affair with snow amounting to over 100 photos, it was time for a
freezing cold Rick walk around Fussen. I learned some things…saw some pretty sights…some body parts froze off…and then, out of the midst rose my salvation: Greek food, a preview of my week to come and but a distant memory for Eric. Thank God for Kelari, run by a couple who had their own restaurant in Athens before moving to the Munterland. Nothing better than stumbling across people who will feed you paprika-ed french fries with tzatziki when your fourth toe on the right side is about to break off am I right? Classic situation.

Salzburg

SONY DSCAnother day, another train with individual garbage cans for each pair of seats. Oh sweet German civilization. I couldn’t possibly summarize Salzburg better than Rick Steves did when he said, “While Salzburg’s sights are rather mediocre, the town itself is a Baroque museum of cobblestone streets and elegant buildings—simply a touristy stroller’s delight.” That I am, and that it was. And the phrase “touristy stroller’s delight” ran through my head on a loop as we strolled into platz after platz after connected platz. Neither of us being Mozart- nor Sound of Music- crazy, we saw a few sights, but mostly just wandered through Prince-Archbishop Wolf Dietrich’s attempt at a “Rome of the North” and soaked it all in.

A personal highlight was my four-Euro grilled fish sandwich straight off the bus at a Rick-recommended place on the river. I may never know what that white sauce was or how to make it. Hell I might never taste it again. As Eric said, it was just a magical fleeting moment in time I’ll have to cherish the memory of forever. Yes, it was that good.

SONY DSCOther prime moments include taking an elevator up the side of a cliff – because again, that’s how Germans roll – to witness this view, ducking into a packed Rick-recommended bar and taking housemade and surprisingly smooth fruit flavored shots, speeding through the woefully unexciting birthplace of Mozart, and witnessing a huge gash taken out of a wall by an American general who tried to drive his tank to a (still open) brothel. The red light was on and everything. We didn’t make it to the fortress up on that hilltop there, nor did we ever find the mysterious chocolate place, but it didn’t matter. I could not have had a better time doing any of those things with anyone else.

SONY DSCAs our final day in Germany arrived, unwelcome and startling, we traipsed through Munchen’s English Gardens to the Chinese Tower where we found – what else – a German biergarten which served the brats we craved and Hofbrahaus brews. Also, this sugar-coated doughnut-like concoction, the taste of which floods back to me just by looking at this picture. Fighting sadness, I had the feeling that our last German beers, last wursts, and last pretzels of the weekend, wouldn’t actually be our last.

And that was kind of the beauty of this week for me. Because even as I was living it, I felt its place within the broader context of my life, and it didn’t feel like just something that I did one time. It felt like a significant memory of a first. Although I’ve reacapped everything here for my own recollection in (I’m sure) painstaking detail, none of it was ever about what we did or saw or ate. (Except maybe the fish sandwich; it really was about that.) But truly, the week was romanticized and the uncomfortable travel bits removed immediately in my mind because though they certainly happened, they never really interfered with the active contentment of being together and exploring places together and reveling in that. And that’s why the importance of all of it, no matter if we were gaping at a Bernini or getting poured on or being blessed by the new pope or complaining about blisters or eating delicious food or strolling through a palace, was never lost on me for a second. So at risk of publicly displaying affection because I feel confident no one but you made it through this entire novel of a post… I love you Eric, and I can’t wait for more adventures with you.

And if anyone else made it, I’m sure I love you too.

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Food, Rome, Travel

Sicilia: A Vacation Within A Vacation

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Yes, I did just call my semester of study abroad a vacation. And I realize that it isn’t, and I do have classes (which I do attend and enjoy), and I am learning – probably more than I ever have in a semester, mostly outside of the classroom. But it feels like a vacation in the sense of my mindset: I don’t think I could describe my head space as nervous or stressed since the day I got off the plane. I almost never know what time it is or where my phone is, and I rarely care. I’ve never been one to stress about school, but this isn’t just that – it’s a complete lifestyle change. I’m often exhausted, but always feel at peace. I guess it’s that elusive contentment. Here, I never feel like there’s something I’m forgetting, something else I should be doing, an email I need to send, a text a need to reply to, a meeting I’m missing. I just am wherever I am whenever I’m there, and feel okay with that. Hence, my mental vacation.

But Sicily… now that was a real life beach-filled Champagne-drinking Turkish bath-going arancine-eating verified girls trip vacation. See that view up at the top there? Yeah, that’s the view from our apartment terrace, featuring Mount Etna just four days before it exploded. Of course before we made it there, we experienced a happy mishap which brought us Ostia Antica on the Friday we intended to depart. 

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As Pompeii was quite possibly my favorite experience of my first trip to Rome with la mia famiglia, Ostia Antica was high on my Rome priority list. It is a massive archaeological site that was the port city of ancient Rome – in fact it may have been Rome’s very first colony. So far they’ve found ruins that date back to the 4th century BC (and they’ve probably only found about two-thirds so far), and was inhabited until it was finally  abandoned in the 9th century because they kept getting sacked, which sucked. Luckily for us, an incredible amount of the ancient city was preserved thanks to silt. There were some beautifully preserved frescoes, though unfortunately Ostia’s crowning fresco at the Temple of Neptune was temporarily covered when we were there. It made us extremely uneasy.

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But after that brief excursion, some Jewish Ghetto fried artichokes, and apertivo-hopping/backpacking in our own neighborhood, we arrived in Palermo to one of the most beautiful views we had ever been lucky enough to eat pastries within view of.

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We saw the necessary Palermitano sights – the Palermo Cathedral, the Palazzo di Normanni with its (gaudy) Cappella Palatina, the botanical gardens, and the Teatro Massimo. But if we’re really going to be honest here, we chilled and we ate. And boy did we eat. Just a few of our standout meals:

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  • Arancine: A Sicilian specialty, these fried balls of rice with meat sauce or prosciutto in the center may be the world’s crowning street food.
  • Seafood risotto at a restaurant on the beach in Mondello. It was as amazing as it looks.
  • Squid ink pasta
  • Swordfish cooked with tomatoes, capers, and olives (just like my mommy does it! One of the best meals I’ve ever had) at Trattoria ai Cascinari, the best restaurant in Palermo according to several sources
  • Brioche filled with gelato…exactly what it sounds like

I know what you’re thinking (or not): You went to Sicily and didn’t have any cannoli?!? I am extraordinarily saddened to report that we went to the alleged best place for cannoli in all of Palermo…and I didn’t love it. I don’t blame the cannolo: I blame a lifetime of exposure to the very thick, very sweet, very chocolate-chip filled, Americanization of the cannolo. But regardless, it just didn’t do it for me. I am so sorry foodies.

If you’re wondering what Mondello is from that name drop there, it’s Palermo’s main beach town, about twenty minutes away from the city. It’s also drop dead gorgeous. And made me feel like this:

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We frolicked along the beach in skirts and sundresses as the Palermitans huddled together in hoods and blankets, seemingly unaware that 65 degrees is reason to celebrate. And to finish up the ultimate girls trip, there was the Turkish bath, Hammam. We doused ourselves in buckets of hot water while sitting on a giant marble slab, stifled uncomfortable laughter as a woman entered in nothing but a paper thong, were doused in another bucket of hot by the Hammam lady, sweated in a sauna so full of steam you couldn’t see a foot in front of you, got exfoliating massages, chilled out in the jacuzzi, and lost five pounds. Simultaneously exciting and relaxing, it was a perfect ending to the perfect mini-vacation.

 

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Photos

Maybe, Just Maybe, Learning How To Work My Camera

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My Camera, by Moi

After a couple of weeks of frustration with myself and lack of skills, I think I may just be getting the hang of it. Aperture, shutter speed, ISO, white balance… things that seem much easier than they actually are. But my pictures are requiring less and less editing every day, which leaves me feeling much more optimistic.

 

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Rome

Double Duty At The Campidoglio

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Apologies to my many fans for the delay in posts. Class this week was back to back at the Capitoline Hill, or Campidoglio – Drawing and Renaissance Rome. It went like this.

Day 1: Draw 24 random thumbnail sketches of things then wander around taking artsy pictures from a roof with Jenny.

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Day 2: Actually learn things. So here we go.

The Piazza del Campidoglio was designed by Michelangelo to unify all the things that were already there, but his plans were not finished until long after his death. Pope Paul III was miffed that Charles V just came in and took over, so he commissioned the piazza (at least according to my professor) to be a clear signal of his and the church’s true dominance.

Our first stop on the hill was the Church of the Archeli. It was a beautiful medieval/Romanesque basilica, home to the Franciscan Observants since around 1200. Much of the artwork was recontextualized during the Counter-Reformation, which to me is some of the most interesting information about all of these buildings: how they have developed over time. For example, during the Counter-Reformation when they realized those dang Protestants weren’t going away, all of the churches had to get rid of the sections inside, including the rood screen that separated the monks from the regular congregation, which you can see the remnants of on two of the pillars. The original fresco behind the wall was by Cavallini, and depicted the fake story of the miraculous foundation of the church, which goes like this: Caesar‘s palace was here, and the Senate wanted to make him a god. But Caesar was like “Hmm, I don’t know about that guys.” So he went away and fasted and prayed for three days, during which he had a vision of a woman and child. He realizes that the child will be greater than him, and decides not to be made a god. Because he’s modest like that.

20130123_100120Other than that, there’s a cosmatesque floor, which has a network pattern in colored marble with four colors: purple porphery, green porphery, and giallo antico, and white marble.

Next we talked about the Buffalini Chapel, a side chapel on the back right of the Archeli. And talked…and talked…and talked… Granted, it was very interesting but I was getting extremely antsy. Sparknotes: Nicolo Buffalini wanted a place for his family to be buried, so he commissioned oft-ignored-and-underappreciated Renaissance perspective-master Pinturicchio to paint a mini chapel devoted to San Bernardino. There’s a whole bunch of cool stuff in there, but if anyone’s actually made it this far I think that’s enough.

In the back of the cathedral there is a tomb slab by Donatello. Casually.

There is so much more but I’m not about to retype all my notes here because I want to talk about my weekend in Florence!

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