The Old World

In my everyday life, I’m accustomed to having to go somewhere else to see great art, usually to a different city. In Rome it’s everywhere. This city probably has more art and history than any other, yet it’s all  absorbed somehow as part of the city’s fabric. Here, for example, is a church, San Agostino, where people attend mass and go to confession that’s full of not particularly interesting 18th or 19th century paintings but with a Rafael fresco and a Caravaggio oil tucked away so that you have to search for them.

Caravaggio was hired by some church bigwig to make this magnificent painting, the Madonna of the Pilgrims, and he caused a flap by painting the two pilgrims with dirty feet. This hangs over one of about twenty side altars in the church of San Agostino, all with lovely paintings by people I’ve never heard of. If you didn’t know to look, you might miss it., except that stands out like a 200-watt bulb in its dark place.

Here’s another treasure from the same church, a fresco of a prophet by Rafaello (Raphael?). It’s on the top of one of many columns, all adorned by lesser artists, with no marker or label. I had to search the entire church for it.

I try to imagine what sort of art these grand artists would have made had they not been constrained by religious motifs. Maybe we would have seen scenes and people from everyday life and gotten a pictorial glimpse of their eras. As it is, you have to search the corners of paintings of annunciations or crucifixions for ordinary people and objects. Oh, those old Catholics!

Santa Maria Sopra Minerva is exactly what the name describes, a church built on top of the temple of Minerva. Here the Christians took their revenge as they often did by destroying a Roman building and its art to make way for a Christian church. The church has been renovated over the centuries (or bitched up as more accurately describes the process), but its treasures survive. The Florentine artist Fra Angelico, is here, the Dominican priest who made the magnificent frescoes in San Marco in Florence. He was in Rome making art for a pope when he died.

Near Fra Angelico’s tomb is a Michelangelo Christ that sits on  one side of the communion rail on the same level as many lesser sculptures as though it’s just another statue.

Those old Catholics were obsessed with reliquaries. This same church has the body of St. Catherine of Siena, minus her head, which is in Siena. As if that weren’t enough, here are the  bones of a St. Agnes, the first-ever Christian martyr.

And here is Mary Magdalene’s foot ,encased in bronze, in the church two doors down from my street. These were at least ladies’ size elevens. The woman had big feet.

I made the wrong turn leaving San Agostino and found myself facing what looked like and turned out to be the Spanish Steps. I headed in that direction along the Via Condotti, which is the heart of Rome’s fashion district. One store had a line of clothing  that may loom in our future that looked like stuff from Value Village. This gown appeared to be made of of scraps of faded tulle that had been dragged through ashes and then torn, not cut, into ruffles.

This is what Gucci was hawking. Are they serious?

What can I say about the Spanish Steps that hasn’t already been said. I don’t even know why they’re called Spanish except that the Embassy of Spain is about two blocks away.

Two adjacent places are remarkable to me, the house where Keats died

and a café where Byron and Shelley hung out. I recall that in 1986 I had a $12 lemonade in this cafe.

I still spend most of my time lost, but I’m getting better. My friends Carol and Arielle are here, and I’ll have many more adventures to describe. For now, here’s an end-of-day photo of Rome shamelessly flaunting herself.