Caravaggio & Journo Geeking.

Friday morning greets me with an email from the National Student, sat in my inbox like a gift from aspiring journo heaven: would I be available to interview Emma Thompson’s son about his recent trip to Burma and meeting with one-year-free-from-house-arrest opposition politician Aung San Suu Kyi?
Yes, I think I would thanks. It might be the most important article I’ve done in my (almost) two years of journo-ing, as long as I can structure an interview without my absolute hero-worship of my interviewee’s mother getting in the way, which I cannot fully guarantee. In true geek fashion, I’m even more excited than when I got to interview Claire off The Apprentice and Maximo Park on the same day.
Burma research takes precedence, then, over San Luigi dei Francesci this morning (sorry Lidia). Caravaggio has been in the church for god knows how many years; I’m sure he can wait a few more days.
I have numerous questions for Tindy, and despite a lot of research I still fear that they aren’t politically intelligent enough. I do manage to resist adding a postscript for Emma Thompson at the bottom though, which would’ve gone along the lines of this: ‘Hello Emma Thompson, you are one of my biggest heroes, in fact you wouldn’t believe the amount of afternoons me and my friend Wench have spent watching Sense and Sensibility. THE AIR IS FILLED WITH SPICES. Also I agree with your views on religion, and I’m a feminist too! I know that you’re busy saving the world and suchlike, but I really think that we should be friends. Respectfully, Lucy Miller.’
I don’t write this.
Instead I control my hero-worship, just, send off my questions for Tindy, post the ‘Indian Highways’ article for review on The Flaneur, and head off to another exhibition.
***
The ‘Beyond Africa: From Africa to New York’ photographic display, in Arte 5, is an exhibition depicting the photographer’s journey from tribal Kenya to New York. I went to Namibia when I was 18 (I fell in love with Africa more than I did with India, but got less out of the trip), and I’m loving the contrast of the photographs I find here.
The Kenyan photographs were taken during the time the artist, Speranza Casillo, spent living with the Maasai Tribe in the Chyulu Hills. The sparse Kenyan skyline, sometimes only broken by a solitary tree, set alongside the dirty and underground parts of New York brings about a rugged side in the latter that we rarely see. The question of civilised/ uncivilised, and what we usually deem this to mean, is questioned.
As usual, a Flaneur article will follow.
I buy two photo books of Paris after I’ve taken my notes (I know, I know – again nothing to do with Rome). One is pocket sized, and full of the monochrome early twentieth century Paris of Eugene Atget . After just a flick over a few pages I can attest that I agree with history’s view of Atget: he was a man with a very good eye for a shot. The other book is huge and contains hundreds of pictures, a lot of which seem to be of women in 1920s garb swinging off carrousels and the tops of buildings. I love the clothes, and the innocence, and the locations; it goes in the bag.
I leave Arte 5 considering that the number of art books I’ve picked up whilst I’m here is going to do serious damage to my baggage allowance on the flight home.
***
Saturday. I’m free! Lidia tells me that they will be going to her mother’s and that she will see me at 8pm for dinner.
There are twat American girls at breakfast. They talk in that loud way that Americans do when they want EVERYONE TO HEAR THEM. One of them says that she broke up with her boyfriend because he wanted to take her skiing for her birthday, and, I kid you not, this was unacceptable to her because ‘he should’ve known me better – I don’t like to ski’.
Words fail me.
They come into reception as I am waiting for the Mac. They want to move to another hotel because they haven’t got ensuite, and from this I deduct that they must be staying in Alphabet House. The bathrooms have been vomit inducingly disgusting over the last few days, but since they are only sharing with me and Anna I have to conclude that the dirt all over the floor is their fault anyway.
Also, they don’t think that the croissants, jam, bread, coffee, and orange juice count as breakfast. YOU ARE IN ANOTHER CULTURE. ITALIANS EAT BREAD FOR BREAKFAST. GO HOME IF YOU WANT A FRY UP.
As I am about to leave, I hear a classic comment from the girl whose heinous boyfriend tried to take her skiing: ‘Do you think,’ she says, looking down at a leaflet with a perplexed expression, ‘that we should do some cultural stuff while we’re here?’
Oh my god, get out of my life.
***
I spend Saturday morning at the Museo dei Fori Imperiali/ Trajan Market, which is not a market that sells things, but the remains of a Roman one. There is quite a lot to see and read, and it is mildly interesting in the way that all faceless ruins are. There is an exhibition of Japanese art running inside the main museo building (I can’t avoid modern art even when I’m in a two thousand year old ruin, obviously), and I take lots of notes. The tiny geisha figurines and pressed flowers set against the giant busts of Roman gods, for dramatic juxtaposition, is one of the reasons why the exhibition was chosen to be staged here. My verdict on the mercati – minus the Japanese art – is that it is ok, and I’m glad I came, and that there is a good view from the top, which takes in Piazza Venezia, the Forum and a few churches. The remains of the market, a video tells me, have layer upon layer of history in them – Roman, medieval, Baroque, and then all the failed and all the successful restoration attempts. And these are just the main influences.
I’m fully aware that I should be fascinated, but I’m not for exactly this reason. Its history is too vast, too impersonal, too far reaching for me to fully comprehend. Without a bit of humanity I’m fairly lost. It reminds me of A-level history exam questions: ‘Assess the importance of the Roman, medieval and Baroque, and their influence on the Trajan Market of Rome as a whole across 2000 years.’ What, just me and my pen? In forty minutes?
***
Afterwards I walk down through Piazza Venezia and Largo Argentina, and past the Pantheon, in my second attempt at San Luigi dei Francesci. I love this part of Rome – it’s so cobbly and pretty, and I stop for a panini and an espresso at a cafe that is nestled between layers of peaches and cream buildings. There are vespers everywhere – it is so very, very Italian.
The stomach ache that I’ve had all day is still lingering, so afterwards (after I’ve discovered that San Luigi dei Francesci is closed between 12.30 and 4pm – that is one long lunch) I buy a packet of miniature Bueno bars and eat three of them as I wander in the direction on Campo di Fiori (don’t judge me, I’m ill). At the market I buy four decorated bottle tops as souvenirs, which is entirely unjustifiable because it is very rare that the bottle doesn’t get finished, and then cross the river into Transtevere.
I find myself without meaning to at the Galleria Nazionale D’Arte Antica, in Palazzo Corsini – once home to Christina of Sweden (thank you once again, 100 Influential Women book). Christina might have disappeared to Italy and neglected the poor Swedish working classes, but she was all about the arts. The collection here has existed unchanged since the eighteenth century, which is fairly amazing if you think about it. I pay for my biglietti (only two euros for a Caravaggio!) and spend a while browsing. It doesn’t take too long to get around; there are only a few rooms and the map is very helpful in pointing out the significant paintings. Caravaggio’s St. John the Baptist, displayed in pride of place at the end, is the highlight.
***
Next on my Roman to do list is a Transtevere church, Santa Maria Della Scala. It is really beautiful inside, with chandeliers everywhere, much like the one just outside Celimontana that we visited with the twins. I sit for a while and soak up the atmosphere – there is tranquil music playing – before deciding to head back across the river to attempt to re-find San Luigi dei Francesci. The amount of effort it has taken to track down, Caravaggio better be worth it.
I accidentally find two more churches on my way there. The first is dedicated to Saint Barbara, who was beheaded by her own father because of her Christian faith, and the second is Chiesa Nouva, which is adorned with frescos and ornate in the manner of most Catholic churches. A sign tells me that is another Caravaggio inside, the Depozitione – but once it has lured me towards it it reveals that it is fact a copy, and that the actual painting is in the Vatican Museum collection.
I leave Chiesa Nouva after this flat out lie, and when I reach San Luigi dei Francesci I find that it is actually, finally, open. It is easy to find Caravaggio Corner, due to the obscene amount of tourists that are pressed into it, snapping away despite the signs everywhere warning against the use of flash. I take my time getting to it, and read about the rest of the church first. The three paintings, when I eventually reach them, are very dark and give off a feeling of foreboding (later, Alberto will tell me that Caravaggio is so famous because his work was so different to his contemporaries’ and was therefore seen as scandalous). I stay for a while, refusing to be jostled out of the way by Americans – I feel like it has taken a lot of work to reach the church during its actual opening hours, and that I should get my money’s worth (the church is free, but the analogy is one of time). After sufficient studying of the life of Saint Matthew, I head home, where I have a long and luxurious nap before dinner.
***
With the Bellomos visiting friends outside of Rome, Sunday is a writing and doing nothing day. I have a lie-in and then a long shower, paint my toenails, generally rest, finish A Passage to India, spend a lot of time on Facebook, play virtual Scrabble, and then order takeaway pizza to come to reception. It is a good Sunday, but then Monday throws me a curveball.
However, I’ve written enough for today, I feel, so my recount of the last few days will have to wait. Thanks for reading!
xxx