Denizen, Piazza Santa Croce
Dante, Piazza Santa Croce
Nothing quite finishes off daylight like a laurel-crowned Dante glowering down on you in the twilight.
Thusnelda’s grief
Thusnelda, Loggia dei Lanzi
The six colossal female statues that line the back wall of the Loggia were discovered in Rome and formed part of the Cardinal della Valle antiquities collection by the mid-16th century. They were purchased by Ferdinando de Medici in the latter half of the century, and have graced the Loggia since 1789.
All compelling in their own way, this was the one that first caught my attention, probably because to my eyes she seems the least stylised – with her flowing hair centre-parted on her lowered head and her looser garments – and the most ‘natural’ in her stance and gesture, and almost as though – with her left leg crossed over the right leg which bears her weight, and her left hand at hip level supporting the right which is raised almost to her face in an aspect of weary contemplation, I had thought – the centuries had simply exhausted her.
She has been identified since 1841 as ‘Thusnelda’, the daughter of Segestes, a Germanic prince, and had been promised in marriage to another by her father before either eloping with or being abducted by or both, and marrying Arminius, who had fought fiercely against the Romans. While pregnant to him she was given over by her father, an ally to Rome, to Germanicus. According to Tacitus, her husband Arminius “was driven frantic by the seizure of his wife and the subjugation to slavery of her unborn child”. He never married again.
A beautiful 2.57 metre tall, heavily restored, marble expression of grief.
Giambologna’s Rape of the Sabine Women
Giambologna. Rape of the Sabine Women. 1581-83.
‘Rape’ meaning ‘abduction’ in the context of Giambologna’s sculpture: according to Livy in The History of Rome, the Roman state is powerful but vulnerable because of a ‘paucity of women’, and Romulus’ solicitations for intermarriage for his men among his neighbours, the Sabines, have been rejected. He plans and stages a deception: at festival games to honour Neptunus Equistris, to which the Sabines are invited, the Romans carry off the women at his signal. He promises the indignant Sabine women lawful wedlock, possessions and civil privileges, and children:
He begged them only to assuage the fierceness of their anger, and cheerfully surrender their affections to those to whom fortune had consigned their persons.” [He added,] “That from injuries love and friendship often arise; and that they should find [the Romans] kinder husbands on this account, because each of them, besides the performance of his conjugal duty, would endeavour to the utmost of his power to make up for the want of their parents and native country.” To this the caresses of the husbands were added, excusing what they had done on the plea of passion and love, arguments that work most successfully on women’s hearts.
The minds of the ravished virgins were soon much soothed…
Not so their families, and war broke out and ended only when the Sabine women, ‘hair dishevelled and garments rent’ (of course) threw themselves into the middle of the battlefield and talked some much needed sense into their husbands and fathers.
The stony cry of stones
Giambologna. Rape of the Sabine Women.
And yet, what did Giambologna have in mind? It was only when the sculpture was to be displayed in the Loggia dei Lanzi at Piazza della Signoria that a story had to be found to go with it, and as such, various classical abductions were considered, Persephone’s and Andromeda’s among them, before settling on the Sabines.
Sculpted from a single block of marble, the tortuous contortions of the figures as the woman attempts to free herself, an expression of terror on her face, spiralling from the ground up into the haze of a muggy Florentine morning: a convulsive cry that goes unheeded, fading into a thin, white sky.
To the Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore
Tuscan dusk from the first courtyard of Palazzo Vecchio
The Palazzo Vecchio courtyards are milling with people, yet it’s easy to get a touch of Tuscan melancholy looking up from the first courtyard at the last light of a Tuscan dusk.
Samson and Philistine by Piero da Vinci
Still in the first courtyard, Piero da Vinci’s Samson and Philistine. Samson in fact slays thousands, from memory, and such a bloody and violent story has this riddle for a catalyst:
“Out of the eater, something to eat;
out of the strong, something sweet.”
the answer being the honey from the swarm of bees that had infested the carcass of the lion that, on his way to asking a Philistine woman to be his wife, had attacked him and which he had torn apart “with his bare hands as he might have torn a young goat”. Here’s an idea: catch three hundred foxes, tie them tail to tail so you have 150 8-legged pairs, fasten a torch to every pair of tails and set them loose in wheatfields, olive groves and vineyards. Dastardly form of revenge should your father-in-law even think about giving your new wife to your friend… Er, where were we? Oh, yeah, we’re inside Palazzo Vecchio:
Palazzo Vecchio
And outside is Piazza della Signoria at 9.47 pm:
Piazza Signoria
Moving down Via Calzaiuoli, we spot a street performer and audience on Via Speziali, with Piazza della Repubblica in the background.
Street performer, Via degli Speziali with Piazza Repubblica, background
It’s 10.05, the last of the blue sky has gone and you’re a little tired, but there’s hardly anyone on the streets, and to end a magical day you’re alone for some magical moments with the Duomo.
Santa Maria del Fiore and Brunelleschi's dome
Buona notte…
And buon viaggio, Y. All the best.
A walk around Florence
Ponte Vecchio, with the Torre di Arnolfo top left
Sunday – reading, skyping, reading, have just finished a handful of oh-so-cold-and-sweet cherries, and find that I can’t do the lunchtime dishes because Gabriele’s in the sink, Gabriele being the spider with whom I shared corner-of-the-eye, nervously appraising glances a week ago, and though wary of each other, the cool dark area underneath the kitchen sink among the cleaning paraphernalia was agreed upon as the best place for him to be, that way we needn’t see each other for about a month. So into a cup he went, a little piece of paper on top, and away he scurries on his thin little legs. But there he is, and look how much he’s grown… almost twice the size… those legs so much longer, and so much hairier…
Boh. Let’s go for a walk, shall we? Maybe a circuit from the south side of the Arno to Palazzo Vecchio, whose tower, the Torre di Arnolfo, you can see to the left in the Ponte Vecchio photograph. It won’t be a very detailed walk – for now, just a quick orientation.
So here we are, next to Hotel Lungarno in Borgo San Jacopo, midway between Ponte Vecchio on our right, and Ponte Santa Trinita on our left:
Ponte Santa Trinita
It’s about 6.45, and still very very bright. Across the Arno from where we are is the Lungarno Acciaioli, on which we shall meander slowly along on our way to Palazzo Vecchio, after we stop first to enjoy a pistachio, chocolate and buontalenti gelato from this well-loved gelateria:
Gelateria Santa Trinita
Cross the zebra crossing and you’re on Ponte Sta Trinita, enjoying your gelato while looking down the Arno to the Ponte Vecchio. The bridge is not so crowded, a breeze has cooled the city down somewhat, the light is diffuse and beautiful, and on the pointy triangular thingy jutting out of the bridge is a couple, the girl attentive, the boy playing guitar, sheet music and a bottle of wine between them. Then we head to Santo Spirito for dinner at about 7.30, and we’re back on the bridge and on Lungarno Acciaioli at about 9.15, and if we look across to the very bottom left of the picture you’ll see the south end of the Ponte Vecchio, and at the very bottom right, you will see exactly where we were at the start of the walk.
Lungarno Acciaioli looking south to Borgo San Jacopo
Here’s a shot further left, there above the main arch of the Ponte Vecchio is a bunch of tourists and locals, the bust of Benvenuto Cellini, and a section of the Vasari Corridor.
Lungarno Accaioli to Ponte Vecchio
We’ve passed the Ponte Vecchio, which is now to our right, and are standing underneath the Vasari Corridor, looking at a line of restaurants and hotels across the Arno:
Under the Vasari Corridor, looking south across the Arno
Following that line left, we are now looking at Lungarno Torrigiani, and Piazzale Michelangelo, the place to go to for views of Florence, is the line of lights and cars mid-left, midway among the pines and greenery. The tower, church and monastery to the right of that, at the top of the hill, is San Miniato al Monte.
Lungarno Torrigiani with Piazzale Michelangelo, left
Here we are, a few metres down the road, the Arno to our right, looking up at the Uffizi:
Underneath the Uffizi
It’s about 9.25, light is failing, and to our left are the two wings of the Uffizi and the narrow courtyard running between, opening out onto Piazza Signoria where we have, at the end of this walk, the Palazzo Vecchio and the Torre di Arnolfo, along with crane and scaffolding, of course.
Uffizi and courtyard leading to Palazzo Vecchio
Next, Piazza Signoria to the Duomo. Hope you enjoyed it. Ciao!
Vivid vivid vivid
A fabulous day, despite being my good friend Y’s last weekend in Florence. We decided to do one last turn around the city for memory’s sake, and what had been quite a melancholic wandering around – a melancholic viewing of the Pontormo at Chiesa Santa Felicita (a painting she had never seen and which I wanted to share with her) and a melancholic gelato at Ponte Santa Trinita – simply turned vivid, and the flowers above were the first hint of that, when we got to Santo Spirito. First there was a really good glass of red, then some rather fine olives, then a loosening of the tongue, then the seafood antipasto platter, which we had ordered as, well, the antipasto, but how wrong we were…
Mains were quickly cancelled. Ristorante Borgo Antico in Piazza Santo Spirito was an easy choice as it’s right in front of Chiesa Santo Spirito, probably my favourite in Florence, and despite the Renaissance riches inside – frescoes by Ghirlandaio and Lippi among them, and a wooden crucifix sculpted by Michelangelo – I have never quite made it past those Brunelleschi designed curves.
Those steps are one of the places you might find me at night, having a glass of wine with friends, music blaring from the cafes and bars that line two sides of the piazza. Quite a contrast.
And just because I really do have a thing for vivid colour, and to give these flowers some context…
Has it really been that long…
St John the Baptist. Giuliano Vangi.
Hmmm… where to start…
The De Chirico, Max Ernst, Magritte, Balthus: A look into the invisible exhibition at Palazzo Strozzi, at which I spent a great part of the afternoon might be the place, but that won’t explain why I’m posting at 2 in the morning. The truth is, there’s nothing quite like the boom of fireworks from Piazzale Michelangelo bouncing off the Arno and reverberating off centuries old stone, especially when you appreciate the tradition has a very special place in the city’s life, celebrating as it does St John the Baptist, the city’s patron saint, and the emaciated sculpture you see in the photograph. This particular St John the Baptist, by the Florentine sculptor Giuliano Vangi, is so far the depiction of the saint I like best. It stands across the river from the Uffizi, and bronze married to the Tuscan sunset had to be one of my stops on the long, meandering walk home at around 8.30, streets and cafes spilling over with people, some already in place along the Arno, which ought to have tipped me off.
At 9.55, having realised the impossibility of crossing the river to San Niccolo where friends were waiting, and resigned to watching the lightshow alone, I stumbled across other long missed friends at prime position on Ponte alle Grazie. But this city’s like that. It became clear to me as the fireworks began, the almost full moon suspended in cool and tranquil contrast in the sky, that Florence has a way of tussling with neatly laid plans and clear intentions and sending them haywire: long confident strides to elsewhere are slowed to a meandering thoughtfulness on its flags and cobblestones, deep in thought about things you never thought you wante. Despite a summer which has been spectacularly underwhelming – hail, temperatures below 20, rain, rain and rain – a strange, magical, compelling city.
But it’s bedtime, and more on more, including De Chirico, soon…
Musica dell’acqua
Musica dell'acqua
I wish they would put these old posters away, so you don’t come across them on your way to study first thing in the morning and suffer huge pangs of regret for the rest of the day. Back home a precious hour and a half when you should be studying is spent searching for the music on YouTube.
So, this piano recital at the Bargello on 6 October had the Florentine pianist Riccardo Sandiford playing: Liszt, from Années de Pélerinage, Au Lac De Zallenstadt, Aubord d’une Source, Orage, Les jeux d’eau à la Villa D’este; Jeux d’eau by Ravel, and from Miroirs, Une barque sur l’ocean, and from Gaspard de la nuit, Ondine; Debussy, Ondine from Preludes, Reflets dans l’eau and Poissons d’or from Image, and Jardins sous la pluide from Estampes.
These pieces for Musica dell’acqua were quite simply among the standout features today for me in Florence, and Ravel’s Ondine played by the great French pianist Vlado Perlemuter (1904 – 2002), who had been half-blind from the age of three and at least an octogenarian at the time of playing, is indeed seductive, and unforgettable.
And rushing home, I came across these guys having a well-deserved break in Piazza della Signoria.
Lunch at Nerbone, Mercato Centrale
Locals queueing up at Nerbone, Mercato Centrale
One of the things you ought to have at Nerbone, an institution among Florentines, and which has been serving cucina povera, or poor people’s food, from a stall on the ground floor of the Mercato Centrale since the market opened in 1872, is the lampredotto, or offal. It is one of those Florentine experiences you cannot possibly miss, just postpone: having had a challenging week I just didn’t have the… stomach for it the day I caught up with a friend for lunch. It’s definitely not the sort of thing I would do alone – I can see a forlorn lampredotto bun resting on its juices on wax paper and me looking down on it with a dubious look on my face – and I couldn’t really try it with my Italian friend, due to a possible charge of cultural insensitivity arising from that same dubious look on my face. Next week though, among a small group of foreign students with some sporting that same look for moral support and a carafe or two of the house red we will see.
Nerbone's daily changing menu scribbled on wax paper
What my friend did order for us was some crostini toscani, the classic Tuscan antipasto of chicken liver on pieces of toast, and which made me feel as though I’d died and gone to heaven. I regularly have this feeling with my mother’s cooking, and I am lucky to have found a similar sublime in a cuisine which is entirely different. Spezzotino cavolo nero, a tasty stew with black leaf kale, the Tuscan winter vegetable; risotto fiorentino; a Greek salad; and a small carafe of the house red were all piled higgledy-piggledy onto a tray lined with wax paper along with glasses, cutlery and a bottle of water, and etiquette demands that you jostle for room among the locals along the few tables that line the wall across the stand. The markets close at 2 on weekdays, and are open only on Saturdays in winter, so lunch at Nerbone, a robust and honest affair, is something I will get to know quite well over the next few weeks.
The madonnari are back!
At 2.03 pm
It rained heavily the day after I posted about the madonnari, so I haven’t seen them for a couple of days, and believe me, their paintings and presence have a huge impact on the life of the street. But a flash of colour on the pavement on my way home today, and, yes, there they were, across the street, photocopies in hand, occasionally shaking their heads and drinking from a plastic cup of red wine. It would be some hours yet before the completed work, so I turned my back on the cool, crisp and glorious blue-skied, fluffy-clouded autumn day…
Lungarno to Ponte Santa Trinita
… returned to my studio to have lunch and study, before going back just before sunset to see the finished work.
At 6.35 pm
And unless it’s raining, they tell me, no matter how cold it gets in winter, they are always there. Good to know.
The madonnari
One of the madonnari, as street artists in Italy are called, because they often depict the Madonna in their chalk paintings. They have a tradition in Europe that stretches all the way back to the 16th century, and these days can be found on Via Calimala between Piazza della Republica and Mercato Nuovo, at all hours, working hard, chatting to tourists, posing for photographs, drinking wine. I wonder what they do with themselves when the rain really begins.
Saturday night in Florence
Beginning with the last giuggiole of the season, which taste a little like apples and fit snugly into the centre of your palm, there was the bustle of introductions and translations, of parcels of paper being unwrapped, and knives thudding on wood and the scent of parsley rising; there were clams steaming on the stove, and black mussel shells throwing out sparks of light under running water; then the gathering of candles and forks and cheese and plates and sheets of paper into a basket; the muted clinking of bottles and glasses on the stairs to the terrace; and exclamations over domes, moon and night in Italian and English, through the makeshift arrangements of tables and chairs and tablecloths, surveyed and rearranged several times over, the laying out of crystal glasses and plates, and candelight flickering on the silverware, and the fragrance of basil crushed underfoot, between your fingers.
Dinner started with homemade sushi from Paola, who studies Japanese at university; then large platters, of linguine alle vongole (clams), and cozze (mussels), one in a tomato based sauce, the other in olive oil and parsley, following one after the other, courtesy of Katerina, who is a painter. There was her partner, Aldo, a Calabrian who likes to sprinkle the seeds of red chillis on bread soaked in mussel juice, and who spends his days in Florence restoring centuries old paintings; as well as others unfortunately lost in translation… for the moment anyway. The explanation of the rules of a complex game, which naturally I didn’t get, soon led people to disappear one by one and return masked and cloaked, giving rise to more laughter as the night played itself slowly out, finally ending, after cheese and grappa, at 1 am, with the walk home, which always surprises you with things you just hadn’t noticed were there, as you make your way slowly, with the last of the full moon, along narrow, dimly lit streets, across nearly deserted piazzas, over the silence of the river.
A great evening with people among whom, despite the language barrier, I can’t help but feel unquestionably welcome: making for one memorable Saturday night in Florence.
Dining out in Oltrarno
A lovely surprise to see a colleague and her mum, who arrived this afternoon from Venice and are stopping in Florence on their way to Rome. We met under Cellini’s bust on the Ponte Vecchio then I whisked them away from the heavily touristed centre to Piazza Santo Spirito, where, at Trattoria La Casalinga, underneath the surreal curves of Santo Spirito Church, we did things completely back to front: we finished our secondi piatti (mains), and then, wanting to try the ribollita (an iconic Tuscan soup), we ordered primi piatti. Our inability to dine in a reasonable Italian fashion charmed our waiter right out of his haughtiness and disdain, causing him to express bemusement, curiosity, interest, and some time before he shook my hand goodnight, to affectionately tweak my nose.
Approaches to Firenze
First Florentine morning outside my window
On my last night in London, E and I having made our way to the Thames River Festival, where we continued to sketch in our last few years and immediate futures over Montepulciano reds in plastic cups, smoky Italian roasts wrapped in bread and eaten standing up; amazed and gasping like the best of them at street performers and festival fireworks, I was, unknowingly, becoming quite, quite ill in the cold Thames wind.
Compounded by a surreal night at Stansted, the flight, then a bus ride from Pisa along a road with a landscape I am certain I remember from years before, I arrived in Firenze with a bad cough, physically weak and seriously out of it. But trusting my walking skills far better than I did my ability to send a taxi in the right direction, I wheeled my wonderfully wheeled backpack from Stazione Santa Maria Novella down, quite possibly, Via dei Panzani, most definitely along Via Roma and Calimala and past the Duomo, Baptistery and Piazze della Republica and Signoria, heading the opposite direction, it seemed, from the crowds, past Mercato Nuovo, breathing in lengths of street smelling entirely of leather, and finally along Via Por Santa Maria and over the Ponte Vecchio, at the end of which, now in
Oltrarno, I was directed left, through an arch, and into the blessed, uncrowded silence of Costa de’ Magnoli – home for the next month at least. Up the steep, narrow, winding, cobblestoned street, I was attempting to get by in basic Italian with Annamaria, the owner of the studio, by 2; and fast asleep by 6.
My blessed door
But between 2 and 6, just down the street and to the left, while stocking up on the basics – coffee and a bottle of red; pugliese, prosciutto and peaches; apples, tomatoes and broccoli; slices of pizza and several canolis – suddenly there it was. My eyes were popping as it slowly dawned on me that if I was standing in Piazza Santa Felicita, which, yes, did seem to be the name of the place, then that, right there, would have to be Chiesa Santa Felicita, the very first beautiful thing among so many beautiful things I wanted to seek out in Firenze. I had thought about it for months, had prudently planned to find it on my second day, well-rested and when I had found my bearings. Yet unexpectedly, while juggling a bottle of wine, three tomatoes and
several canolis, there it most certainly was, and there was no leaving it for tomorrow, or for better states of clarity. Despite its multiple and irrefutable claims to attention, it was nevertheless one thing that had me so excited: Deposizione, by Jacopo Pontormo (1494 – 1556), which hangs within it, in the Cappella Capponi, to the right as you go in, behind railings and in darkness, though for €1 ablaze for 5 minutes with photographable light. I set down my bags, lit some candles to memory, walked up first one side of the church, then down the other, and having collected myself, placed myself squarely in front of the Pontormo. E and I had briefly discussed how there are paintings and works of art scattered in different places into whose spaces we are compelled into again and again; Deposizione begins this city’s indelible stamp on me.
Firenze, I have decided, is like that, making your eyes pop at the most unexpected moments: feeling dizzy, pausing and looking up, early-afternoon shadows on a wall; 
lifting your head involuntarily to sneeze, a run-of-the-mill fresco on a run-of-the-mill ceiling, glimpsed through a window left open, early evening, to catch the breeze; riffling through your bag for throat lozenges, a bottle of water, glancing right, a copy of a famous original; or meditating on a gelato, patterned exteriors, geometries of brick and stone.
Firenze is enchanting, with myriad approaches and retreats to and from its centres, which are never revealed to you in one sweep – with half a dome, three-quarters of a bridge, a quarter of a cobbled street that veers off into who knows where, the city keeps you circling, pausing, retracing your steps to other perspectives. And with its points of stillness and anonymity, the near silence of its wide-open midnight spaces, its shifts of light on stone and water, it is exactly where I want to be.
