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recherchestetique · 9 months ago

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THE MARCHESA CASATI

Marchesa Luisa Casati: An inspiringly decadent true tale of a bizarre Italian aristocrat. Pet cheetahs, séances and dresses made from lightbulbs, the heiress, socialite and artist's muse Marchesa Luisa Casati led a life every bit as unusual as her outfits.

Luisa, Marchesa Casati Stampa di Soncino (born Luisa Adele Rosa Maria Amman; 23 January 1881 – 1 June 1957), was an Italian heiress, muse, and patroness of the arts in early 20th-century Europe.

Casati was known for her eccentricities that delighted European society for nearly three decades. The beautiful and extravagant hostess to the Ballets Russes was something of a legend among her contemporaries. She astonished society by parading with a pair of leashed cheetahs and wearing live snakes as jewellery.

She captivated artists and literary figures such as Robert de Montesquiou, Romain de Tirtoff (Erté), Jean Cocteau, and Cecil Beaton.[citation needed] She had a long-term affair with the author Gabriele d'Annunzio, who is said to have based on her the character of Isabella Inghirami in Forse che si forse che no (Maybe yes, maybe no) (1910).[citation needed] The character of La Casinelle, who appeared in two novels by Michel Georges-Michel, Dans la fete de Venise (1922) and Nouvelle Riviera (1924), was also inspired by her.

In 1910, Casati took up residence at the Palazzo Venier dei Leoni, on Grand Canal in Venice, owning it until circa 1924. In 1949, Peggy Guggenheim purchased the Palazzo from the heirs of Viscountess Castlerosse and made it her home for the following thirty years. Today it is the Peggy Guggenheim Collection, a modern art museum on the Grand Canal in the Dorsoduro sestiere of Venice, Italy.

Casati's soirées there would become legendary. Casati collected a menagerie of exotic animals, and patronized fashion designers such as Fortuny and Poiret. From 1919 to 1920 she lived at Villa San Michele in Capri, the tenant of the unwilling Axel Munthe. Her time on the Italian island, tolerant home to a wide collection of artists, gay men, and lesbians in exile, was described by British author Compton Mackenzie in his diaries.

Numerous portraits were painted and sculpted by artists as various as Giovanni Boldini, Paolo Troubetzkoy, Adolph de Meyer, Romaine Brooks (with whom she had an affair), Kees van Dongen, and Man Ray; many of them she paid for, as a wish to "commission her own immortality".[citation needed][citation needed] She was muse to Italian Futurists such as F. T. Marinetti (who regarded her as a Futurist) Fortunato Depero, Giacomo Balla (who created the portrait-sculpture Marchesa Casati with Moving Eyes), and Umberto Boccioni. Augustus John's portrait of her is one of the most popular paintings at the Art Gallery of Ontario; Jack Kerouac wrote poems about it and Robert Fulford was impressed by it as a schoolboy.

#marchesa casati modigliani #giovanni boldini #venice #venezia

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theblackphoenixwritings · 6 months ago

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Marius/Armand - ModernAU

Summary: In the present day, in enveloping and resplendent Venice, a young 20-year-old seminarian and icon painter, Amadeo, with a dark past struggling with the shadows of his soul, meets an established educated and beautiful painter, Marius, a lover of life and humanity. From their meeting will arise a sweet and overwhelming love that will lead Amadeo to learn that love can heal even the most lost of men in God's eyes, and Marius to learn that in a wounded and tormented soul seeking a God in whom he does not believe, the love that is given to you can make you a believer in its boundless purity.

-CHAPTER I-

Love is not torment, Love is delight.

-Amadeo

It was so strange for him to wake up, with the sun caressing his face. Amadeo was used to rarely seeing the sun, let alone feeling its warmth on his skin. Everything was so different and incomprehensible to him still, even though it had already been more than a week since he had been transferred there. They had imposed silence and prayer on him, that what had happened to him would be healed and forgiven by God. The patriarchal seminary in Venice stood, at the far end of Dorsoduro, on the island of the Dogana, its immaculate white walls, with their large windows, were silent and full of young people clasping their hands looking toward God with their souls. Amadeo moved the blankets and covered his face with his hands, that deep suffering dug into him like nails of a beast, the Monsignor who ran the seminary in his motherland had told him they were the nails of the devil. Amadeo had cried. He had scratched his face with his nails in an attempt to drive out the pain in his soul, to erase the Monsignor's words.

He had cried, screamed, and they had taught him that suffering, pain brought him closer to God, that what he suffered was put in his path to make him a martyr, a saint, an example of virtue and dedication. That was before, before that night, a month ago.Amadeo had stared at himself in the mirror, his eyes red, his scratches, his bruises, his white skin torn, his lip split, his hands with broken nails, his knees skinned, the pain inside him. He had stayed that way until the dean came looking for him because he had not shown up for his morning class. From then on, Amadeo was devoid of feeling, devoid of emotion, or expression, he was corroded inside by a pain that only he felt. The pain of the body passed but the pain of the soul remained.

Amadeo was called a lure, a predator, the beauty of the devil, the one who calls toward evil, and a thousand other things that Amadeo did not want to remember. That constant pain, it was there always whispering in his ear, always reminding him how he had gone against God's will. But could this be God's will? He had been called a saint, as he painted his icons, not caring about the blood that flowed between his hands, because of the hours and the eagerness with which he painted what he saw with his soul, the eyes of God. They wanted to make him a martyr, and Amadeo did not care; he had grown up following that call, seeing what others did not see. He barely remembered how before what they had done to him, he saw the golden aura around things, the pure colors full of emotions and feelings that flowed through him like a river, making him an instrument for God's beauty. Now there was none of this in him, only darkness. He knew what they had done to him, he knew he had cried out and had no voice left, he knew he had called out to God but He had not answered him.

No one had been punished, but they had imposed on him a silence that was eating him up from within, and the prayers that made him even more full of uncertainty and fear. No one had believed him, he was left alone to walk a path full of shadows and whispers and as his only companion that scratching of nails against the cage of his soul. Amadeo, no longer painting, had become a symbol of how God can punish those who dare to come too close to Him. Amadeo did not believe those words, doubt and fear, fought in him with hope and certainty, that God is love. But none had shown him love, none of those who called themselves righteous and pure in God's eyes, hearts inflamed by faith and minds guided by the Spirit, none of them, had extended their hand to Amadeo. He had become a reitto. The one to be avoided, the one who brought his misfortune upon himself. But not true, not true, not true, God knows…. It is not true. But those words echoed in his soul, as mournful and lifeless as he was. He was tired, and no less he wanted to find his way back to God. He stood up staring at the gentle light coming in through the window. Amadeo closed his eyes to that warmth. Venice was so different from everything he knew. They treated him well there, but Amadeo did not mistake their false kindness and helpfulness for anything other than duty.

They had forced that transfer on him, taken him away from his family and his land. They had hidden him, as one hides a sin. A thousand questions had invaded him, and never any answers, no one to listen. Amadeo crawled into the bathroom of his small cell, his clothes black but his hair loose, long amber curls against his pale skin. Amadeo, he had never been touched by the doubt that this was a way of showing off, a temptation. God had created him that way, God creates everyone and lets us follow our own path in life. In this Amadeo believed, before, now everything, even a look was for him a sin to flee from. Amadeo walked silently and with bowed head toward the chapel for morning praise. It was his habit to remain at the back in a corner, no one had questioned this attitude, and Amadeo had taken it as a sign of permission. The cloister was flooded with light that morning, Amadeo felt strongly within himself the urge to be able to paint that light, he stood staring at it unable to let go of that desire. He had been deprived of even that gift, which had always been his reason and his way of feeling God. Bitter and disconsolate, as his footsteps echoed on the tiles, Amadeo looked up and the sky appeared to him in a blue he had never seen. He hoped to one day see it outside those walls.

-Marius

The large studio was bathed in warm morning light. Marius was drinking his black coffee, intent on scrolling through the day's news on his phone. He had his long blond hair pulled back into a tousled bun, his black glasses pulled down over his straight nose. Marius loved that time of the day, still Venice was not quite awake, and only in the distance could be heard the garrulous of seagulls, intent on quarreling. Some voices were already rising from the canals, the crisp, salty air came in through the large French window, pushing the white curtains inside. Setting down the phone, Marius wondered what that sunny but wind chilled autumn day had in store for him.

Scattered on the floor were the rough papers, covered with soft, strong bodies, carved on the paper by the black pencil wielded by his hand. He was still very undecided about that assignment. Being an atheist, he was not particularly fond of religious circles, although as a boy, to make his parents happy, he had followed them to Church, every Sunday, and growing up at the most important moments of the religious calendar, until he left that place altogether. He knew religious iconography well-he was an expert in art history, after all-but despite his fascination with what in his eyes were tales comparable to the myths of the Greeks or ancient Romans, he felt more coldness toward that world. He had always thought it was due, to his resentment, toward those who proclaimed universal love, and then, felt able to decide who that God of theirs could love unconditionally and who could not. Marius had had in his adolescence his own inner battles on that subject, and although he had always been aware that he did not believe in any God, strangely enough, at times, love in his eyes appeared so. He had been called romantic more than once, and Marius had found himself considering that adjective.

And he had come to the conclusion, that it was true, but not in the superficial sense of the word, he was a romantic because he felt too much and with great strength, because he felt with melancholy and passion, because he loved joyfully and with a full and free heart. And this sometimes frightened him, and he felt he had to contain it somehow, and he would get away from everything and everyone, shut away between his canvases and his brushes. It was the only thing he could do in those moments, art gave him a focus, and his love found a purpose on canvas, in the lustful, life-filled figures of fauns or forgotten gods, or in gardens full of life and joy, or in portraits, or even in fantastic worlds. He emerged from that communion so passionate and intimate, only when his heart was again still and rational. The wind barely moved one of the large sheets, and one of the angels almost seemed to move its wings; Marius was not satisfied with what he had prepared to show the patrons. Those winged messengers, they were filled with adoring joy before the birth of their God.

That commission for a Nativity had worried Marius from the start, although the rector of the seminary had reassured him in every way, that they knew his art, and that he had been chosen for that assignment from high places, Marius felt uneasy. He was to present the sketches that morning, and he knew that those joyful faces full of life, that Madonna who looked like an ordinary woman, and in fact was, that overly ruddy child, could put him in a difficult position. And in fact it was not a problem, he would gladly blow off any criticism they might give him, but would it affect his future commissions? Sighing Marius stared at Christ's hands clasping a lock of Mary's hair, a common gesture, a gesture of love, and he was quite sure they would criticize him, demolish him. And he would not accept it. He knew how to be diplomatic, but that gesture of love, drawn with care and attention, was born out of his love for a mother he had never known, was a desire of his that would never see fulfillment.

His father's first wife had died giving birth to his first and only son, Marius, and his father had raised him in love and with love, for Marius was all he had left of the woman so strong and beautiful, whom his father had loved unconditionally. Marius knew he had been lucky, his father could have seen him as the one who had taken her away from him, and given that infant to someone else's care, but instead his father had seen in him a piece of the woman he loved, and he had raised that child alone, until he had remarried. And Marius had been happy to see his father have someone by his side again, who loved and supported him. Not long after, Marius had left his father's home, to take classes at the Academy of Fine Arts in Venice, and begin to find his place in the world. He had worked as a model, to have the money to pay for, the small apartment in which he had settled as a young man, a long time ago,it seemed to him.

Having him as a guest in his home was nothing exceptional; the week before, his father had been over for dinner with friends. Marius had had a good evening, and he had laughingly sent away his father and stepmother who wanted to help him get the house in order. So when his father showed up at his door that afternoon, Marius paid no attention. Only later noticing his father's nervousness had Marius investigated. And his father had made that strange request to him, to accept the commission from the Patriarchal Seminary in Venice. Marius had been interjected, but his father's expression had convinced him not to pursue the matter further. With discomfort he had agreed. And there he was, staring at those sketches, the now cold coffee in his cup, and that strange feeling that something was in the air.

#marius/armand #my writing #vc #Modern AU #Amore sacro capitolo I

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