CCXXVII - Rome, Domenica, 21 July 2019

Domenica, the day of the Lord. Rome - what a city. Following the run of the river Tiber north, walls, foundations, arches and brickwork stand out from millenia past. I do not exaggerate; the parts of the Roman ruins still existing were themselves built on the foundations, sealed up in subterranean layers, of even more ancient peoples, the Etruscans, them of the bygone tongues and forgotten faiths. And the classical Roman architecture is absorbed and refashioned into the palaces and lavish buildings of those in power - artists, merchants, bankers, senators, military men, consuls, cardinals, popes and the like. With all the numbers at play, thousands and centuries beyond count, to me it starts to become just another set of numbers to mark off; without historical narrative, without being steeped in the proper context, and time to place it all, it's hard to draw the all important threads of history, of the develop of series of events, of the flows of power and fortune. Well, the narratives that survive were paid for by the once-great houses, and naturally, the artists pay generous homage to their patrons.

Boy, what a city. It's bursting at the historical seams. It's a small shame that its inhabitants don't do something about the trash and traffic, at least during the summer, tourist-filled months, but, what can you do. Perhaps I'm too used to things back home, relatively well-spaced out, regular, cleaned-up. Rome is so historic, but so unkempt. The airport, and the train from the airport to Rome were pretty underwhelming, and it makes a difference in terms of a visitor's impression.

The buses - I did not do well on the buses today. The less that is said about that, the better, I think. I did the Palazzo Barberini, the Galleria Borghese, and the National Gallery of Modern and Contemporary Art. Trust me, three in a day is plenty, and it was a hot time of it as well. Pure, straight summer heart, walking through a nice park around the Borghese as well. Well, having said that, the museums were all wonderful. I felt like Heaven opened a little at the Barberini. All this art from five hundred years ago, it's almost too much to behold. I overheard a little about the Borghese-s being a bunch of dirty, thieving power brokers, which of course, shouldn't surprise anyone. Well, you've got to have wealthy patrons if you want to be a painter, I suppose. I read that Michelangelo was reluctant to re-work St. Peter's Basilica, finish up the designs and all that, because, yeah of course he was busy with all the things people wanted of him, but anyway he decided to work on it out of devotion to his faith. I suppose the whole moral dilemma of choosing your patrons' commissions, bearing in mind their manner of dealings and moral bent, well, one had to be a bit careful.

Thank God I did the relatively difficult one, the Borghese, in between two relatively more relaxed places. The Borghese gives you two hours to visit, and it's a flat out sprint. It's not a very big museum, it's two stories, right, but it's packed full of art - to the extent that they don't have wall space to put placards with the name and description; rather, they have laminated posters on a self-service stand which set out the whole room's works. It's crazy, it just packed wall to wall. And they don't allow picture taking, which is fine, of course; it cuts out the huge crowds holding up space around the famous marble statues. Those were fabulous, by the way, the reclining Venus by Canova, the depression in the bed made by her feet was just fabulous. Not taking photos is great for forcing you to be in the moment, to use the eyes and the brain. So often people just say oh! and take a photo and move on. It's mind boggling to think back on it. I mean, it's so much better in the actual! take your photo, but at least stand there and look at the thing; god! And having to pay attention, I noticed a painting that looked vaguely like it had Mona Lisa's smile, and it turns out it was a copy of a painting by Leonardo da Vinci, Leda and the Swan. The actual painting is lost, but in those days, copies were made by really good artists as well, all the top guys made copies and draughts of each others' work. It had that same-ish engimatic, maternal and mirthful smile; it had "it". Then there were the Caravaggios, the Raphael, all the wonderful, flesh-like marble: flesh and bones, garments, crowns, sceptres and instruments of war, the beautiful arms and torsoes of goddesses and heroines, it made me imagine whether the David is just pretending to be frozen - at night he relaxes the pose, goes over to the room with the Venus and they do their classical lovemaking. How do you sculpt like that? It's impossible - knowing when to hew and when to shave, leaving enough to see the sinews and veins, robes and hair. Sculptors must be crazy in the head, they must dream all day of creating people, of carving men and women out of indelible rock.

I feel like I can do Rome like this, this hard, really only once. I don't think anyone would put their faith in me again if I put them through these paces. I'm not sure I trust my own planning instincts. Still, as long as I'm not feeling grumpy, things are going really well. It's easier being by myself, as long as I'm not grumpy, there's literally nothing else and nobody else to worry about. By Jove, I'm having a great time. Well, ok, that's all for today.

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I spent (in EUR):

4.50 - bus tickets
14 - Galleria Nazionale d'Arte Antica, Palazzo Barberini
8 - paninis
14 - Galleria Borghese
3 - two postcards, Judith beheads Holofernes, by Caravaggio
10 - Galleria Nazionale d'Arte Moderna E Contemporanea
6 - store groceries
56 - apartment in Trastevere