memoirsofagenie

[memoirsofagenie]

Jersey Sails: From La Corbière to Cape Florida

Genie, 09/26/2020 

(Short-story submitted to the [24th Annual] 2020 Zoetrope: All-Story Short Fiction Competition)

Put together a bay, a barrier reef, stretches of white sand, luscious vegetation, protected species and a lighthouse, and pirate stories start to abound. Honestly, who wasn’t an indigenous pirate of sorts in the Village of Key Biscayne? The majority of “Key Rats” (as Key Biscayners informally call themselves) had always taken pride in having very heterogeneous backgrounds and on being endowed with an innate seafaring force, and Jordana’s own family history didn’t fall far from this paradigm, considering they were Italians from Rome, albeit with an Abruzzese heritage, who had lived in over four continents before settling on the Key during Jordana’s early twenties. More than a Key Rat, she was a full-fledged third-culture kid.

Being now in her mid-forties and living with her widowed father, Jordana had heard, overheard, eavesdropped on and collected so many other tales of fellow local pirates, that she sometimes pondered whether she should group them in a volume. Not only did she thrive on historical details, but writing was truly her forte, so what was holding her back? Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, she always felt the next story was going to be better… until the afternoon of August 17, 1992.

That August Monday, like all others after returning from work, Jordana picked-up her mail and engaged in another ritualistic habit of hers, that of chit-chatting with the front-door neighbor Uma, an elderly, retired politics college professor and widow from India who, with equal customary precision, would walk her rust Dobermann at 6:00pm sharp, not without first saying hello and providing the daily recap of salient gossip at the Harbor Drive waterfront condo where they both lived and from where the gorgeous Vizcaya could be admired across Biscayne Bay. Yet that afternoon, instead of watching one of Uma’s many colorful and glitzy dupattas and sarees blowing in the island breeze as was usually the case immediately after saying “see you tomorrow”, Uma invited Jordana for tea. It turns out she had walked the dog earlier, to dodge the sporadic thunderstorm of the day, a typically South Floridian late-summer meteorological phenomenon, much like the notorious London drizzle in winter.

Soon enough, as the beautiful Hindo-Islamic wood-carved door -a family heirloom which she had brought to America all the way from her native Jaipur when she got married- of Uma’s apartment closed behind them, the storm continued brewing and thunders started rolling. Jordana didn’t take much heed of the noises in the sky, because having tea at Uma’s was always a very relaxing and otherworldly experience, in particular after the fumes of incense and the aromas of her signature masala chai concoction steeping in boiling water would make shapes and shadows that sparkled across the “sheesh mahal”, or hall of mirrors… because that is exactly what Uma’s dining-room looked like, being as it was, plastered in multicolored Rajasthani marble intarsia and ornate thikri glasswork. However, the enchantment would soon break, because the retired politics professor also loved to have the TV on while sipping her tea.

               “Breaking News: We interrupt this newscast to give you a detailed update of tropical storm Andrew’s trajectory,” the reporter said. “The tropical storm has now become a Category 3 hurricane and it might make landfall in Miami later this week…”

               “This is insane. Are you hearing this, beti?” Uma exclaimed as she hastily stirred her chai, making alarming clanging sounds.

               “Yes, I’m listening... What a drag, to have to go through evacuation again! Oh well… let us keep our fingers crossed and hope it makes a last-minute eastward turn, that way we don’t have to deal with it!” Jordana was always very hopeful, because having lived on the Key longer, not only had she already been through strong hurricanes, but she was also well aware of the possibility that even when landfall was imminent, the maleficent twisters could turn around and recede into the ocean.

The two women continued sipping their tea and chatting. Suddenly, it was dinner time, so Jordana thanked her hostess and left for her apartment. She had started opening and scanning through her mail while Uma was preparing the tea a couple of hours earlier, however a quirky golden, mildly distressed envelope had caught her eye, as both the stationery and the handwriting did not look familiar at first glance. The gulab jamun and tamarind chutney golgappas that Uma had served with chai had left her full, so she simply skipped dinner, slipped quickly into her pajamas and drew the mail from her purse, picking the mysterious bulky missive from the stack.

The postmark was less than a week old, but the location itself had completely blurred from the letter, making it hard to determine its actual provenance. What is more, the envelope lacked the names of both the recipient and the sender. Given Jordana’s fondness of the art of letter-writing and her eternal quest for original stationeries, she could only surmise that this singular quality of paper was rather old and out of production; still, this realization did not help much either.

Hence, giving in to her curiosity, she opened the letter, only to find a telegraphic, ten-line message in what seemed to be an old French Patois with a Gaelic twang or a Creole dialect of yore… who knows! This fact alone unleashed a myriad theories and resolutions in her head, because among the many Key Rats and island pirates, Haitian and other French-Antilles’ descendants were not uncommon. Tracking the true intended reader of the letter would not have been so challenging after all. Nonetheless, the contents of the envelope did not stop there, for accompanying the letter were ten black-and-white pictures of maritime settings that could have been taken anywhere on America’s Northeastern or Western Coasts, if it weren’t for the tenth picture, depicting a medieval hilltop castle, perched on the sea, surrounded by houses of what could easily have been -in view of the fuzziness- French Breton, Spanish Cantabrian, Galician, or Southern English fishing-village architecture.

Might this be the “story of stories” Jordana was awaiting in order to finally consolidate her volume of local pirate tales? Jordana was too tired to brainstorm that night. She went to sleep, resolving to drop by the quiet village library the next day after work, to start delving into the population archives while hoping to unearth some clues.

She would have to wait another week, sadly! The very next morning, as she glided through the Rickenbacker Causeway on her convertible red FIAT 500, the radio announcers made it clear that Hurricane Andrew, now a Category 4, was at the doors of the Panhandle. It was gaining more strength by the hour and was expected to enter precisely through Key Biscayne. Jordana was well-prepared for the chaos that was about to ensue. She still did her best to go to work with a positive outlook, shuffling the black-and-white pictures in her head, when it suddenly dawned on her that she HAD indeed seen the medieval castle before, but where?

In the days that followed, Jordana duly prepped the house for Hurricane Andrew, which by August 23rd had become a Category 5. She and her father would normally evacuate to the North, in Palm Beach. But this year, her father had been vacationing in Rome for the last two months and was not due to return before mid-September, leaving Jordana to brave the storm at Chavela’s  -a long-term family friend who, like may in the Magic City, had exiled from Cuba- house in Coral Gables.

The wind monster ravaged South Florida the night between August 24 and 25. Despite the expected curfew after such an emergency, Jordana returned home to Key Biscayne the morning of the 25th. As also expected, the island had literally become, yet again, a boat anchorage. All of Crandon Boulevard was a massive water puddle and the boats had been lifted from the side-canals and seashore, flying and landing onto the streets. She turned right onto Harbor Drive, even more scared of what she would find. Paradoxically enough, her apartment building bordered on the Key Biscayne Yacht Club.

Once home, she opened the door leading to the shared patio of the condo, where the pool was located. To the right, she could see the heaps of boats in the Yacht Club’s marina, one on top of the other. For some miraculous reason, no boat had crossed over to the pool, as had happened two years prior. Many club members and boat owners had rushed to the club and Jordana could overhear their chatter across the surrounding turquoise wooden lattice. She got even closer as the multiple conversations started to get more dramatic.

The club manager was holding a huge roll in his hand. It was a spare red sail that had flown off one of the many crammed vessels. With the aid of two other men, he decided to unroll it. It had no tag or distinguishing marks, so perhaps unrolling it might have revealed a symbol, a drawing or pattern that could help determine whose it was.

“Hey Bob, just hold it tight on that end, please,” said the manager to one of the two other men.

“Wait a minute, it looks like there’s a drawing. Wait, it’s some kind of shield, or at least it looks like it,” said the third man.

               As the three men kept unrolling, Jordana watched and listened intently. When the sail was completely open, a gust of wind lifted it momentarily allowing her a short glimpse of the so-called shield.

               “Hey, it’s not a shield. It’s a coat of arms, or so it seems. This sail belongs to Colin Peirson!” cried Bob.

To which Paul, the manager echoed “oh, well! Let us roll it back and put it in the storage. I will have to compile a list of all the damaged boats, in any case. I will call everyone, one by one, so eventually he’ll put it back where it belongs.”

               Jordana was uncertain whether it was a coat of arms or not. However, within the central shield were depicted the contours of the same castle; yes, that castle; the castle she had seen on one of the ten black-and-white pictures of the mysterious letter. She finally recalled that at some point during her first years in Key Biscayne, she had noticed the sail, fully blowing in the wind, in a bygone summer afternoon island regatta. Even back then, the castle had taken hold of her strong photographic memory, though with the passing of time, it had become one of the many beautiful but faded remembrances. Anyhow, atop the castle, waved a flag, which surely was the logo of the British Army, with the famous lion passant on the crest of St. Edward’s crown. Having quite a few military aficionados in the family, Jordana had no doubts, not to mention that when her dear mother was alive, they had frequently attended the spring military pilgrimages in Lourdes, where aside from reaffirming one’s faith, one could admire the distinct symbols and regalia of international military corps.

               Instead of staying in the patio and cleaning up, she stuck to her pre-hurricane plans and rushed to the library. The library was not exactly what one would call well-stocked, however the population archives, its collection of various encyclopedias, particularly the Encyclopaedia Britannica, and the microfiche section had always helped her during her college studies. Without further ado, she searched “Colin Peirson” and “British Army.”

She did remain skeptical during the process and thought to be off-track, because there was still the interrogative as to why the letter was in that hitherto unknown (to her) French-like language. And boy, was she off-track! As Jordana frenetically and enthusiastically read through her selected sources, her mind finally gained some clarity as she started reading about the Battle of Jersey between the English and the French during the American Revolutionary War.

“Goodness, how obvious!” she reckoned to herself. “This is no French Patois or Creole dialect,” she mused. Sure enough, it took her a further hour of information scavenging to arrive to the conclusion that the language of the letter was Jèrriais, or Jersey French. As for “Colin Peirson”, might he be a descendant of the hero of the Battle of Jersey, Major Peirson? On a side note, Jordana was also rather proud of her observational skills, for thinking that the architecture on the pictures might’ve been French Breton or Southern English, among others, wasn’t too far-fetched deep down!

While she admired John Singleton Copley’s impacting painting of the eponymous battle in one of the diverse sources consulted, Jordana’s head spinned as various historical scenarios played out in her head. There was only one thing left to do… she had to find Colin Peirson! The population archives of Key Biscayne indicated that, except for a six-month sojourn at the Le Phare condo on 798 Crandon Boulevard, he had always lived, ever since his arrival to South Florida, in the Southwest Point of the Mashta Island enclave.

The next day, Jordana decided to pay a visit to Mr. Peirson. As soon as she reached the address, she noticed she had unknowingly passed countless times in front of Mr. Peirson’s estate, for it was a palatial setting. Mr. Peirson’s house was not just the only house in the Southwest Point of Mashta Island, but it was also the only building in high Victorian style on Key Biscayne, a detail that clashed with the trademark Mackle and Cape Cod homes that populated the island from the 1960s onwards. Needless to say, Jordana had always wondered who lived in that fairy-tale, multi-colored house, of which the main particularities -aside from the Juliette balcony and the screened porch- were the steep turret flanking the southwestern corner of the building, covered in wooden scalloped shingles, and its topmost window made of intricately etched and stained glass, further framed by a carved dormer, depicting whimsical floral motifs. Jordana’s curiosity was particularly tickled by the hypothetical view from the turret. Who knows if Mr. Peirson would greet her, let alone invite her in to discuss the letter and possibly allow her to visit the turret?

Jordana made her way through the verdant, cobbled pathway leading to the door. She could hear all kinds of strange noises, something which reminded her Key Biscayne was basically two thirds parkland. It was not infrequent to be ambushed by iguanas, cranes, possums, raccoons… and asps, on occasion. Fortunately for her, this time she was only escorted by fluttering monarch butterflies and dragonflies.

Jordana knocked three times, when at last an elderly and jovial silver-haired gentleman opened the door. Matter-of-factly, he must’ve been rather handsome back in the day, as he was reminiscent of Paul Newman.

“Good morning. I’m looking for Mr. Peirson,” Jordana said.

“You found him. May I ask who you are and to what I owe this visit?” he replied.

“I believe I have something that belongs to you. For some reason, this letter was mailed to my house. I am sorry I had to open it, but as you may notice from the envelope, there is no discernible indication that it might have been yours. After a few coincidences and investigations, I finally found you,” Jordana explained.

“I’d love hear all about it. Do come in. I have just finished my breakfast,” Mr. Peirson said.

As Mr. Peirson locked the door behind them and guided Jordana to the living room, he drew the photographs from the envelope. With another gesture, he indicated the sofa, inviting her to sit down. He hastily looked at the pictures, two, three times. Jordana could see his piercing green eyes getting teary. As she explained what an ordeal it had been to track him down, all he could do was look at the pictures and sob, until he finally pulled himself together, dried his eyes and uttered “Wait here. I’ll be right back!”

Mr. Peirson shook a little, so before heading to what seemed to be his study, he picked up his cane. Once there, Jordana could hear him toiling with books and boxes. He was taking too long, so she got up from her armchair and walked to the threshold of the study door. As she stood peeking, she asked him if he needed any help. He gladly accepted. With his cane, he indicated what was apparently an oversized wooden music-box on the parquet floor.

“Can you please pick it up and open it?” he asked.

As she picked the box up and started lifting the lid, she took a quick look around the room and noticed that along the walls hung oversized posters of the ten pictures. What is more, the box itself contained a copy of the ten pictures too!

In the two minutes that it took Mr. Peirson to go sit at his desk, Jordana, still with the open box in hand, quickly analyzed for a second time her surroundings. The study was a rather dark place, seemingly of another era, so much so that the only things that shone were an old gramophone close to the door and a giant mother-of-pearl Jacobean shell. She hadn’t noticed either entering the study, but now she was thinking that perhaps she and Mr. Peirson might have something in common to talk about. If anything, they could break the ice further talking about Santiago de Compostela, a destination she had wanted to visit forever! Despite entertaining this thought, just as she was about to ask him about St. James’s Way -and possibly, his pilgrimage to Santiago- he took an old record from the first drawer of his desk: “Here dear, would you care to put this record on?”

He assumed Jordana would know how to activate the gramophone. Not that she really knew… but she did, nevertheless. She recalled some scenes of silent movies she had seen with her grandmother as a child and very nonchalantly loaded the record. The unmistakable and softly tremulous voice of Edith Piaf started resounding in the room: “quand il me prend dans ses bras, il me parle tout bas, je vois la vie en rose…” Before the Little Sparrow of France could bellow the following verses, Mr. Peirson had reached for the box containing the photographs that Jordana had left on his desk prior to loading the gramophone.

“I never thought I would tell anyone this story, let alone a stranger, but I feel I can trust you. Then again, you did go out of your way to find me, so you deserve to know. Say, dear, shall we go to the turret? We can admire the view and enjoy the breeze as we talk. Oh, and we can take the record upstairs. I have another gramophone up there. You seem to enjoy the wartime French chansonniers, don’t you? This record is a compilation of various artists. The next song is ‘La Mer’, by Charles Trenet.”

Jordana was really hoping he’d come up with the idea himself and got her wish of visiting the turret. Her inquiring mind was trying to guess where the staircase leading to the turret would be, as according to her sense of orientation and her mental planimetry of the house, she was pretty sure that the study was exactly perpendicular to the turret, so they were basically right below it.

As she tried to solve this puzzle too, she noticed yet another detail that had escaped her thus far. Behind Mr. Peirson’s desk hung a giant Flemish Gobelins tapestry depicting the ancient Greek myth of Daphne and Apollo. The coincidences, or signs, that her encounter with Mr. Peirson was meant to be increased by the second; being from Rome, her favorite statue had always been none other than the “Daphne and Apollo” by Gian Lorenzo Bernini kept at the Galleria Borghese! Anyhow, while she connected the dots and started daydreaming, Mr. Peirson had already vanished, only to pop out again after less than two minutes from behind the tapestry: “Well, dear, are you coming upstairs or not?”

“But of course!”, she exclaimed to herself. How could she have not imagined sooner that the door was behind the tapestry? Oh well!

Mr. Peirson had guessed correctly. Jordana loved the French chansonniers. In fact, she adored Charles Trenet, probably more than she did Piaf. She definitely did not want to miss the opportunity to partake of nostalgically wonderful European stories of the past while admiring the sea with great background music. Without wasting one second more, Jordana immediately grabbed the record, following him through the door and onto the coiled staircase of one-hundred-and-fifty steps. In normal circumstances, this would have been a tiresome exercise for Jordana, but the old man had made it altogether more bearable and somewhat inspirational by sharing anecdotes of how he had bought the plot of land where the house stood and how he had designed it.

“Ah… there it is, my dear! I give you the Cape Florida Lighthouse!” He exclaimed this with great pride and satisfaction as they both climbed the last step; clearly, both the turret and the view it provided were his labors of love. The beauty of Cape Florida was heightened by the radiant morning itself. One could see the white yachts, one by one, entering the water channels in procession and docking at No Name Harbor for the customary brunch at Boater’s Grill. The hurricane that had just passed had merely left some wrack along the shores; still and all, the water was so clear the yachts looked like aggregations of buoyant white manatees, the shadow of which was reflected further by the schools of glimmering swordfish swimming beneath them.

He resumed, “look again at these ten pictures. See this one? This was the view from my house back in Jersey. I grew up on a windswept clifftop, on the southwestern part of the island. We had a house, very much like this one, situated along a narrow alley crowning Le Mont du Petit Port. During the spring and well into the summer, I would climb our own steep turret and admire Beauport Beach on one side, Petit Port on the other side, and the lighthouse at La Corbière in between! Such delightful memories! As you can see, not only am I in the southwestern part of Key Biscayne, but every time I stare into the golden horizon and at the Cape Florida Lighthouse, my mind steadily flies back to those blissful days…”

“So, you took these all these pictures as a child?”, Jordana asked.

“I took these pictures, but not as a child; although, in hindsight, I was perhaps a child. In any case, it wasn’t until my seventeenth birthday that my favorite uncle, a diplomat at the American Embassy in Washington D.C., gave me a camera! It was December 1939, two years before the Attack on Pearl Harbor.”

“I see. It must’ve been excruciating, especially considering what happened over the next few years. Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t the Germans occupy the Channel Islands sometime during the summer of 1940?”, Jordana asked.

“So they did, my dear! So they did! The date was June 30, 1940!” As he said it, he couldn’t hide his malaise, briefly sighing and gasping for air. He then added, “and that is why I decided to continue our ancestral family business. For generations, we had been sailmakers. Logically, during the Occupation, the business was confiscated, so apart from sails, we also had to provide sacks or camping tents. Anyhow… whenever I had some spare time, I would dash out with my camera and immortalize beauty.”

“Did you have a choice? I mean, could you choose what to do?”, Jordana asked.

“Well, you must’ve noted I have to walk with a cane,” he replied.

“I did detect, but given the gist of our conversation, I had rather assumed that you might have been wounded in battle,” Jordana said.

“True, it could have been an option. But my shaking is a result of an injury. When I was fifteen, I had a bad fall while exploring the Minkies at low tide.”

“What are the Minkies?”, Jordana asked.

“Les Minquiers. Here they are,” he said, as he pulled out yet another photograph from the stack of ten. “We call them the Minkies. They’re a group islands off the coast of Jersey. Actually, islands and rocks. During the low tide, the rocks emerge. With two other friends, we would sneak out with a paddleboat every other Saturday during the summer of ’37. We loved exploring and walking on the rocks. One day I fell and fractured my ankle. Despite various medical therapies, I never fully recovered. That’s why I could never participate in active combat if enlisted in the army, nor could I drive properly. Therefore, I could only become a doctor, a cook, a photographer or follow into my father’s footsteps. I was no doctor and I most definitely couldn’t cook. Still can’t… “, he said, chuckling. “By the way, I realized I haven’t offered you anything. Would you like some freshly baked scones? I’ll tell Maria to bring some upstairs.”

               “Thank you, but don’t worry! I had breakfast before coming. I’d much prefer hearing more about the pictures,” Jordana replied. In the midst of this light moment, she decided it was a good time to bring up the castle. Before she could even start second-guessing herself, she boldly popped the question: “What castle is that? Having seen it on your sail at the yacht club, I imagine it must have a deeper significance than the rest of the pictures…”

               “Oh, c’est lé Vièr Châté, ma chère!” he exclaimed, mixing French and Jèrriais. “It’s Mont Orgueil, the Old Castle; Mount Pride; Haughty Mount… it’s Gorey Castle! And yes,” he paused for a moment and finished the phrase, “if you should know, it is near and dear to my heart!”

               “But just a second Mr. Peirson, I don’t see any battle or war scenes in these pictures. I don’t see any soldiers either,” Jordana pointed out, with a quizzical look.

               “Ah, well, you see, that’s exactly the point, my dear girl! As I said earlier, I pledged to myself to immortalize beauty. Now, Paul was a nurse apprentice at the Military Hospital. On occasion, he would accompany me and watch my back, and suggest views. Naturally, I gave him some copies as well,” he said. “Anyhow, Gorey Castle was the last picture I ever shot in Jersey. It was also the last time I saw Jersey, as Paul and I had decided to escape that very night. Except he ended up in Portugal and I ended up here, reinventing myself as a full-time professional photographer! He married a girl from Sintra and established himself as a high-school biology teacher, near the Promonotorium Magnum...”

               “Who is Paul and where is the Promontorium Magnum?” Jordana asked. “I used to be pretty good at geography, but I never heard of such place in Portugal…,” Jordana said.

               Mr. Peirson giggled, lifted his eyebrows in a mischievous way and replied: “really, and have you heard of the Rock of Lisbon? Oh, and Paul was my closest friend since childhood.”

               Again, Jordana was feeling surprised and slightly embarrassed she hadn’t heard of either place. It was not like her to be unprepared in certain matters, but Mr. Peirson giggled again and broke the silence, revealing the enigma: “I’m pulling your leg, dear. He lived near Cabo da Roca. Leonor, his lovely wife, was the daughter of the lighthouse keeper.”

               At this juncture, Jordana was undecided. Should she ask more about the letter and its contents, or should she ask how he and Paul escaped? She opted for the former. “I hate to pry, but is the letter from Paul?”

               “Sort of,” Mr. Peirson said. “We spoke and wrote regularly, but sadly he passed away a year ago. I had intended to go to his funeral, but at the last minute Leonor told me to wait, as he didn’t really want to be buried; she said there would be a second funeral, in line with his last wishes.”

               “So sorry to hear that. So his wife speaks Jèrriais? She wrote the letter?” Jordana continued. “And what is a second funeral, if I may? Is that some kind of surviving Norman tradition in Jersey?”

               “Paul wrote two letters shortly before dying. One for his family and the other one for me. Leonor knew the contents, but she misplaced it. For a long time, she could not find it. I did tell her to forget about it and that it would eventually resurface, but she was adamant in making sure that I physically received it before we could proceed. Anyhow… he wanted to be cremated on the anniversary of our escape date, and his ashes scattered in the ten places portrayed in my photographs. Undoubtedly, he wanted me to be there!”

               “What an intense story!” Jordana exclaimed. Although she had been fairly audacious up until that point, her instinctive, overarching discretion took over, suggesting it was time to end the conversation right then and there. Then again, they could pick it up some other time, upon Mr. Peirson’s return and only if he wanted. “Well, I think perhaps, it’s best for me to go, now. I’ll leave you to your thoughts. I’m sure you want to start preparing for your trip back home. I wish you a wonderful journey and safe travels! Is this the first time you’re returning to Jersey after all these years?”

               “No. I had been back in the late seventies, for my mother’s funeral. But a lot will have changed, yet again,” he said.

               “Right, I know you’re going to a funeral, but perhaps you may retrace your photographs, this time in color,” Jordana timidly uttered. “Good-bye for now. Until we meet again,” she said.

               Before she could get up from her chair, he quickly said “I think you can take those pictures with your own eyes. How about you come along as my assistant?”

[memoirsofagenie]

“Signs are in the air”...

Genie, 12 February 2018

"Signs" are in the air, everywhere you look around... "signs" are in the air, every sight and every sound... Well, the song doesn't quite go like this, but if there were a song to represent the last 36 hours, this would definitely be it! Why, you might ask yourselves?

Where to begin?

Before X-mas 2017, my good friend Rumiana invited me to join her in Milan in February 2018, none other than at the "Piermarini" Theater -more famously known as LA SCALA- for a recital of a young soprano, who not only happens to be a Bulgarian compatriot of hers, but with whom I discovered I share a birthday (although I was born some years earlier), Sonya Yoncheva. I have to admit I wasn't acquainted with her, her art, nor her repertory, although I'm sure I would've loved the recital regardless, because aside from loving opera and operatic recitals, I also love both Milan and La Scala.

This being said, a couple of hours after arriving to the Ambrosian City, Rumi receives an e-mail from La Scala informing her that the concert had been canceled due to "throat problems" that Ms. Yoncheva had suffered earlier during the day... HOWEVER, aside from a refund and/or rescheduling, a "compensatory" recital would be offered to the public who decided to come to the theater in spite of the "bad" news. The e-mail further read that the protagonists of this recital would be a soprano, a tenor and a baritone who had been busy during the last month -in fact, their last performance was precisely yesterday's matinée of 3pm- in La Scala's production of Johann Strauss's "Die Fledermaus".

As Rumi read out the names of these generous and "heroic" figures (because let's face it, you -and your vocal chords- have to be "heroic" to stay overtime, so to speak, when you've sung all afternoon, for four straight hours!), I leaped off my seat when she read out the name of the Italian soprano, EVA MEI! I hesitated two minutes and then said "hey, wait a minute, she's REALLY good!"

To make a long story short, I had had the pleasure of watching/listening to Eva Mei back in 2003, together with my dear Mother, at the Costanzi Theater (the Teatro dell'Opera di Roma), in an incredibly outstanding rendition of Gaetano Donizetti's "Lucia di Lammermoor". Ms. Mei, specifically, is a "coloratura soprano" (for the "lay (wo)men" out there who are not into opera, "coloratura" singers are basically THE BEST!)

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coloratura_soprano

Anyhow, right after recognizing the singer, I realized this had to be a sign from my Mother (Patrizia), who is responsible of getting me acquainted with the "bel canto" in the first place.

I went to my very first opera with my Mother back in 1986, when I was almost twelve years old. We were living in Caracas, Venezuela, and we went to the stunningly beautiful Teresa Carreño Theater, to watch Gioacchino Rossini's "opera buffa" (funny opera), "Il Barbiere di Siviglia" (The Barber of Seville.) Still, the second opera we would watch, at the same theater and in the same year, was precisely the above-cited "Lucia di Lammermoor". In 2003, it was the second time in our lives we would watch that opera, always together.

Fast forward to 2015, and here I was, working and living in Milan (for Expo 2015.) That year, I decided to go to La Scala for my first time ever... and what opera were they showing? You guessed it, "Lucia di Lammermoor"!!!

I had to go see it, if anything, in honor of my Mother too, as unfortunately she passed away in 2010.

So, last night, as the concert began and the new theater director, Mr. Pereira, explained that although he was sorry that Ms Yoncheva couldn't make it, "he didn't want us to go home without a show" (his exact, thoughtful words)...the signs/surprises weren't over yet! Given that it was an improvised program, the very first song happened to be... rolling of the drums... "Largo al Factotum" (from "The Barber of Seville", my "first" opera), sung by an extremely charming and hitherto unknown (at least to me) young Austrian baritone, Markus Werba.

The concert took off and went on pleasantly, with beautiful arias from great composers, Giacomo Puccini and Giuseppe Verdi, among others...

When it was over and we returned to the hotel (on a side note, while there, we came to find out, rather casually, that our hotel was precisely one of the favorite hotels of guest opera singers at La Scala, as it's only within a five-minute walk), I was very fulfilled as a spectator and was hoping that Rumi wasn't too disappointed or upset that her original plans were overturned. Luckily, it wasn't the case. I kept on commenting over and over on how I felt this sequence of plot twists was all a major "motherly" sign.

Slumber set in, so we soon agreed on the time for waking up, in order to have breakfast and check out this morning.

Apparently, this incredible, already-perfect adventure was missing (to quote the Latin Americans) its "broche de oro" (golden brooch!) As we were heading for breakfast, who do we run into the elevator? "Figaro"... "the factotum" in the flesh, the baritone Markus Werba himself! The elevator was packed, sadly, as he was descending with all his crew, so we had to wait for the next one. (I'm sure I would be posting a photo of us with him by now if things had gone differently.) In any case, to use another Latin American favorite saying, "no hay mal que por bien no venga" (there isn't evil that doesn't come for good reasons!) If ever there was proof of this mystic "Butterfly Theory" and of the related otherworldly signs, then situations like this one cannot be overlooked or forgotten.

Oh well, this post has become too long, so I bid you goodnight with Markus Werba's rendition of "Largo al Factotum" (last night's performance was even more engaging, but this one gives a pretty good idea!) Largo al factotum... e sogni d'oro! https://youtu.be/pykNVInJifE 

🎉🕯️😇🧞‍♀️🗣️🕴️🙏🦇✨🎆🎼🎶🎤🎻🥁🔮

******PS: And allow me to also share a response paper I wrote during college (in 2003), regarding Lucia di Lammermoor... specifically, the one sung by Eva Mei!******

                            Lucia di Lammermoor: Opera or Cantata?

     The first time I saw Donizetti’s Lucia di Lammermoor, I was only 11 years old. In fact, it was during the October/November 1986 Opera season at the Teresa Carreño Theater Complex in Caracas, Venezuela, where I was introduced to this masterpiece. Furthermore, it might help to note that it was my second opera ever. The first one had been Rossini’s Il Barbiere di Siviglia, an opera buffa seen only a couple of months before, which made my encounter with-or rather transition to- this opera seria so much more dramatic and gave it much more impact. Needless to say, child impressions are hard to efface, and it is indeed with this primeval, childhood memory of Lucia, together with the video screened in class, that I set out to watch/listen this version of the Teatro dell’Opera di Roma.

     In Lucia, we are supposedly in XVIIth century Scotland. Apart from the tartan pattern on the curtain and the tartan scarves-of different colors to represent the different clans- worn by some of the protagonists, the minimalist decor of the stage was reminiscent more of Japan and its lotus gardens than of the foggy marshes of the Scottish highlands. I found nonetheless quite interesting the moving panels which followed the chorus and “put in focus” various scenes and/or faces, or symbolized a “mystic” ray of light shining through the cracks of the ruinous castles.

     Still and all, this effect was somewhat damaged by the huge discrepancy in the balance of overall illumination. For example, in the second scene of the second act-the marriage contract scene-we see the chorus in the back and the main character on the front stage. Whereas the back part of the stage succeeds in giving us the “chills” with its gothic air (as it should be), the front distracts us. The costumes and the lighting of this part, especially Arturo’s white costume, pertain more to Illuminist France and/or Baroque Venice-late XVIIth century-where, Maximilien de Robespierre and Giacomo Casanova respectively, would sport suits of the like and dust their faces with rice powder! I would have expected some white-laced collars à la Mary Stuart, or, if we were to be innovative to the very end (as was probably the intention of director Graham Vick) some Scottish kilts and/or bagpipes (whose use, particularly the kilt’s, can be traced back to as early as 1594 according to historical records.)

     Switching onto more specific details of the opera, I am a big fan of Daniel Oren. The orchestra under his conduction was very good, at times too good, for it covered the voices of the singers, particularly in the very first opening scene where Normanno, the captain of the Ravenswood guards, leads the chorus into the stage. Of particular relevance were the harp and flute soloists. Both their pieces are probably the only all-musical excerpts which can stand on their own, oblivious of the “bel canto” (beautiful singing) of the opera’s interpreters, whose voices, as we know, were themselves the main instruments of operatic compositions during Donizetti’s times.

     Taking into account these preliminary details, we can enter the body of the opera. Aside from the paramount role of the chorus, which introduces/hypothesizes the next scene and/or “wraps up” the previous scene with its conclusions, the “recitative” parts acquire an identity of their own. Yet in this opera, at times it seemed very hard to tell apart the recitative from the cavatina (or first part of the aria.) Dialog was very quick and virtually non-existent. There was overall a maximum of twenty lines (10 lines each in a dialog between two characters.) At the same time, the lingering music and the readiness of the chorus to undertake the leadership of the scene made the musicality of the opera continuous: that is, unlike in latter Mozart operas, where characters actually SPEAK UP accompanied by the music but not really singing, in Lucia the uninterrupted summing up, or more properly overlapping, of the chorus, the short, brisk, song-like recitatives and the subsequent, immediate take-off of the arias and/or duets made a whole act seem in its whole one very long, uniform aria. As a member of the audience, it was easy to get lost if it was your first time at the opera. (Only thanks to the falling of the curtains were we able to grasp our standpoints at one given moment.)

     Regarding the singers-and I beg the reader to forgive my “frivolous” assertions- but if only the first would have been a tenor and the second a baritone, I would have not minded to interchange Alberto Gazale (Enrico) with Fabio Sartori (Edgardo)...at least, in terms of their physical presence. Sure what counts is the voice... but we cannot deny the day and age in which we live. Most of all, we cannot overlook people’s expectations and forget about the collective imagination. Under this light, we could safely say that part of the magic of the opera-if it is to be magical-must be attributed to its fairy-tale qualities. Therefore, Prince Charming MUST be charming. Of course I am talking from a female point of view, but I am sure the effect would have been the same for a man were Montserrat Caballé or Jessye Norman-or even Joan Sutherland herself-to have played Lucia (all of them with great voices but lacking the “physique du rôle.”)

     A final observation must be dedicated to the arias. For the sake of brevity, we will only take into consideration two. Matter-of-factly, Lucia is known for its sextet, at the end of the second act, and the “mad scene,” which corresponds to the second scene of the third act. In Italian we say “o la va, o la spacca,” literally “this can make it or break it!” And, the sextet scene definitely broke it,especially in the eyes of an amateur college audience as the one we embodied. Academically speaking, that scene had been pointed out to us, and it is simply obvious that we should place all our expectations of being moved both in this scene and in the “mad scene.” Unfortunately, this did not happen, neither in the former nor the latter.

     In the sextet, I would place the blame for this mishap on two things: the stage decor (as we mentioned earlier) and the voices themselves. Again, we should be in a castle-hall-or rather, in a frescoed grand ballroom- and instead we find ourselves in a impersonal, anonymous room, with a wooden pic-nic/tavern table and a candle. Not even the Cistercian monks had such dull settings! In the decor, I would include the actor’s movements and directions. When Edgardo hastily returned from France and awkwardly “jumped” from the futuristic garden (back-stage) to front stage, the audience was more concerned with him NOT falling and rolling off-stage, than with his cries of despair for the love of Lucia. A scene worthy of opera buffa! Even the tenor-Fabio Sartori- himself seemed baffled and relieved when he realized he had safely “landed” on his two feet into front-stage. Lastly, the voices. Only Raimondo (the priest/preceptor), Arturo and Enrico were audible. Apart from their stage charisma (Arturo’s charisma due in part to his shining white suit more than anything), these three characters had crispy voices that overwhelmed the music, and enunciated every word. Edgardo’s voice, in his solo arias, was pleasant but not sombre enough as that of Placido Domingo or José Cura. Lucia’s-Eva Mei’s-potential is still unrevealed to this point. Normanno and Alisa represent a true paradox, particularly Alisa. In this version of Lucia, her presence or non-presence would have made no difference whatsoever. (I wonder what were the actual dispositions for this maid in Salvatore Cammarano’s libretto...)

     Alas, the “mad scene.” Like in the one screened in class from the film “Farinelli,” where the man performs a stunning “botta e risposta” (attack and counterattack) with the trumpet, so does Lucia succeed in “answering” the solo flutist with her coloraturas and rubatos. But again, her sitting on the edge of the stage -of precisely THAT bare-naked stage- and the lack of supplementary acting/drama turned the whole scene into what seemed a Cestian cantata rather than a Bel-Canto opera, where the focus was not on dramatic interpretation, but on intimate display of bravura, typical of chamber music. To top it all off, immediately after this scene we are rushed through Lucia’s death and Edgardo’s final suicide, not being able to capacitate ourselves fully about what has happened. The abrupt lowering of the curtain determines the total, drastic exclusion of the audience that just then was beginning to identify itself with this “intimate tableau.”

     I stated in the opening of this critique that childhood memories –both impressions and traumas- are hard to erase. Back in 1986, Eduardo Mancera, the director for the Lucia I saw in Caracas, decided to bring onstage a poetic character to accompany the cast. This character is the one Lucia refers to in her first appearance: it is the lover of an earlier Ravenswood family-member who was killed out of jealousy and who appears as a ghoulish spectre-represented by a ballerina- near the well in the garden of the castle. The reason he did this was to give life to the prophetic projection of the protagonist’s death, whose mind-as we are well aware- is already on the verge of total insanity, and [Lucia’s mind] will materialize into a character that wanders desperately in every scene, dying out with Lucia’s very own death. Moreover, in the final scene, when the funeral cortège arrives at the cemetery, in Mancera’s version we see the “ghost” on the crypt rather than Lucia’s body. In reality the ghost has united itself, through death, to Lucia. After committing suicide, Edgardo’s body would fall on top of this dual-soul.

     This phantasmagoric ending, apart from the singers who were extraordinary, made this performance a Grand Opera. This inevitably leads me to trace an ultimate, brief comparison with Gounod’s Faust, which we saw at the beginning of this semester.

     Even if the Bel-Canto opera should be capable of moving us solely by the voice/words, I am seriously afraid that Donington’s definition of the genre, for which “opera is drama unfolding as much in the music as in the words”, would have to be revisited given the circumstances. The music did not stand on its own and neither did the words. And the barren backdrop did nothing to improve the situation. In the Faust as in most of French operas, the ballet is an important, interactive part of the piece and casts a spell on its audience. Hugo de Ana did an excellent job in creating ulterior 3-D special effects which gave more power and moving appeal to the opera. In Italian operas, conversely, there is probably more rigour and less grandeur. But because we were relying on the voices, it would have saved this Lucia if Graham Vick would have added at least one “grandiose,” hypnotizing detail as Eduardo Mancera did in Caracas, since we did not have singers of the caliber of Luciano Pavarotti and Dame Kiri Te Kanawa capable of irreversibly involving the audience. (Picture below: Luciano Pavarotti making his American debut in Miami in 1965 with Joan Sutherland in Donizetti's "Lucia di Lammermoor”.)

     Definitely, not the best Lucia of my life! Nevertheless, this disillusionment is part of the magic of opera too. Just like a soprano or a tenor makes an opera his or hers by continuously singing it through the course of his/her life, so does the opera-goer make it part of him/herself by going over and over again to see it performed. Right or wrong as this may be and good or bad as a particular performance of the opera in question might be, a listener learns to love it even through its defects. The same occurs in life. Loving someone implies loving, or rather accepting, even “the things you hate” of that someone. Therefore, my relationship with Lucia does not end here. On the contrary, I look forward to its next performance, whenever it may be, wherever it may be...

Genie, 3 March 2003

[memoirsofagenie]

Treading in Hasekura’s Footsteps: AICR’s “Black-Tie” Annual Circolo della Caccia Dinner

by: Genie

 “The world listens more to witnesses than it does the masters, yet if it listens more to the masters, it is because they are, above all, witnesses.”

-- Pope Paul V

      Among the recurrent, “Black-Tie” happenings at the prestigious Circolo della Caccia, are the yearly “Serata del Cinghiale” (Boar Soirée) at the end of February, the Christmas  Dinner, and the introduction of  new members, with a speech given by the youngest member at the end of the evening.  However, for almost a decade now, the American International Club of Rome (AICR) members have been able to also partake in this charming rituality of olden flair thanks to the kind dinner invitation of M.E., both an AICR Board Member and a Circolo della Caccia member, naturally!

     During this magical January evening – and the upcoming 2013 edition will be very special, for it falls on AICR’s 60th Anniversary– guests are greeted by the heraldic eagles and  dragons as they walk through the imposing colonnade and past the romantic nymphaeum of Palazzo Borghese, only to step into one of Rome’s oldest –if not, the oldest- elevators and climb to the “piano nobile,” where this intertwined, utterly spellbinding Chinese box catapults them even further back in time. Amidst the black-and-white regal portrait sequence of the illustrious guests that have entered the Circolo at some point in their lives, the spectacular frescoes and the intricate backdrop of gold-leaf covered stuccoes of the dining hall, the elegance of the maitre d’ and of the waiters in traditional livery are merely the last details that hark back to princely times, heightening the pervading nocturnal, dreamy state and momentarily removing people from reality.

     Matter-of-factly, it is known that Rome is a city where history is embedded within history. The Circolo della Caccia is no exception to this rule, thus making it almost impossible for the public curiosities not to be titillated. History also helps to predict the future, albeit in this specific case, knowing the history can surely, if anything, make the dinner experience more enjoyable altogether. For this reason, it was imperative to embark on a virtual time-machine to discover some interesting, behind-the-scenes details of one of the Eternal City’s (many) best-kept secrets.

     The Circolo della Caccia (literally, “Hunting Club”), is undoubtedly one of the oldest, most exclusive clubs of Rome. Founded in 1869 on an initiative of Prince Francesco Borghese, its original denomination used to be Circolo di San Carlo, due to its first, modest location. Upon inauguration, it was located in front of the San Carlo church, at the crossroads between Via del Corso and Via delle Carrozze. It then moved to Palazzo Verospi, on the other side of Via del Corso, and changed its name to Circolo della Caccia, in view of the large presence of members of the Roman Society for fox hunting, a “sport” introduced by Lord George Stanhope, Count of Chesterfield and practiced by the aristocracy in the Roman countryside, concurrent to the birth of the Circolo itself. On this note, a magnificent canvas originally donated to King Umberto II, probably the most representative one currently displayed at the Circolo, serves as testimony of this now forbidden pastime, which is nonetheless still simulated in the outskirts of town.

     Going back to the chronological overview of the Circolo, before reaching its current site, it relocated two more times: first, to the now-demolished Palazzo Bonaccorsi, lastly to Palazzo Marignoli. Finally, on August 31, 1922, it moved to its definitive location, which coincided with the former rooms of Paolina Borghese (Napoleon’s sister) at the eponymous palace in the old ‘rione’ (neighborhood) Campo Marzio: Palazzo Borghese, otherwise known as the “Cembalo” (Harpsichord), due to its exterior shape reminiscent of the Baroque instrument.  

     Having unveiled this greatness, a question lurks beneath the collective minds: How does one join the Circolo della Caccia? The main pre-requisite for membership is to belong to nobility. An important founding member was writer Gabriele D’Annunzio, who had also been admitted on the basis of his Gold Medal to Military Valor. An aspiring member should also be referred by three other members and has to undergo the traditional practice of the white balls vs. the black balls. The former indicate a positive vote, whereas the latter indicate a negative vote. Each negative vote annuls five positive votes. Hence, it comes as no surprise to learn that its honorary members include personalities ranging from King Juan Carlos of Spain, Prince Charles of Wales and his father, the Duke of Edinburgh, all the way to King Albert II of Belgium.  By the same token, it is equally normal to note that the Club has issued quite a few exemplary rejections, Paul Getty being a case in point. To this day membership is almost entirely male. The library, the game room and the reading room are off-limits to women, who are nevertheless admitted– escorted– to the guest quarters.

      Given these premises, and realizing the privilege it is to cross the threshold of the Circolo for even just a few hours, this article is only brought to completion by asking some questions to Mr. E., without whom the idea of writing it might not have materialized in the first place:

Mr. E. when did you first join the Circolo della Caccia? I joined the Circolo della Caccia during my freshman year at Harvard. The year was 1978. My grandfather was the former President of the Circolo as well as my godfather. 

Would you care to share an anecdote (some anecdotes) you are most fond of concerning the Circolo della Caccia? I have many fond moments at the Circolo. The fondest one however was to hear my son give his acceptance speech as a new Circolo della Caccia member two years ago! 

What prompted you -rather, gave you the idea- of organizing a Circolo della Caccia dinner for AICR members? Quite a few years ago, I thought it would be a fun idea to celebrate the holidays by having a black-tie dinner and having as guest our own Honorary President and/or VPs. If I recall initially, we had just one Ambassador. After a while two came.

Do you have a favorite ‘edition’? If yes, could you describe why it is your favorite? Last year, for the first time in AICR history (and probably in Rome's history!), AICR was able to have ALL the US Ambassadors in Italy (many readers may not know this, but we have three). It was absolutely a smashing success! This type of event is what makes AICR so unique. It is not often that this can be pulled off. In today's society, when everyone is always in a rush and often does not have the time or patience to "get dressed up," I think the beautiful clothes worn by our guests (ladies are often in very elegant long dresses!) wonderfully blends in the rich historical surroundings of the Circolo. A lot of thanks go to our Manager who always "manages" to organize a perfect seating and ensure that the dinner goes smoothly. Also, thanks go to our President who always "wows" us with the wonderful bouquets that are on the table and that are given to our Very Important Guests of Honor. §§§ 

     In closing, another important episode haunts the Circolo’s saga. In the fall of 1615, the Japanese-Christian Ambassador Hasekura Tsunenaga entered Rome after an extenuating sea-odyssey that had begun two years earlier, by orders of Shogun Date Masamune. Masamune was the King of the Japanese city of Sendai, and Hasekura’s mission was to ask for Pope Paul V’s (Camillo Borghese) spiritual support, which would have helped the Shogun gain absolute power. The expedition made pit-stops in Acapulco and Madrid, crossing both the Pacific and the Atlantic Ocean, before reaching Rome with its surviving crew (less than half of what it was at the beginning of the journey).  Hasekura finally met with Pope Paul V “Borghese” at the Quirinale, and his emaciated expression –as a result of the hardships endured at sea-  has been immortalized on yet another beautiful painting at the Circolo della Caccia, where he is depicted wearing his distinctive regalia. Hasekura finished his multiple diplomatic encounters by the end of December, and headed back to Japan on January 7, 1616.

     Over four centuries after Hasekura’s Roman visit, AICR members get to walk ��backwards” in his footsteps, for January, contrary to the Nipponic Ambassador’s agenda, is the ideal month to be in Rome, marking the time to “witness” Pope Paul V’s “Borghese”  legacy, lavishly bequeathed through the Circolo della Caccia. Hence, of all of AICR’s special events, the Circolo della Caccia Dinner is one appointment –THE appointment– that should definitely not be missed.

 Rome, 13 December 2012

[memoirsofagenie]

Touché… with Aldo Montano (An athletic “outsider” in a soccer-ridden reality)

Winston Churchill once said that Italians lose wars like soccer matches and soccer matches like wars. Matter-of-factly, any American who sets foot in Italy, more specifically in Rome, is quick to notice the fervor with which Romans impersonate this principle, where the never-ending feud between AS Roma and SS Lazio supporters is almost a matter of honor. This micro-situation acquires macro-importance during the World Cup, where the hype can easily be compared to that of the American Super-Bowl, albeit on a planetary scale. This being said, it might help to note that soccer is also a Summer Olympic sport; however, conversely to the World Cup, the Italian National Team has ironically not managed to do particularly well during Olympic matches, having won just one Bronze Medal in the Amsterdam Olympics of 1928 and one Gold Medal in the Berlin Olympics of 1936.

Against this Olympic backdrop, in 2012, Rome canceled its initial intentions of bidding to host the 2020 Summer Olympic Games.  Still and all, after only three years, on February 10, 2015, the Italian National Olympic Committee (CONI) confirmed the buzz it had anticipated in December 2014; that is, Rome’s renewed interest in bidding to host the 2024 Summer Olympic Games.  Considering that the last time Rome hosted the Summer Olympics was in 1960, more than half a century ago, the prospect of making Rome the hub –at least for one season– of many great sports other than soccer, is quite appealing. However, this consequently begs a further, superficial question: is there another sport that can be considered equally autochthonous, but that can occupy the Italian passions perhaps more than soccer during the Olympics? The answer is a resounding “yes!”

While Italy excels in all sporting disciplines, both winter and summer (at the London 2012 Olympics, it ranked 8th on the final medal table, out of 85 participating countries,) there are certain sports that are considered national “fortes”, if you will. A case in point being fencing, which is also “older” than soccer, if we take into account that professional soccer played in Italy began in 1898, whereas contemporary Olympic fencing in Italy dates back to 1500 (although early rudiments of this sport can be traced all the way back to ancient Egypt.) Even the first fencing school in the United States opened before professional soccer started in Italy, being that it was founded in 1874, coincidentally by Italian and French fencing masters.

According to the Italian Fencing Federation, in merely a century of Olympic history, as of London 2012, Italy had won 121 Olympic medals for fencing and half of these (among which 29 gold medals,) have gone to the fencers of the Circolo Scherma Fides di Livorno (Fides Fencing Circle of Livorno,) the sports club with the highest number of Olympic and World titles. Not to mention, of course, the additional European and National championship titles, all of which have contributed to make the Tuscan seaside city of Livorno one of the capitals of world fencing.

In the realm of fencing, pronouncing the word Livorno, inevitably draws the attention to the Montano family, or dynasty, more precisely. This dynasty started in 1910, with the birth of Aldo Montano (senior.) It continued with his son Mario Aldo and his nephews, Carlo, Mario Tullio and Tommaso Montano. All of them, except Carlo, practiced foil and were saber champions. However, while Olympic gold medals abounded in the team competitions, none of the Montano had managed to get the individual gold medal… that is, until Aldo (junior, born in 1978) son of Mario Aldo and grandson of Aldo (sr.,)  came along.

Exactly in 2004, and none other than in Athens –the cradle of the Olympic games- Aldo (jr.) managed to succeed where his other family members could not, beating Zsolt Nemcsik after an utterly intense match. The intensity was heightened by the Hungarian nationality of Nemcsik, as Hungary is one of Italy’s staunchest opponents, if not its very nemesis in all things fencing. This Gold medal marked a definitive and unquestionable consecration for the Montano family, for Livorno and for Italy in general, reconfirming fencing as a sport that Italians should be paying more attention to, perhaps not substituting soccer but making some parallel room for it.

On this note, between tournaments and training, we were able to catch up with Aldo, who kindly answered the following questions for us.

Aside from coming from a family of fencers, one of your great-uncles was Armando Picchi, a soccer player with Inter in the 1960-67 seasons, as well as a coach for Juventus in the 1970-71 season. Along these lines, at the age of nine, you once said on TV you wanted to go into soccer. Given the greater coverage that soccer has always had in this country, and in spite of your stronger fencing family heritage, could you briefly guide us through that period of your life and let us know what was the decisive factor that finally led you to pick the latter over the former?

In my town and in my family, in particular, the pressure over me was pretty strong: my grandfather was 5 times world champion and twice silver medalist at the Olympics, my dad 2 times World Champion and Olympic Champion in 1972. I thought that dedicating myself to a different sport, with a higher audience –at least in Italy- as football would be more attractive to me. But then I started to win my first fencing competitions, and the thrill of lifting my first cups and receiving my first medals grew stronger and stronger, so I abandoned the idea of football and endlessly fell in love with this fencing discipline… also under the fascination of my family’s sporting history.

How do you feel about Italians becoming sudden supporters of fencing –and other sports- only during the Olympics, instead of regularly taking interest? What do you think can be done to change the mindset and to promote other sports more?

It’s only natural that Olympic sports draw attention and enthusiasm once every 4 years. There’s not much you can do about it, if not keeping the attraction alive towards Olympic champions, diluting and distributing their presence on the media within the other 4 years, when you don’t have any game going on.  

According to past interviews, the Rio 2016 Summer Olympics will be your last Olympic games as a competing athlete. Where do you see yourself afterwards? Will you go into coaching?

Rio games COULD be the last ones, but one never knows! I want to stick around in the sports industry, to best exploit my experience, in helping to form new generations of champions and loyal sportsmen and women.

Do you like the idea of Rome hosting the 2024 Summer Olympic Games? How do you imagine those Olympic Games to be?

Of course I do! But let’s not forget we (“we” as Italians) already tried to get the games both in 2004 and 2012, unsuccessfully. These are no easy events to set up, and there are many growing countries who have never hosted them, who find themselves in a better position than us as far as money and structures are concerned; many of these countries outperform Italy in this respect. However, for an Olympic athlete, being able to race or compete in his own country is the wildest dream coming true! I think having the games in Italy might be the ultimate boost to relaunch our beautiful and breathtaking country, a country that truly doesn’t deserve the historic moment of mediocrity and negativity which it’s going through.

                                 &*&*&*&*&*&*&*&

In thanking Aldo for sharing his thoughts and insights, it’s ironic that one of Italy’s main antagonists for this wonderful Olympic adventure should be the United States, which has chosen to candidate Boston. We will have to wait three more years to know who pulled it off! In the meantime, whether Italian or American, it is advisable to expand our sports horizons, so as to enjoy to the fullest both the artistic aspect and the competitiveness that ensues from the many sporting disciplines that mankind created.

(By: Genie, Rome, 30 June 2015)

[memoirsofagenie]

Living Vicariously Through the Naga:The Enigma Lives On in Siem Reap…

by: Genie

Ensconced in the rainforest and steeped in centennial mythology, lies the province of Siem Reap, home to the variegated archaeological extravaganza embodied by Angkor, the old seat of the Khmer Empire. Once shrouded in mystery, this verdant area is dotted far and wide with architectural wonders, however a particular quartet of magisterial temple complexes, open to the public today, accounts for much of its widely deserved mystique: Angkor Wat, Angkor Thom, Preah Khan and Ta Prohm.

The historical promenade through Cambodian history could not begin at a better place than Angkor Wat. After a brisk, vertiginous walk over the frontal moats and their tall lily pads by way of the “floating” bridges, Angkor Wat starts etching its “mountainous”, verdigris contours on the horizon, in all its pomp and pageantry. Some tall palm trees here and there, wandering rhesus monkeys, endless meters of loggias reflecting over the water, and monks clad in orange walking back and forth, act as merely the castellated gateway and battlements to King Suryavarman II’s main, multi-story building and its five signature turrets set against a perennial twilight sparkle.

Given the magnitude of this World Heritage structure, it would take more than one afternoon to visit it properly. Suffice it to say, to this day Angkor Wat is the largest standing religious building in the world. Still and all, its essence is to be found primarily in a threefold enigma. First of all, it is per se rather puzzling that Angkor Wat should be originally consecrated to none other than the Hindu divinity Vishnu. Today, Angkor Wat is both Hindu and Buddhist, but considering that Hinduism is not as geographically widespread as Buddhism from India eastwards and that it is an older religious philosophy, it begs a more in-depth question as to what exactly happened. Hence, the (originally and equally) Hindu Ko Samut Teuk Dos legend, also known as Samudra manthan (in Hindi); in other words, The Churning of the Ocean of Milk.

According to this founding epic, Devas (Gods) and Asuras (Demons) were forever at war to dominate the world. Ever more tired and running out of strength, the Devas asked Vishnu for help. As a token for his help, Vishnu asked the Devas to search for Amrita, the Sacred Elixir of Immortality, from the depths of the cosmos. However, because the task was so difficult, the Devas were forced to ally with their antagonists, the power-voracious Asuras. Using Mount Meru as the pivotal point and the King of the Nagas (snakes), Vasuki, as a churning device, both factions placed themselves at different extremities of the Naga and started pulling, while many treasures emerged from the Ocean of Milk. In time, the Asuras, being closer to the head of the Naga, were eventually poisoned by the fumes it exhaled, only managing to save themselves when Amrita was delivered to them by a divinity emerging from the Ocean of Milk. This episode did not go unnoticed by the Devas; they promptly informed Vishnu, who managed, in turn, to steal back Amrita and hand it to the Devas, so that they could reign supreme and banish the Asuras to hell.

This legendary tale represents the second enigma of Angkor Wat, and is virtually “unlocked” in the impossibly beautiful bas-reliefs stretching along the 49 meters of the east gallery, a grand spectacle where what could have been remnants of muted pink, ochre, and terra-cotta hues can still be slightly discerned by the naked eye between carvings. Also unlocked within Angkor Wat is the third enigma, whereby a Naga princess wed the First King of Ancient Cambodia, giving rise to the Cambodian people or Khmer. In this respect, Angkor Wat has various massive balustrades in the shape of the seven-headed Naga, each head representing the seven “races” of the Naga people. A recurring theme in the Angkorian temples, the seven-headed Naga is part and parcel of Khmer cosmology, as are the Apsaras, the celestial dancing creatures whose main purview included entertaining royalty and divinities on earth with their perfunctory expressions.

The hypnotic tour through Khmer chronology continues between Angkor Wat and Angkor Thom, where a short pit-stop to the Baksei Chamkrong temple gives us a taste of what would seem to be yet another enigma. According to various “conspiracy” theories, there are uncanny stylistic similarities between the Mayan Pyramid of the Great Jaguar (in Tikal, Guatemala) and Baksei Chamkrong! Clearly, the knowledge and discoveries acquired thus far on the matter are not enough to reframe history, so to say; nonetheless this testament to the universal aspect of human imagination makes for some quite fascinating journeys!

On its part, Angkor Thom, the last capital city of the Khmer Empire, boasts a masterpiece triad of its own, the first of such being King Jayavarman VII’s exquisite 350-meter long Terrace of the Elephants. Once a royal platform to salute his military forces, this terrace features intricate carvings of lions, elephants and Garudas, the bird-like creatures pertaining to Hindu, Buddhist and Jain mythology, and stalwart nemesis of the Nagas. Located just off the Royal Square is the Terrace of the Leper King. Although there was a king with leprosy in Cambodian history, the name derives mainly from the erosion found on the statue of Yama, the God of the Underworld, carved within this site. This terrace might have been used for funerary/cremation rites.

Perhaps the most distinctive temple in Angkor Thom is the “baroque” Prasat Bayon. Entering through the South Gate, one is confronted with nothing short of yet another enigmatic vision, as 200 towering giant faces (four per tower) look down on you with their seraphic smiles and sphinx-like countenances. Although it is unclear whether the faces depict Lokesvara (the Buddhist bodhisattva of compassion) or King Jayavarman VII, the two hypotheses do not necessarily exclude each other. While the bas-reliefs within the temple, portraying military scenes and other mundane events, are also worthy of note, the deeply rooted “intimidation/awe” deriving from the “scoping stares” remains the main highlight of the Bayon. For all we know, they might have been –and still are- quite a bulwark against the evil eye, if anything!

The eternal voyage of the Naga continues in the Neak Pean and Preah Khan temples, located north of Angkor Thom. Upon first impressions, and having to cross a long walkway on swampy waters before reaching the former, it is hard to believe that there might be a temple at the end of the glittering trail. However, Neak Pean juts out from a central sacred pool (believed to represent the mythical Lake Anavatapta and to have healing powers), surrounded by two “underwater” sculptures of the Naga. As regards the latter temple, it is the proof that nature (usually) claims –or ravages, in this case- back its own! At any rate, not even this inevitable and “vengeful” predicament has managed to cover up the ineffable magic of Preah Khan, home to Jayadevi (a sister-wife of King Jayavarman VII), among others. Moss, lychen and ferns slowly brush over the rubble and rickety beams framed by quasi-trompe l’oeil flourishes, while a vast array of delicate carvings, reliefs and friezes, not to mention the standing library ruins and stupa illuminated by the sun, complete this eerie, albeit paradoxically idyllic, setting on the green.

The encroaching nature and weathered look of Preah Khan, however, is solely a prologue to the real devouring power of the forest subsequently witnessed at Ta Prohm, the culminating phase of this open-air museum survey. As soon as Ta Prohm’s ruins are approached, the elusive footpaths give way to a stunning portrait of luxuriant foliage and creeping vines that lift as if they were deep-green shutters following each occasional waft of wind. Here, the Nagas and Apsaras have relinquished their leading roles to the true main protagonists, tetramelacea (tetrameles nudiflora), ficus strangulosa and ceiba pentandra (kapok), names that, given their peculiarity, would seem those of gods, but actually refer to gigantic trees. Their imposing barks have literally taken over the temple complex, coiling up the ruins like the Nagas themselves… or is it that the trees are living vicariously through the Nagas and viceversa? Alas, not even Lara Croft could have possibly deciphered this last enigma, bound to live on for the centuries to come! But, like Lara Croft’s alter-ego, we shall return…

 Rome, 5 March 2019

[memoirsofagenie]

Shwe Bagan: Hovering Over Golden Pinnacles

By: Genie

 Mingalarbar! Aside from the Burmese Harp, and much like “open sesame”, this expression will be the first sound you will hear upon arrival, and probably the only one you will remember upon departure. It is precisely with this passe-partout word, literally “hello/welcome”, spoken by thanaka-decorated, smiling faces of men and women, clad in longjis, that every journey begins, and everything reveals itself in Myanmar. Nonetheless, to talk or write about Myanmar, implies to venture into a semi-unknown world... at least to “lay” Western tourists who still haven’t pushed themselves that far into the East. Despite being strategically located between the two colossal neighbors, China and India, and despite being a quintessential component of the Indochina enclave, mass tourism, like the one witnessed in Thailand or Viet Nam, just to name two, has yet to invade Myanmar. 

Albeit this fact alone has its benefits (i.e., less pollution, less crowds, less queues, etc.), the major downside is that lesser-known towns are overshadowed in favor of Yangon, Bagan and Mandalay, respectively its current, former imperial and former religious capitals. Such is the case with Inle Lake, for example. Truth be told, travel literature and the internet are filled with countless images of Intha fishermen, depicting their singular leg-rowing technique and distinctive conical nets. But although they might seem representative of the Myanmese identity to foreign eyes, they become almost invisible and secondary once one makes his/her way through the pristine creeks and marshes of the Lake, where time seems to have stopped, crystallizing eternity into a lithography of yesteryear.

Having said this, it must be added that we live in an era where the demonization of technological devices and media, particularly social media, is rampant. Luckily, however, the usage that some of us make of it hasn’t drifted away from its original purpose; that is, sharing portions of one’s “real life” (all which occurs away from our electronic hardware and software) in a live, debonair fashion. Consequently, with this thought in mind, and wanting to describe as accurately as possible my personal odyssey on Inle Lake -and in Myanmar- the very day in which it began, I had to re-read my Facebook status of 20 January 2018, which can certainly convey the immediacy of my emotions past:

 Genie is feeling in a "Hanging Gardens of Babylon" state-of-mind at Inle Lake.

January 20 · Nyaung Shwe, Myanmar ·  

...I've always felt viscerally and primordially bonded to anything "summery" (or that has the summer feel) and the proximity to water. In fact, it's no wonder that, aside from Rome, some of my top destinations are Venice, Miami, Miyajima (in Japan) and Aswan (in Egypt). Yet today's venue not only made it to my top destinations list, but also elevated the aforementioned bond to significant new heights. If ever there was a place that brought to life the century-old "mental pictures or clichés" that Westerners have had all along regarding the Far East (so much so, that almost all European castles/palaces have a "Chinoiserie" room, with colorful maritime or pastoral scenes of the Orient), this must be it. By saying "clichés", I don't mean it in a negative way. On the contrary, the fairy-tale-like "Chinoiseries" have existed and are alive and well in Inle Lake. To summarize its allure and my sensations today, there can only be one word: PARADISIACAL!!!...

Naturally, this was written before witnessing the equally paradisiacal beauty of the three above-cited “capitals”, with their surviving, “unfinished” (Mingun) and/or precarious brick pagodas and their corresponding golden pinnacles, the Irrawaddy River running parallel to the numerous plains and the Royal Palace (in Mandalay), the wandering monks and nuns in their burgundy and pink attires and the monumental gold-leafed Buddhas. Unless one has seen them all, particularly Bagan, where the sunrises and sunsets acquire an overall breathtaking dimension and novel meaning, it is no wonder one can never be fully imbued with the Myanmese charm and age-old spirituality.

During its time as the Imperial Capital and prior to its final submission to the Mongols (i.e. from 849 until 1287 AD), over 10 000 pagodas/temples were built in the dry plains of Bagan. Moreover, Bagan is a highly seismic area, a characteristic that accounts for the major earthquakes that have plagued it and which, together with the temporal erosion, have brought down the pagodas/temples standing today to roughly 2 200, including the self-ironic “Leaning Pagoda of Pisa” (as an Italian, I must admit it put a smile on my face!) In any case, Bagan’s mythical status as a pilgrimage destination remains unaltered, especially thanks to its most famous monuments, that seem to have defied the adverse environmental conditions over the centuries and are visible in all their glory.

Interestingly enough, some of Bagan’s main highlights are nicknamed through superlatives. One cannot help but be blinded by the light of “the most beautiful pagoda”, the gold-plated Shwe Zi Gon. Following Shwe Zi Gon is the “tallest pagoda”, the two-storey Thatbinnyu temple, with its white-stucco coated walls. The “largest pagoda” is Dhammayangyi, which is said to have been inspired by the early step-pyramids of Egypt. Last but not least, among the most recent is the “most artistic” pagoda of the four, the majestic Ananda, erected in the 11th century and devoted to Buddha’s eponymous cousin and main disciple. In its interior, aside from towering golden Buddhas on each of the four main walls, are copious stylized golden arches and gold-framed niches containing gilded miniatures of Buddhas. Each visitor is bound to be inevitably overwhelmed with “shining” stupor!

Still and all, in February 1991, thus wrote of Bagan the noted Italian travel writer of the late 1900s, Tiziano Terzani: “[…] There are views in the world before which one feels proud to belong to the human race. Bagan at dawn is one of these. In the immense plain, marked only by the silver glimmering of the great Irrawaddy River, the clear silhouettes of hundreds of pagodas slowly emerge from the darkness and fog: elegant, light; each as a delicate hymn to Buddha. From the top of the Ananda temple you can hear the roosters singing, the horses pawing along the unpaved roads. It is as if some magic had stopped this valley in the bygone moment of its greatness.”

Surely, the golden obnubilation of the senses posited by Terzani must have manifested itself during an early morning hot-air balloon ride. Matter-of-factly, it is not until one has hovered over its golden pinnacles at the break of day that one can fully grasp the magic and magnificence of Bagan. As the sun rises in the East, its rays illuminate the entire archeological area. Little by little, the great plain becomes a diamond-studded bed that climbs over the Irrawaddy River and blends into the horizon, as the contours of the sun-kissed pagodas slowly spring up from the earth. Only then and there, in what would appear to be a figment of one’s imagination but is actually incredibly real, does one definitively discover the most authentic and immortal, shwe (gold) essence of Bagan.

 Rome, 20 April 2018

[memoirsofagenie]

The Lupercale: Legend becoming History

           After several years working in the city-center, one is always amazed at the reactions of awe and marvel that field officers –or even external visitors- have after having coffee in the terrace of the Roman Headquarters of my working place. In fact, if we consider how the daily hustle and bustle of life makes even the Romans themselves almost indifferent –or better, it makes them “take for granted”- the tangible history that surrounds them, it should not surprise at all that a banal daily ritual such as drinking coffee in the terrace –either at breakfast or after lunch- prevents those of us who work at Headquarters to stop, take a look and realize that our offices are truly located in the “cradle of the cradle” of Western civilization. How so?

           Geographically speaking, my office’s Headquarters rest mainly on the Aventine hill and overlook the Circus Maximus in its entirety. It is indeed the Circus Maximus that separates the Aventine from the opposite Palatine hill. Moreover, of the seven hills of Rome, the latter is considered the centremost part of Rome, for not only does it rise above the ancient Roman Forum, but it also contains the Domus Livia, the residence of Rome’s first Emperor, Augustus (63 B.C.-14 A.D.)

           Anyone with a minimal knowledge of history, knows or has heard the legend of Roman inception. Very briefly, Rome was founded by Romulus and Remus, the two twin brothers, children of the Vestal Virgin Rea Silvia and of the God Mars. Legend has it that Rea Silvia abandoned the brothers in order to save them from the wrath of the King Amulius, who wanted to kill them. Hence, she placed them in a basket and left them by the side of the Tiber River. It was precisely by the banks of the Tiber River that a she-wolf found the twins. The she-wolf saved the twins and sheltered them in a cave, where she later suckled them. The cave came to be known as the “Lupercale”. (The root of the word “Lupercale” is “lupo”, which means “wolf”.)

           In line with the Roman tradition, by which all Emperors re-connected themselves to their predecessors –and the way they did this was by either building their self-glorifying monuments next to the ones of their predecessors, so as to show their link to the past, or by building on top of “spoliae” (past ruins left by their predecessors),- the first Emperor of Rome, Augustus, not only restored the Lupercale to its ancient splendour , but he also built his residence on top of the exact spot where it was believed to be. Augustus wanted to demonstrate his divine descendancy by placing his home on top of this mythological sanctuary.

           The Lupercale remained a sacred site up until the 5th century A.D. approximately, for before Pope Gelasius I forbid people to walk or be around the sacred spot, the “Lupercalia” (ancient rituals to invoke fertility, inspired on the foundation of Rome) were also celebrated in this mythical cave. The cave then disappeared into oblivion until 1526, when the greatest historian of ancient Roman history of all times, Bartolomeo Marliano, prompted the hypothesis of its existence and attempted to describe it, yet, given the lack of adequate resources and means in those days, was never successful in truly finding it.

            Who would have thought that this finding would be made in our times?...

            In a statement that stunned the world, the Italian archaeologist Irene Papi, announced on 26 January 2007 that a cave which might have been the “Lupercale” was found. Despite various controversies that arose among dissenting scholars, the confirmation that the hypogeum discovered was indeed the Lupercale arrived on 20 November 2007. A micro-camera was submerged 16 meters below the excavations taking place in the Palatine. A circular cave, 9 meters tall and with a diameter of 7.5 meters was located. The cave, presented a coffered ceiling and other polychrome marble mosaic decorations, together with scattered white shells and the “white eagle” (Augustus’s undisputed symbol), all very rich decorations that altogether, matched the descriptions provided during Augustus’s own times by the Greek historian Dionysius of Halicarnassus. To give an ulterior, sure proof was the fact that the cave is located precisely on the area known in antiquity as the “Germalus”, the slope of the Palatine hill that leads to the Tiber River. In fact, in his will, Augustus had specifically mentioned the “Germalus”, and how he restored the entire area contiguous to it, including the Lupercale itself. For us, modern spectators, the Lupercale is located by the wall of Aurelius’s temple, between the Temple of Apollo Palatine and the Church of Saint Anastasia, at the same level of the Circus Maximus.

           When the Lupercale was discovered, the former Mayor of Rome –then Minister for Cultural Affairs- Francesco Rutelli, announced that in early 2008, the Lupercale would be open to the public. By March 2008, the countdown should have come to a close, however ten years have passed and it is (still) closed to the public. In any case, as tourists and art-lovers in their own city, the Romans, together with the foreigners and other expatriates living in Rome, may someday soon be enabled to partake of this legend and make it history with their physical presence. As for those of us sharing my workplace, knowing that we are merely at a stone’s throw from the Lupercale will, if anything, make our coffee-time in the terrace less banal and, as we contemplate the Circus Maximus from above (again, knowing what we now know!), probably...more legendary.

(Genie, Rome, 10 January 2018)

[memoirsofagenie]

Samarkand, Samarkand…

In the cerulean eye of the old voyager

Time has no fixed beginning and no known end

As he haphazardly and hopelessly tries to mend

The vagabond memories of his life as an adventurer…

Back in the day of the Mongolian campaign

He undertook a great odyssey from lands afar

When the Silk Road had serendipitously led him to Mā warā' al-Nahr

Revealing the wonders of Tamerlane’s Transoxian reign…

While the sun was setting on the huge minarets beyond the Oxus river,

It delineated the three polychrome madrahsas embracing the Registan square

And in turn the majestic Bibi-Khanym mosque with its beauty so rare

Painted a mesmerizing palette that made the gallant knight shiver…

His regal black stallion had finally delivered him to the mythical land!

Hence invoking Alexander the Great and reviving the glories of yore

He had indeed discovered the legendary crossroads of cultures on Amu-Darya’s shore…

And at last, called forth by infinite incantation, he cried “Samarkand, Samarkand…”!

(Genie, 22 June 2007)

[memoirsofagenie]

A Roman talk with Hollywood “Top Gun”, Chris Lebenzon

“I just try to put myself in the place of a viewer.” (Chris Lebenzon)

If ever there was a symbol that loudly and visibly spells America both inside and beyond its boundaries, surely it must be Hollywood: Hollywood intended as the quintessential definition of cinema, as the dream-machine, the factory where all works of imagination are materialized and brought to life onscreen through the Seventh Art.

For many of us, the love affair with Hollywood (and cinema in general) starts early on.  As an Italian (and a Roman), one might also say the tradition runs in our DNA, given the past of Cinecittà. Let’s face it, some movies, aside from setting the mood for entire generations (like “Top Gun” in the Eighties or more recently “Alice in Wonderland”, just to mention two), also deliver a parallel way of looking at reality, representing altogether the director’s vision. In fact, a director’s body of work,  on a more general and technical note, sets out to divulge his personal style.  While onscreen, his vision can occasionally be determined by a particular –and recurring– choice of “stars”, there is always more than meets the eye. Off-screen and behind the scenes, the director’s team –or crew– is also fundamental in purporting this vision. An important partnership within the crew, overlooked by the inexperienced “lay” eyes,  is the one between the director and the editor. Little is known about editors, however it is their bravura and sensibility what ultimately create the final connection between the director and the viewer, more specifically, between the director’s original intentions or message and the viewer’s comprehension and enjoyment of the film.

Against this introductory backdrop, it is no coincidence that films such as “Top Gun” and “Alice in Wonderland” were mentioned. As much as they may seem different (and they are!), the former was directed by Tony Scott whereas the latter by Tim Burton, nonetheless they were edited by the same person: Chris Lebenzon,  A.C.E. (American Cinema Editor).  Although Mr. Lebenzon has edited almost 40 feature films during the course of his career –a career which began in the late seventies– for the sake of brevity he has agreed to share details of precisely these two very important partnerships (with directors Tony Scott and Tim Burton), not before giving us a few biographical highlights that led him to be a twice-nominated Academy-Award editor and the recipient of the Eddie Award in 2007 and 2010 .

Mr. Lebenzon, many of us decide during childhood what we want to be when we grow up. In your case, did you always want to be an editor?

I didn't always want to be an editor. In fact, like most people I didn't even know what editors do. In the 70s my older brother knew the filmmakers of the movie Woodstock. They were hoping to make a movie on the American Revolution to coincide with America's Bicentennial in 1976. They needed a young assistant, so I left art school and moved to L.A. The director owned the first flatbed editing machine.  I would play on the machine threading up 16 mm outtakes. It was my first exposure to a professional editing system and I was naturally drawn to it.  They never made the movie, but I met an editor while living at the house who offered me a position on a different project and haven't looked back since. 

What is the goal of an editor, in your opinion? 

The goal is to realize the director’s vision.  I’ve learned that sometimes there is no vision, especially with less experienced directors. In that case, my job is to craft a movie that works. And works on different levels. Hopefully, when we’re finished, the people who made the movie are happy on an artistic level. And the studio is happy on a commercial level. There are many considerations when editing a movie but first and foremost I try to put myself in the place of a viewer, of an audience member.  I see all the footage and with it all the possibilities, and it’s easy to get lost in the process. So I try to remain fresh and bring no preconceptions to the experience of reacting to the footage. If I‘m editing with that mindset, I automatically make the story clear and concise.

This brings us to my next question: How did you and Tony Scott come together? 

My longtime friend, Billy Weber, was hired by Jerry Bruckheimer to edit “Top Gun” together. I had just finished “Weird Science”, which Tony loved.  Billy wanted help editing and brought me one morning to Tony's hotel. His hand was bandaged up. He said he had been in a fistfight the night before. I wasn’t sure if this would be a fruitful collaboration. But we hit it off right away and collaborated on 10 movies together over the next 25 years. 

Let us talk a bit about “Top Gun”, now. A subject, which I am sure, will interest many readers of my generation and beyond… In hindsight, what was it like being part of such a “cult” movie? What did a typical workday feel like? 

There were no typical days. Every day was like a rollercoaster. When the crew moved to Nevada to shoot the aerial scenes, we were buried in footage because of all of the cameras filming the jets. Even the pilots had cameras filming out the window. So Billy and I made select rolls from all of the flying footage. We assembled the aerial scenes from those select rolls and cut them to rock-and-roll music to get the feel of the pace. Those scenes became the basis of the action. Then the actors in the cockpit were filmed. The dialogue was added later with the help of naval advisors. Because the actors wore masks, we could put any dialogue we wanted over the pilots. So in that way we could tell any story we wanted. The hard part was cutting the aerial scenes in a way to reflect the ever-changing story. 

On this note, is having a lot of material to choose from a blessing or a curse?

It can be a curse because you have to find the story in the material, and if it’s not there, it’s much harder. It can be a blessing as well if you’re wanting to create pace, because in pace you need a lot of angles. Tony Scott would put cameras up everywhere. It was much better for his style of picture because he didn’t want you to draw breath, he didn’t want the audience to ever relax. He just kept driving home the excitement level. That shooting style would not benefit all movie genres. I doubt that romantic comedies would benefit from so many angles. Performance is more important. But in action movies, you want to create a sense of excitement and you need the angles to do it.

Going back to Top Gun, in the 2004 behind-the-scenes documentary “Danger Zone”, Billy Weber reveals a shocking detail: the love scene between Tom Cruise and Kelly McGillis was shot after the movie was finished, as an afterthought. (Tony Scott himself agreed that the sensual aspect between the two protagonists was needed to complete the overall story.) Although both actors were working on other projects, they returned to shoot the missing scene, and Bob Badami, the music editor, tucked in the song “Take My Breath Away.” Considering that music is another very important element contributing to a movie’s overall final appearance and success, could you share your side of the story?

After a long day editing, Billy and I would assemble with Don Simpson and Jerry Bruckheimer (the producers), Tony (Scott) and Bob (Badami) at the composer, Harold Faltermeyer’s studio. We would listen to Harold’s music cues and then the music producer Giorgio Moroder would provide demos of songs to place on different scenes to judge how the scenes would play. It was at that studio that the soundtrack came together. The love scene between Kelly McGillis and Tom Cruise was an afterthought. We also needed an additional scene to make Tom Cruise’s character more likable. In early cuts, his character came across as self-centered and unlikable. So we filmed a scene in “Goose’s” (Anthony Edwards) room that softened his character and made him more vulnerable.

Of course, the movie turned out to be a great success, so much so that it stayed in theaters for a year. Any considerations on “Top Gun” becoming the hit that it was (and still is,  for those of us who are nostalgics)?

It was a great feeling to see the long lines and that it kept playing in theaters forever. It didn’t open like blockbuster movies do now, with huge numbers… it just steadily played throughout the whole summer. Wherever I would travel, “Top Gun” songs were on the radio.

Now, back to more recent times.  When and how exactly did you start collaborating with Tim Burton?

I had finished a movie with a director who knew Tim’s producer. That producer called me in for an interview with Tim. So I went in to talk to him. I had always admired his films for their originality.

How was it like editing with Tim Burton?

He is a very instinctive guy, so maybe he thought we’d get on in the editing room pretty well. He’s also the kind of director that doesn’t micro-manage, he doesn’t sit behind me at the computer and say “try this, try that, do this, do that”… he keeps a very broad view of the world and of the movie. A lot of directors get very lost in the detail, and they’re overworking the minutiae of the movie, which sometimes can put the big picture at risk. Tim’s dailies always surprise me with their originality. He is also the kind of person that makes people want to help him in any way possible.

Of all the movies done with Scott and/or Burton, do you have any favorite(s) and why? 

I think my favorite was “Ed Wood” (Burton). It represented my first black-and-white effort. We edited the movie in New  York in the winter. It was very soothing to go from a record cold winter in New York to the comfort of black-and-white imagery on such an off-beat subject. Plus I missed a giant earthquake that hit Los  Angeles while I was there! 

How do you ultimately approach an edit?

What I found is that my first instincts are usually the best. I think in life that’s true as well. If you second-guess yourself, sometimes bad decisions are made. I just start with what I think is the best performance in a pattern that best tells the story and work as fast as I can relying on first instincts. Then I’ll go back and wander through the material adding beats that I like. Every scene is different, every movie is different, and every studio is different but my approach is always the same. 

Last but not least, are there any other funny and/or interesting behind-the-scenes anecdotes (involving not only the directors, but also producers and/or the stars themselves) that you would care to share? 

I have many behind-the-scenes anecdotes involving directors, producers and stars…  but none are suitable for printing!  If I shared them I would never work again!!!  

§§§ 

At present, Mr. Lebenzon is working on the much awaited Disney live-action motion picture, “Maleficent”, scheduled for release in May 2014 and starring Angelina Jolie in the eponymous role of the wicked witch from “Sleeping Beauty.” Tim Burton was to originally direct it, yet he pulled out to focus on some of his other projects. He is being replaced by two time (consecutive) Academy Award Winner, Robert Stromberg. 

Given these wonderful premises, and in particular after the reassuring insights provided by Mr. Lebenzon, as anxious viewers we can only thrive on anticipation, confident that the “old” movie magic will happen all over again when we flock to the movie theaters next spring! 

(Genie, Rome, 13 November 2013)

[memoirsofagenie]

La Parada del Quai d’Orsay

Con fuerza angelical, caen las gotas de lluvia sobre mi alma

Y resuena en la distancia el melódico y tembloroso eco de Edith Piaf,

Mientras el ensueño del Sena y el espejismo de la ciudad color sepia

Cobran vida ante mi húmeda y nostálgica mirada...

Con frenesí, los amantes aceleran su paso aterciopelado

Y como en una foto de Robert Doisneau, su beso apasionado ignora los espectadores

Los cuales, a su vez, contemplan suspirando los techos de la Ciudad de la Luz

Que se iluminan cual retrato impresionista de antaño...

En la parada del Quai d’Orsay, tarareando bajo mi paraguas

Me acarician las notas inmortales de una polonesa chopiniana

Que descienden con pasión desde la colina de Montmartre

En la espera de aquel autobús que perturbaría sin remordimientos mi momentánea ilusión...

Con el pasar de los años, al pensar en París no evoco tan solo a la Torre Eiffel

Y en mi efímera imaginación, no siempre se persiguen Notre Dame y el Hotel de Ville

Porque en mi corazón el único recuerdo que late con incesante y romántico fervor

Es aquella parada del Quai d’Orsay, que aún veo en cada espejo retrovisor...

(Genie, 20 de octubre de 2002)

[memoirsofagenie]

A UTOPIAN WEEK-END IN TUSCANY

           The word “utopian” means “characterized by or aspiring to impracticable perfection.” However, no pun’s intended –nor does the author want to make a public display of all-Italian hubris, so to speak- when saying that such a perfection can literally (or perhaps just artistically and architecturally) be found in the various “città d’arte” –artistic cities- within the Italian Peninsula.

           More often that not, or maybe because it is the birthplace of the Renaissance, the Region of Tuscany always seems to be more famous than the other nineteen Italian regions in terms of urban masterpieces. Even people who have never come to Italy seem to experience pleasurable abandonment when the word Tuscany is uttered. Furthermore, names such as Florence, Siena, Pisa, Pistoia, and San Gimignano jostle each other in the collective minds –both Italian and foreign. Nevertheless, and although there is no intention to belittle the greatness of the former names, Tuscany also has other not-so-hidden treasures: Pienza and Lucca. Their fame may not be as great as that of their “neighbors”, but for those tired of the usual clichés, these jewels are certainly worth exploring.

           Our first utopian city, Pienza, is located in the Orcia Valley. Although its Roman and Etruscan remains still testify its greatness as a “suburb”, its social and economic development- therefore, its true history- really began in the 8th century A.D. Originally known as Rutiliano, Pienza later became known as Corsignan’ de Ladri. (De’ Ladri meaning “of thieves”. In fact, during its development, it became a connecting passageway between big cities, for thieves and other unworthy businessmen.)

           Like the Medici in Florence, Pienza too found its patrons in the Piccolomini family. The Piccolomini, an impoverished noble family who had been banished from San Bernardino to Corsignano, yielded a leading figure: Enea Silvio.

          Enea Silvio Piccolomini would also become a main influential personae of the entire Renaissance. After heading to Siena for his law studies at the age of eighteen, he became very much involved in literature, poetry, religious thoughts, humanism and the Renaissance in general. Still, it wasn’t until he turned forty that he became a priest, subsequently a bishop and finally a cardinal. In 1458, Pope Callixtus III died, giving the Sienese cardinal Enea Silvio Piccolomini the chance to participate in the conclave. Enea Silvio Piccolomini thus became Pope Pious II.

          One of his greatest ambitions was to transform the little suburb into an ideal city. Given his love for humanism, it was no surprise that he gathered his inspiration from the ideas of revival and rebirth from the past. With this in mind, in May 1459 he placed the construction of the new city in the hands of yet another humanist – and one of Leon Battista Alberti’s immortal pupils- Bernardo Gambarelli, better known as Rossellino. Works ended in 1462. Pope Pious II not only named the city after himself, hence Pienza, but he also urged the Papacy to relocate to this new town. The Papacy did move, but only for a short period of time.

          Perhaps the greatest artistic masterpiece of Pienza that can still be admired today is certainly its Cathedral. One of Rossellino’s great works, it was built using local sandstone, travertine from the nearby Bagno Vignoni, and terracotta. Although the Cathedral’s interior has many beautiful sculptures and lavish paintings, the three main highlights that should not be missed are: the style of the Dome, the little inner Temple, and the Altar. The Dome is a beautiful mixture of Gothic and Renaissance styles, whereas the little inner Temple contains an ancient Byzantine shrine which Thomas Paleologist of Moor donated to Pope Pious II in return for his [the Pope’s] appreciation of foreign cultures. Lastly, the Altar itself is really another sculpture by Rossellino.

          Our second Tuscan utopia is Lucca:

          “Enclosed within a perfect circuit of defense walls, which are surmounted by a marvelous tree-lined promenade and bordered by broad green lawns, Lucca is a city with a unique and striking aspect. Seen from the air it appears as a large green oval densely filled with houses, churches and bell towers. One of Italy’s best preserved historic towns, it affords an extraordinary image of a once-autonomous city-state. Today, Lucca might be characterized as a prosperous and dignified small city where wealth is not flaunted and life is simple but marked by great civility.” (Richards) 

          The above description of this Tuscan gem ends with a rather striking assertion, where the term “civility” plays a key role. In fact, it is precisely this quality –or the lack thereof, for that matter- that helped achieve today’s [tranquil] status.

           Matter-of- factly, Lucca’s first settlers were Ligurian tribes. It was a guard post on the Etruscan borders. From 180 B.C. until the 2nd century A.D., Lucca was a Roman colony. The Roman influence can still be appreciated through the oval piazza, which could really be the ancient venue of an amphitheater. Moving ahead in the chronological scale, Lucca was taken over by the Lombards and the Carolingian Empire in the 6th century, only to become, soon after, the capital of the Marquistate of Tuscany –which was home to many bishops. Finally, during the mid-12th century, Lucca became an independent, self-governed state. After the tyrannies exerted by Uguccione della Faggiuola and Castruccio Castracani degli Antelminelli, the main rulers –or tyrants- between 1400 and 1430, were the Guinigi family, headed by the despotic figure of Paolo Guinigi.

           It is only during the 16th century, however, that Lucca started undergoing radical changes. At this time, its mercantile families were building an empire. They set up a General Council of the Republic, which at its inception (1431-1531) was composed of ninety members. Later, the members increased to one-hundred-and-twenty. Nine Elders were appointed at the Head of State. They had the task of electing a chief official, or “gonfaloniere”, for a period of two months. (This procedure prevented the sitting ruler from abusing his power.) Apart from this governmental machine, new factories and industries flourished, and other public-services developed for the well-being of the people.

           Finally, between 1544 and 1650, oval walls were built around the city as a means of protection against their eternal enemy, Pisa, and the ever-present omen of the Florentine Medici family. These “threats” would only end at the beginning of the 19th century, when trees were planted surrounding the walls. The walls themselves became public promenades. The trees also served to reinforce the earth within the ramparts, and to provide an emergency wood supply.

           This miniature republic had also garnered status as an important economic center. Due to its power, it was able to further defend itself from France and Spain. At a later time, from 1805 to 1814, Napoleon’s sister, Elisa Bonaparte and her husband Felice Baciocchi ruled the city. In 1817, it was the turn of the Duchess Marie Louise of Bourbon. Finally, in 1847, Carlo Ludovico, son of Marie Louise, ceded Lucca to the Grand Duchy of Tuscany, putting an end to its autonomous government.

           But what has remained of this glorious past today? Certainly, Lucca’s main historical landmarks are -as previously mentioned- its surrounding walls together with its Cathedral. The latter contains two phenomenal works of art. The first one being a large carved and painted wooden crucifix, called the Holy Face, whereas the second is the tomb of Ilaria del Carretto, second wife of Lucca’s medieval patron, Paolo Guinigi. The crucifix is a replica of the one done by Nicodemus, as he tried to record Christ’s features. Legend has it that Nicodemus was unable to complete Christ’s face, thus leaving the angels to complete task. As for the tomb of Ilaria del Carretto, it was sculpted by the great Sienese artist, Jacopo della Quercia.

           The surrounding walls of the city deserve a separate description. The walls were planned by expert military engineers of the day and are over 2.5 miles in length. The brick ramparts are more than 40 feet high and 98 feet thick at their base. In their heyday, their artillery consisted of 125 large-caliber cannons and two behemoths of 12thousand pounds. The bastions are still entered from the city at street level. Within the bastions lay halls –ancient ammunition storages- connected to their upper parts by spiral staircases. A particular characteristic of the bastions was that they were all named either after a Saint, or the Virgin Mary or after Christ himself to invoke God’s protection. The only exception was the bastion leaning towards Florence: it was called the Bastion of Liberty. None of the three gates within the walls points in Florence’s direction.

     “Recondita armonia di bellezze diverse/[...]l’arte, nel suo mistero, le diverse bellezze insiem confonde” ... “What strange and lovely harmony of such different beauties/[...] Art, too, with its many mysteries, blends all together”...such were the verses Lucchese opera-composer Giacomo Puccini orchestrated for Cavaradossi in Tosca , sung as he painted the picture of the Madonna. Like in Cavaradossi’s canvas, Pienza’s and Lucca’s historical memories unfold and blend ceaselessly creating a most singular, utopian painting. We, on the other hand, as later spectators-and-“painters” of history ourselves, can only [again, like Cavaradossi] marvel in blissful awe at the passionate protagonists and their feats in the denouement of the cities’ histories and legacies. What is more, just like the Sacristan in Tosca sings “scherza coi fanti e lascia stare i santi...”, posterity tells us to “play with the knaves and leave the saints alone!”,  as only saints in disguise can truly leave behind such wonders for later generations to admire…

1)      Richards, Harold. “Lucca, Gem of Tuscany,” Italy, Italy Mag., 1989, p.8.

(Genie, 20 October 2009)

[memoirsofagenie]

Il Portone Blu di Sidi Bou Saïd

Con l’orecchio sulla sabbia

L’eco di Cartagine Annibale ascoltava,

Mentre il suo sguardo all’orizzonte

Il Mediterraneo contemplava…

E’ questo il mosaico del passato

Che rivivo camminando,

A piedi scalzi sul tunisino bagnasciuga

Dolcemente naufragando…

La Mano di Fatima appesa sul mio collo

Mi guida attraverso l’ermetica Medina,

Ed il suo occhio blu si schiude

Al salire la collina…

In vetta ai marabutti e dai bianchi davanzali

Kaïs e Leïla si affacciano contenti,

Inebriati dall’aroma della menta e del té

Gridano il loro amore ai quattro venti…

E intanto io mi confondo in mezzo alla folla

Stordita dal fumo spettrale di un narghilé,

Tra i mille volti delle viuzze incantate

La mia anima ti cerca ignara del perché…

Avvolta dal velo dell’improvvisa passione

Il mio cuore perso incalza dietro la tua scia,

Quando irreversibilmente appari tu...

…da quel portone blu…

…di Sidi Bou Saïd!

(Genie, 27 July 2007) 

[memoirsofagenie]

Ventricles of The Roman Heart: The Rione Regola

The number of “città d’arte” (art cities) scattered throughout Italy is almost impossible to count, with each gem being typically emblematic of a particular historical period. Take for example the Northern Lombard cities of Bergamo and Pavia, or Umbrian cities such as Perugia, Assisi, Spello, and Gubbio, which are all to this day vivid testaments to the country’s prolific medieval past. Go to Venice and it is the triumph of Rococo and eighteenth-century architecture; travel to Florence and it’s Renaissance at every turn. Head to Lecce or Noto and you will gape at the dizzying ornamentations of the Baroque edifices. Everywhere along the Boot, one is bound to find significant relics of Italy’s immense cultural splendor - it's not by chance that 70 percent of the world’s artistic heritage lies here.

Rome, of course, is another story altogether!

The Eternal City is, quite possibly, the “città d’arte of the città d’arte”, where blink-and-you'll-miss-it could not be more warranted. By this we are not merely making boisterous claims about its obvious and undisputed grandeur which harks back to its ancient, pre-Christian times, but what is equally incredibly fascinating is what remains of the subsequent historical periods, each of which have left unique traces of romanità.

Amidst this very intricate weave, the Roman “rioni” (or quarters) hold a very special place, given that in their heyday, they were little towns within the bigger town, which probably explains why even today many residents claim that Rome is a big city with the advantage of the small-town approach, a trait that manifests itself in Rome’s different neighborhoods, each with distinct idiosyncrasies, and where everybody tends to know each other. These are the areas where you can still run into authentic romani de’ Roma, in a city overrun by commuters and tourists on any given day.

Rome has been divided into rioni since the time of Emperor Augustus, who ruled from 27 BC until his death in AD 14. The word itself derives from regiones, meaning regions. Centuries later, in 1743, Pope Benedict XIV defined the areas more rigidly, so as to better control the rising population and administer the city properly. In more recent  times, the original fourteen rioni underwent further subdivisions up until 1921, when the total number became twenty-two. Considering the vastness of the city, the original fourteen are all currently grouped within Rome’s first municipality (Rome has a total of nineteen municipalities.) 

One such rione, dense with history, is the seventh one: Rione Regola. Although most historians and linguists concur that the name regola derives from arenula (sand), given its proximity to the Tiber River banks, later accounts derive the name from the word reola (rule) - albeit applied sarcastically - due to the corruption present in the area, which, of course, needed to be “regulated” through the rule of law. In fact, commerce was bound to bring corruption, and nowhere was this more possible than in Rione Regola, which was famed for being a bustling commercial hub, as can be deduced from the names of the streets: Via dei Balestrari (crossbow makers), Via dei Baullari (trunk makers), Via dei Cappellari (milliners), Via dei Catinari (basin makers), Via dei Giubbonari (blouse makers), Via dei Pettinari (comb makers), Via delle Zoccolette (a special type of shoes worn by young girls housed in the orphanage built by Pope Clement XII), amongst others. The rione also encloses the Via Arenula, thus lending more credence to the etymological origin of today’s Regola. Besides commercial activity, the area was within the Campo Marzio that once contained a trigarium, a race-track where three-horsed chariots (triga) would train, only to later compete at the nearby Domitian’s Stadium (underneath modern-day Piazza Navona, in the neighboring Rione Parione.) The deliciously quaint Via di Monserrato happens to be one of the main roads that defines Regola. It is also the road where the noblewoman Beatrice Cenci was jailed and put to trial for parricide in 1599; she was executed along with her stepmother just across the river at Castel Sant’Angelo. Chroniclers of the time noted that the likes of Caravaggio and Orazio Gentileschi were present at the gruesome event.

Along with the aforementioned Via di Monserrato, two other arteries define the borders of the 32 hectares of the Rione: Lungotevere Tebaldi (parallel to the Tiber River) and Via Giulia (named in honor of Pope Julius II, and which marked its 500th anniversary in 2008.) But perhaps one of the most noteworthy details is the astonishing amount of churches Rione Regola has. Originally, twenty-five churches were to be counted within the territory, but to this day only twenty remain (twenty-one if we count the deconsecrated San Giovanni in Ayno.) The other four are no longer extant, although traces of their old locations still remain in past records. Luckily some of their treasures have been salvaged and moved to other sacred venues, as in the case of San Bartolomeo dei Vaccinari (where vaccinari refers to “ox men”, owing to the presence of tanneries and slaughterhouses in the Rione back in the day), demolished circa 1885 for the construction of Via Arenula; its altar is now in the Cathedral of Asmara, in Eritrea.

Rione Regola is also famous for a few of Rome’s more sumptuous patrician palaces, such as Palazzo Spada (home to Borromini’s masterful perspective hallway), Palazzo Falconieri (home to the Hungarian Academy, also built by Borromini), and presumably the most famed of them all, Palazzo Farnese, the headquarters of the French Embassy in Rome. This last Palazzo would merit an article all on its own, given the countless artistic masterpieces it houses, in particular the Sala dei Fasti Farnesiani (the current office of the French Ambassador, overlooking Piazza Farnese) and the Carracci Gallery, adorned with breathtaking frescoes painted by the eponymous brothers, Annibale and Agostino. Each year, the Palazzo opens its doors to host cultural and social events; one that is much anticipated is the Carnival Ball, held every two years and at which the American expat community has been a distinguished guest, as a result of the enduring American-French friendship. Adjacent to it, when making your way towards the delightful via Giulia, which in the early 1500s was the longest road in Rome, you'll notice an archway that is one of the most picturesque corners of the city, the so-called Arcata dei Farnesi: initially intended as a bridge over the Tiber that connected the larger Palazzo to the Villa Farnesina in Trastevere, it was never completed and hence the first part of the bridge is now the “archway”.

The international allure of the Rione Regola spills over into the nearby Piazza Campo de’ Fiori. Although it belongs more specifically to the Rione Parione, it borders with the Rione Regola through Via dei Cappellari and Via dei Giubbonari. Aside from hosting the flower market (and where philosopher Giordano Bruno was infamously burned at the stake in 1600), it has become a hot spot of sorts, where swaths of youth congregate for a lively (even if some locals lament too lively) week-end scene. Though Roman presence is unwavering, American and international students alike have made this Piazza (and the entire area, actually!) the go-to place. Wading through the crowds that descend on Campo de’ Fiori on a Saturday night makes it difficult to believe that this same rione is credited with the origins of a very autochthonous Roman dish, coda alla vaccinara (Roman oxtail stew, cooked up by the same “ox men” lauded in the former church of San Bartolomeo dei Vaccinari). Along these same lines, it's not surprising that a quintessentially Roman actor, Carlo Verdone, who was mentored by incomparable Alberto Sordi and whose parodying of Roman faults and virtues has made him his artistic heir, was born in the Rione Regola.

A lot has been said and written on Rione Regola in centuries past, however much is still shrouded in mystery. Where, for example, did the hind on its coat of arms come from, considering there were no deer in the surroundings? It is the quest for answers to centennial or millennial enigmas like this one that confirm, time and again, Rome’s greatness. Given that Rome is a multi-layered city that thrives on spoliae of old monuments, the virtual chase for hidden meanings can never be considered fully closed or archived. So next time you stroll through the vicoli (alleyways) of the Rione Regola, keep your eyes wide open, as ultimately, Rome’s best explorers and discoverers are its tourists and residents. Arrivederci a presto!

(Genie, 30 October 2016)

[memoirsofagenie]

El Eterno Duelo Barroco

Al día de hoy, la palabra “Roma” en sí, evoca en la mayoría de los extranjeros e inclusive en muchos de los romanos mismos,  imágenes de su glorioso pasado imperial. Es prácticamente imposible no pensar a la saga de Rómulo y Remo, a hombres y mujeres   vestidos en togas blancas, a los Césares, al Coliseo, al Circo Máximo, al Foro, y a un sinfín de otros vestigios, personajes y símbolos de casi 3000 años de edad. Pero al pasear por las calles y callejuelas romanas, se percibe inmediatamente una mágica e indudable dicotomía.  Porque existe otra huella que es indeleble y que contribuyó– a la par de la Era Imperial- de manera decisiva, a forjar la actual apariencia de la Ciudad Eterna: la Era Barroca.

Los historiadores concuerdan con que la  Era Barroca tuvo inicio en el año1600.  Si en Florencia las grandes familias de comerciantes y  patrocinadores privados se encargaron de financiar el desarrollo y el embellecimiento de la ciudad, en Roma fueron el papado y las familias aristocráticas. Las controversias eran inevitables, pues la inmensa riqueza que estos dos grupos elitistas  acumulaban, no hacía más que incrementar las tensiones sociales ya presentes entre ellos mismos, los protestantes y las familias pobres. Sin embargo, la iglesia –cuyos cardenales venían principalmente de dichas familias aristocráticas -buscaba como glorificarse siempre más a pesar de las circunstancias. Por eso, fueron comisionadas las grandes obras (mayormente palacios, plazas, fuentes e iglesias) que aún hoy admiramos, dictando el comienzo, a su vez, del mayor antagonismo creativo de todos los tiempos...el “eterno duelo barroco” entre los dos mejores arquitectos que Roma tenía en ese momento, Bernini (1598-1680) y Borromini (1599-1667).

Con tan solo un año de diferencia, las personalidades de Gian Lorenzo Bernini y de Francesco Borromini no podían ser más distintas. El primero era hijo de Pietro, reconocido escultor napolitano. Desde muy temprana edad, Bernini estaba acostumbrado a la vida en la corte y a la alta sociedad en general. Siempre fue muy bien remunerado por sus obras, sobretodo por  su patrocinador oficial, Maffeo Barberini (Papa Urbano VIII). Por otra parte, Borromini era un verdadero “proletario.” Aunque apellidara Castelli y fuera el descendiente directo de Carlo Maderno -el renombrado arquitecto que trabajó en la construcción de la Basílica de San Pedro,- Francesco Borromini cambió su apellido para tener la misma raíz que la de San Carlos Borromeo. Asimismo,  el nombre de Borromini siempre se ha asociado al de las varias órdenes religiosas por las cuales trabajó, tales que los Monjes Filipenses, para quienes construyó la Chiesa Nuova (la Nueva Iglesia) al lado de su iglesia original de San Felipe Neri. También figuran entre estas órdenes los Trinitarios, quienes le comisionaron la iglesia de San Carlo alle Quattro Fontane, mejor conocida como “San Carlino” por su pequeña dimensión. Borromini trabajaba gratuitamente, pues solo así podía decidir los proyectos que ejecutaría y también tener el control absoluto sobre sus obras. Mas tarde fue patrocinado por Papa Inocencio X.

El Papa Inocencio X era un miembro de la familia Pamphilj, y como tal,  aborrecía el derroche de dinero de los Barberini, sobretodo por manos de su predecesor, Urbano VIII. De hecho, con el pasar del tiempo, las diferencias entre los dos arquitectos fueron fortalecidas aun más por la rivalidad entre estos dos Papas patrocinadores.

Bernini era un artista a 360°, puesto que era un escultor/pintor y arquitecto que creía en la dominación completa del espacio. Sus creaciones tridimensionales siguen siendo “escenas en movimiento”. Basta con pensar en su escultura de San Andrés sobre el altar de Sant’Andrea al Quirinale, o al Éxtasis de Santa Teresa de Ávila situada al interno de la Capilla Cornaro en Santa Maria de la Vittoria, para sentirse parte integrante de estas escenas. Bernini le era sumamente fiel al espíritu barroco, por lo que quería transmitir emociones a través del color y de la experiencia visual. Este mismo espíritu barroco lo encontramos en otras dos obras comisionadas por el Papa Urbano VIII, como la Fuente Barberini y la Fuente del Tritón, las dos situadas al comienzo de la Vía Veneto. La primera fue decorada con “abejas”, elemento clave del blasón de la familia Barberini, mientras que la segunda representa a la divinidad marina del Tritón soplando agua por un caracol.

En respuesta a esta opulencia, cabe mencionar que Borromini fue un “purista” en el sentido mas estricto de la palabra. Él basaba sus obras maestras en figuras geométricas y prefería usar el blanco en vez de varios colores, ya que temía la presencia de cualquier elemento que pudiese distraer la atención del espectador hacia la arquitectura en sí. Los rasgos personales de su arquitectura incluían el ladrillo tallado fino y cubierto de pintura blanca, así como otros toques casi imperceptibles: el alternar pilares jónicos normales a otros en los cuales se invertía el sentido de las hélices ornamentales o el alternar de las barandillas de los balcones, así como lo hizo en el claustro de la Chiesa Nuova. Sin lugar a dudas, Sant’Ivo alla Sapienza es quizás una de sus más grandes creaciones. Su cúpula, vista interiormente, tiene la forma de la Estrella de David, símbolo de sabiduría, mientras que su campanario espiral simboliza la Torre de Babel, que durante el Renacimiento y la Era Barroca fue símbolo de conocimiento. Paradójicamente, esta iglesia le fue comisionada por la familia Barberini, ya que en su interior encontramos nuevamente a las abejas, y hasta la forma de estrella de la bóveda recuerda vagamente a una abeja estilizada.

Poco a poco, Roma se embellecía con las manos de estos dos genios. Gracias a Bernini y a Borromini, el Renacimiento se había extendido hasta entrar a pleno título en la Era Barroca. ¿Cuándo, entonces, las que parecían una simple diferencia de estilo y una sana competición, se transformaron en conflicto? El duelo verdadero se abrió oficialmente cuando el Papa Inocencio X llamó a Borromini para que éste completara el complejo arquitectónico que incluía el Palazzo Pamphilj, así como la vecina iglesia de Santa Agnese in Agone, en Piazza Navona. Al Papa Inocencio X poco le importaba patrocinar el arte en sí. Su mayor interés, como bien sabemos, era el de contrarrestar el enorme despilfarro y los gastos superfluos de los Barberini.  

Bajo este esquema y en virtud de sus vínculos con los Barberini, a Gian Lorenzo Bernini le fue hasta prohibido acercarse al emplazamiento de la obra. Aún así, el difícil carácter de Francesco Borromini y su falta de puntualidad en la finalización de las obras, no tardaron en tener repercusiones. El complejo arquitectónico logró terminarse gracias a la familia Rainaldi, la cual confió la obra a la escuela de Bernini. Pero la gota que derramó la copa no tardaría en llegar...

El Papa Inocencio X tuvo otra idea brillante, la de construir una fuente frente a la iglesia de Santa Agnese, para que el complejo arquitectónico apenas terminado pudiese conectarse al Agua Virgo y beneficiar de esta agua, que según la historia, brotaba desde la época Imperial. El mismo Bernini supo aprovechar de la oportunidad y con la ayuda de amigos influyentes, logró hacer llegar “de contrabando” dos de sus diseños al Papa Inocencio X. Este último, al ver la belleza de los diseños, perdonó a Bernini y le encargó de construir la Fuente de los Cuatro Ríos, despidiendo para siempre a Borromini. Mas tarde, el Papa admitiría que para “evitar los trabajos de Bernini, había que evitar verlos”. La fuente fue completada, y sigue representando a los cuatro ríos principales conocidos en ese entonces, así como el control sobre ellos (y las tierras en las cuales yacían)  por parte de la Iglesia.

Gian Lorenzo Bernini vivió hasta los 82 años. Francesco Borromini, por su parte, se suicidó arrojándose a una espada. Bernini, hasta sus últimos días, fue una máquina productiva incansable, mientras que Borromini jamás se repuso totalmente de la fuerte depresión, causada en gran parte por el episodio acontecido durante la construcción de la Fuente de los Cuatro Ríos.

En italiano existe un dicho: “Tra i due litiganti, il terzo gode...”, en otras palabras, “entre dos que pelean, el tercero disfruta.” Aunque hayan pasado casi cuatro siglos desde esos antiguos esplendores, nada puede impedirnos recordar a estas dos  apoteósicas figuras y a sus “peleas”. Nosotros, como espectadores modernos y guardianes de la tradición, sólo podemos apreciar el legado que los dos nos dejaron, y en medio de este eterno duelo barroco, ser los “terceros que disfrutan.”

(Genie, 17 de abril de 2008)

[memoirsofagenie]

OFF THE BEATEN TRACK...

Having almost three millennia at one’s disposal, and knowing that none of the remnants of Rome’s glorious past have gone unnoticed, it is quite difficult to take you to a place “off the beaten track.” Yet, strangely enough, there are monuments which have been under restoration for as long as I can recall. This condition, eternal like Rome itself, has enveloped such sites with an arcane charm. It would seem as if these thousand-year old destinations have gone back to become, again, a mystery and haunt even the most inquisitive mind. Under these circumstances, both the Romans and the tourists become like Carter in search of Tutankhamen. As amateur Indiana Jones, we raid the vestiges of Rome in search of our [supposedly] Lost Ark. One of these “Lost Arks” is certainly   the Basilica of Porta Maggiore, located in the eponymous piazza.

Porta Maggiore, literally “Major Door” was, as the name indicates, one of the many doors of Rome. It connected, and still does, three main roads: Via di Porta Maggiore, Via Prenestina, and Via Casilina. It is virtually impossible not to stumble across it, as it remains an obligatory passageway, especially when heading to Termini station. At first glance and while waiting for the streetcar to pass, all that can be seen in Piazza di Porta Maggiore is the “Door” itself: a huge arch attached on both sides to two almost-equal slabs of Roman wall. We witness the hectic traffic (another one of our glories), the tomb of a famous Roman baker named Eurisace, and to its right enclosing the whole square, a high wall. The latter is NOT Roman wall, but it is a railroad. On the wall is a little off-limits side-door. This fenced place is not a control’s room or sewage access...it is the entrance to the Basilica!

The Neopythagoric Basilica, named after the sect to whom it pertained, is said to possess one of the most extraordinary examples of stucco decoration dating back to the Imperial period. This building that originates as a “hypogeum” (burial chamber) was accidentally discovered in 1917 under one of the rails of the Rome-Naples railroad. After passing a modern staircase and a narrow hallway (today, closed to the public), across the vestibule, we access the “Aula” on our right side. The “Aula” is very similar to the Early Christian churches. It has three naves, separated by six quadrangular pillars that hold the rounded vaults of the ceiling. At the end of the naves and lined with the central nave is the apse, the semicircular, rounded wall.

The building is irregular and lacks of proportion, particularly because of the construction method adopted. In fact, huge and uneven pits were dug in the “tufo” (typical Roman stone) of the pavement so that the walls could have more stability.  The pavement, like that of the atrium, is made of mosaic: mostly white “tesserae” lined with black ones, which mimic the contours of the walls and those of the bases of statues. As for the stuccoes, they date to the first half of the 1st century A.D. and depict mythological themes which to the present are difficult to interpret in their entirety.

This might seem enough history for such a small environment. Yet, Roman treasures never cease to amaze the bygone generations. The Neopythagoric Basilica keeps unfolding before our eyes like a Chinese box, for it is definitely in its central nave where we find its greatest wonders. In this part of the temple, decorations are divided into three sections. In the center, we encounter the Rape of Ganymede; towards the entrance, the Dioscuri (semi-god) kidnapping a Leucippide, and around it mythical and realistic scenes, whereas on the corners of the main images, Greek mythological scenes are depicted. “Even in the minor naves do we find rich decorations, just like the pillars and under arches. But, the main masterpiece is in the apse, where Sappho throwing herself off the Leucade Cliff –a myth rarely present in classic iconography- symbolizes the freeing of the soul from the weight of matter and through the process of purification.” [1]

A very important factor to keep in mind in Rome is that one cannot be taken to places without being forced to swallow massive amounts of historical details. Indeed, one must perk up his/her ears while not forgetting to wear a comfortable pair of shoes. Above all, one must be very, very patient. Personally, I have been trying to cross the threshold of the Neopythagoric Basilica at regular intervals for the past twenty years, date in which all the roads in my life led back to Rome. Just to mention an episode, one of my best friends from Argentina came to visit in 1997. After a strenuous day of walk, I wanted to impress her (as if she hadn’t been already, modestly speaking!) even more, so we embarked on the final trajectory of the day.

Almost dehydrated and deprived of strength, we approached the door of the temple only to find it closed. Nonetheless, a miracle did happen! One of the workers in charge of restoration was there and told us that repairs would be completed within the next two years... Upon a second occasion in the summer of 1999-whether it was a sign of destiny or not-my friend Veronica crossed the Atlantic again in the hope that her fourteen-hour flight from Buenos Aires would yield some results. Considerably less exhausted than the previous time, we decided to make the Neopythagoric pit stop an initial part of our tour. But once again, no positive results. And no miracles! All we could find was an official tag on the door that confirmed the delay in the restoration process. We would have to wait two more years. Evidently, the time to know the Basilica was not anywhere near, unlike the insight on Italian bureaucracy and its “eternal” timings that my friend was grasping!

Clearly, the perfection of Pythagoras’s Theorem is nowhere to be found, if we consider the geometric defects of my long waits. It is now the year 2018, and I pass in front of the barred mystical entrance practically everyday. The Basilica remained closed and my quest at a standstill up until early January 2016, where intermittent guided tours, granted by the Rome Municipality, allowed me to finally enter its premises. Indeed, the only living element is the train that runs over it with its impeccable punctuality. Perhaps, it is time for a change…

Legend has always had it that an infallible way to come back to Rome is to toss a coin into the Trevi Fountain. The feisty god Oceanus will bid you welcome on his chariot and make you glide through the waters of the world back to Rome. I do not think Oceanus would mind sharing the task with the still somewhat unfathomable expression of Sappho. So, next time you come to Rome (or if it will be your first visit), make it an imperative to pass in front of the Neopythagoric Basilica’s door. It is proven...you will come back to Rome many more times than you would have expected...!

(Genie, 2 January 2018)

 [1] Touring  Club Italiano. Guida d’Italia.ROMA. 8th edition, Milan 1993

[memoirsofagenie]

Did the Renaissance Begin in Florence?

Did the Renaissance begin in Florence? Surely and by its very nature, a question like this one would be enough to horrify even the most illiterate and less traveled individual, for if there is an issue that remains outside discussion and lies beyond the shadow of a doubt, it certainly is the irrefutable truth by which the Renaissance did begin in Florence. Hence, despite being a Roman myself -and notwithstanding the “rivalry” of the Roman Capital with the Tuscan Jewel in the hearts of the millions of tourists that time and again flock to both to cities- my intention is to pay homage to Florence, and in so doing, dissipate any doubts that might still be out there regarding its status as the birthplace of the Renaissance.

The Webster’s New Collegiate Dictionary has always defined the Renaissance as “the transitional movement between the medieval and the modern, marked especially by the revival or rebirth of classical influence.” Such an awakening occurred during the fourteenth to the sixteenth centuries, and it started partly because of new ideas and modern thoughts which began in the Italian peninsula, namely Florence.

For approximately six centuries, Europeans and the other known world of the time, plagiarized Byzantine art, without new inspiration. Little by little, however, Byzantine art began its decline, partly because of its lack of life and due to its artificial and unnatural forms. Byzantine paintings, one could say, were flat and without expression. In fact, Byzantines knew little or nothing about composition and perspective, and even forgot to paint feet or hands in people’s portraits.

Against this backdrop, a young boy from Florence named Cimabue, learned from these Byzantine artists everything they knew, yet gave his own paintings a new flair. His renowned Madonna and Child painting had “real people” in it. It was not, unlike previous art, a collection of geometric lines. His painting was so marvelous and popular that the young Cimabue was hailed and celebrated by the people of his neighborhood –the “Joyful Quarter”. This event, marked the passage from mere decoration to realistic depiction, in turn lighting the spark of the Renaissance.

Florence at this time was considered one of the most beautiful towns in the world, thanks to the Florentines themselves. As all Italic people, the Florentines did not disregard the Ancient Roman heritage where “aesthetic” always accompanies “form.” The Florentines liked to be surrounded by beauty and to be admired. Day after day, they combined heart and soul to make their city an artistic center. Art was reborn on a daily basis in Florence.

The bearer or “patron” responsible for spreading this new concept of Renaissance around Western Europe as felt in Florence was the Florentine de Medici Family. The De Medicis remained perhaps the greatest patrons for over one hundred years. Popular goldsmiths of the time, they began working as bankers too. During the Renaissance, they succeeded in becoming the richest and most prominent bankers in Europe. Their wealth, consequently, benefited Florence in two ways. On the one hand, other businessmen and merchants visited the town, thus the De Medici banks, bringing in more profit for the city’s economy. On the other hand, this same money was then employed on new projects for decorating Florence beautifully, as if it would experience, ceaselessly, an interminable rebirth…or “renaissance”.

Lorenzo… the Magnificent was probably the most renowned De Medici. He owned a school of art, the same one in which he met Michelangelo Buonarroti. Michelangelo was immediately noticed due to his double impressive talent in both sculpture and painting. One of his greatest masterpieces was the statue of “Moses”, which is in a way very unique, given the horns on its head. (On a side note, the “horns” were actually rays of light shining on the face of Moses as he descended Mount Sinai. Early translations of the Holy Bible dubbed the rays of light “horns”. Naturally, Michelangelo resorted to this interpretation when working on his statue. The sculpture is currently kept within the church of San Pietro in Vincoli - St. Peter in Chains,- in Rome.) So much was Michelangelo’s talent, that the Roman Popes requested him to paint the ceilings of the Sistine Chapel in the Vatican, the Popes’ very home.

Once again, through geniuses like Michelangelo and the like, Florence did not only spread industry but also fine arts, to the rest of the Italian Peninsula and Western Europe. Still and all, Florence’s pioneering spirit also extended to other domains of the Liberal Arts, like literature for example.

In this respect, Florence bred two very acclaimed writers. If their names were not disclosed, they could be viewed as one for the great similarities their lives shared. These literati were Francesco Petrarca, or Petrarch, and Durante Alighieri, better known as Dante.

Petrarch’s father and Dante belonged to the same political party, and mainly because of their clairvoyance and innovative thinking, they were forced into exile from Florence. The Petrarchs moved to France, where Francesco completed his studies in Montpellier. As for Dante, records are laconic in indicating where he was banished.

As a child, Dante fell in love with Beatrice Portinari, a much older woman. Upon her death, Dante experienced tremendous suffering. He came to feel that his life was a failure. These negative feelings prompted him to take shelter in an “imaginary world” of his own, where he could finally vindicate his name before the corrupt political entourage. The “imaginary world” in question was his great literary work, The Divine Comedy. The Divine Comedy consisted of three canticles: Inferno, Purgatory and Paradise. Each of these, divided into thirty-four, thirty-three, and thirty-three chants, or “cantos” respectively. In the piece, all of Dante’s punished acquaintances are awaiting for the “Day of Deliverance” to be freed from Purgatory to Heaven. With The Divine Comedy, Florence –through Dante- introduced a new concept: Literary writing in Vernacular, or the popular dialect of the region, gradually abandoning the more official lingua franca, Latin.

Dante wrote in the Tuscan dialect (from which modern-day Italian derives). In the same period in England, Geoffrey Chaucer wrote The Canterbury Tales in the English dialect, whereas in France, The Song of Roland was written in the French dialect. Finally, in Northern Spain, the “troubadours” wrote their lyrical poems in the Provençal dialect.

For his part, while in France, Petrarch decided not to follow in his father’s footsteps. Instead of attending law-school, he pursued studies in literature and gave way to yet another stage of the Renaissance called “Humanism.” (In short, the figure of the individual and his-her centrality in the world lies at the core of Humanism.) He traveled to Flanders, Brabant and the Rhineland and read old manuscripts. After this intense activity, he produced books of his own, and a series of other literary works. His work became more “dramatic” especially after the loss of his loved one, Laura. Through his writings, he connected classical culture to the prevailing Christian message of the period. Indeed, European  Humanism found in him its true founder.

Other illustrious European contemporaries greatly borrowed his ideas and writing style. One of such figures was William Shakespeare. The verbal richness and beauty in Shakespeare’s plays and sonnets takes after Petrarch’s literary, humanistic innovations.

As a final observation, the list of immortal Florentine literary geniuses and artists could go on forever. Moreover, one could argue, or rather, ask the question, why was it that all of this Renaissance happened in Florence and not in other cities? Probably, the answer is to be found in yet another one of Italy’s –and Florence’s, of course- best-kept secrets (to this day): the family…or, in the case of the above-cited examples, family-run business. In essence one could very well conclude that the Renaissance could have happened in other cities, but thanks to great families (or patrons such as the De Medici) who financially helped the artists, Florence became the first and most important city in delivering to the world great people with their great works.

(Genie, 19 October 2009)

[memoirsofagenie]

The “Baby Taj” of India: A Time-Stopping Experience

Throughout the course of millennia, civilization has gradually become accustomed to inextricable historical binomials, such as the Pyramids-Egypt binomial in the African continent or the Colosseum-Italy pairing as regards Europe. In the case of Southeast Asia, the Taj Mahal and India are one of such combinations. However, if Egypt is more than “just” the Pyramids and Italy has more than the Colosseum to offer, the same can be said for India, where, precisely in the city of Agra, the aforecited white wonder is not the only monument on the banks of the Yamuna River. In fact, in order to fully understand the complexity and appreciate the elegance of Mughal architecture, of which the Taj Mahal (built between 1632 and 1653) marks the zenith, one need embark on a chronological, preparatory path like those trodden by the erstwhile caravans on the distant notes of a sitar. A lesser-known, but immensely breathtaking monument that can be said to be the smaller blueprint for the Taj Mahal, is the Mausoleum Complex of I'timād-ud-Daulah (built between 1622 and 1628), otherwise known as the “jewel box” or “Baby Taj”.

Although it may sound like a cliché, time is of the essence when visiting India, not necessarily because of the traffic or the hustle-and-bustle of the particular venues per se. In India, time is truly crucial, because different times of day may, on occasion, grant a totally different charm to a specific building. As such, entering the Mughal Riverfront Gardens of Agra during the early hours of any given winter day will slowly but surely deliver an awe-inspiring vision, as the morning mist framing the hazy contours of one of their best-kept secrets slowly dissipates, revealing the remote yet glittering, full fairy-tale picture that is the Mausoleum Complex of I'timād-ud-Daulah.

Aside from the Red Fort of Agra (built between 1565 and 1573), this particular architectural masterpiece too marks the transition from constructing in marble-coated red sandstone (a material heavily found in the area), to building directly in marble and subsequently decorating the surface with intricate motifs of inlaid semi-precious stones. This technique, known as pietra dura, is in itself an Italian expression literally signifying hard stones, in turn deriving from the Ancient Roman opus sectile stone engravings. If the Persians are credited with “borrowing” this decorative art and spreading it throughout Southeast Asia, in India it was the Mughals themselves who further reinterpreted and refined its intrinsic splendor according to their tastes.

The Mausoleum Complex of I'timād-ud-Daulah is a dynastic chef d’oeuvre; from the cornice to its four minarets, it is entirely studded with floral and vegetable stylized designs, as well as other geometric and arabesque patterns, all of which come to life through the harmonious, multi-colored burst of the onyx, topaz, lapis lazuli, jasper and cornelian that fill the rich intarsia. The flickering light cutting through the rigorous perforations of the lace-like jalis, or marble latticework of the windows, merely adds intensity to this otherworldly profusion of nuances and hues. A sophisticated sight definitely not intended for the faint of heart!

While the origins of the Mausoleum Complex of I'timād-ud-Daulah may appear seemingly less romantic than those of the Taj Mahal, they are by no means less epic. This enchanting structure was commissioned by Nur Jahan, the daughter of an exiled Persian Amir and wife of the Fourth Mughal Emperor, Jahangir, for her father Mirza Ghiyath Beg, whose nickname I'timād-ud-Daulah, specifically, meant “pillar of the state.” (On a side note, Mirza Ghiyath Beg was also the grandfather of Mumtaz Mahal, the second and most influential wife of Shah Jahan -son of Jahangir, thus Fifth Mughal Emperor,- for whom the Taj Mahal was erected as a testament of love, using the Tomb of I'timād-ud-Daulah as a “draft”.) Apart from other interred relatives, Nur Jahan’s mother and her father I'timād-ud-Daulah himself are the only ones to have visible cenotaphs inside his eponymous tomb. Male cenotaphs can usually be distinguished from the female cenotaphs because they have a pen-case engraved on top, whereas female ones depict a writing tablet. I'timād-ud-Daulah and his wife’s cenotaphs mark no exception to the rule, and are the only two elements within the building that, because of their simplicity, break away, so to say, from the overall ornamental style.

In his best-selling, autobiographical novel “Shantaram”, the Australian author Gregory David Roberts, wrote: “The Indians are the Italians of Asia. […] It can be said, certainly, with equal justice, that the Italians are the Indians of Europe, but you do understand me, I think. There is so much Italian in the Indians, and so much Indians in the Italians. They are both people of the Madonna - they demand a goddess, even if the religion does not provide one. Every man in both countries is a singer when he is happy, and every woman is a dancer when she walks to the shop at the corner. For them, food is music inside the body, and music is food inside the heart. The Language of India and the Language of Italy, they make every man a poet, and make something beautiful from every banalité. They are nations where love - amore, pyaar - makes a cavalier of a Borsalino on a street corner, and makes a princess of a peasant girl, if only for the second that her eyes meet yours.”

Food for thought indeed! However, whether these words ring true or not, would depend on how intimately one knows both cultures, something that could only come across with long sojourns in both states (if one were to rule out superficiality altogether!) This being said, any Italian -like myself- who visits India, even for just a few days, is undeniably bound to feel that immediate millenary connection spawned by the realization and acceptance of the countries’ common denominator, namely, a timeless and eternal grandeur. Needless to say, as I toured the country, countless were the moments when such grandiose realizations were encountered, and the Mausoleum Complex of I'timād-ud-Daulah within the Mughal Riverfront Gardens of Agra not only took me back in time, but it made time stop, as hopefully it will do for many, many more of its visitors in the centuries to come!

(Although I finalized this article on 9 March 2017, exactly one year ago from today -31 December 2016,- I started my day visiting the “Baby Taj”. I then went on to visit the Red Fort of Agra and naturally, the Taj Mahal itself. What a memorable way to end 2016! It was my first time in India, but I hope there will be (many) more, as one cannot possibly imbue of such beauty -and history- in just one trip! And with this...  Happy New Year! Genie)