Italy: Masterpieces of Western Art

One hardship Italy faces is the responsibility of maintaining its long and distinguished history. Remnants of the ancient world are everywhere at hand in Italy, and preserving it all requires tremendous financial commitment. It is hard to widen a road or construct a new building anywhere in Italy without digging up an Etruscan tomb or a Roman villa. One evening in Riva del Garda Jan and I went to an outdoor dance, held on top of an underground car park. We were surprised to notice that one corner of the parking area was an active archaeological site. A Roman bath had been unearthed there!

Because there is so much of it to see, entire lifetimes have been devoted to absorbing the Italian heritage. Contemporary Italians remain justifiably proud of their past. In lovely Cremona we met an older man on a bicycle who insisted on taking us to his favorite churches. He spoke no English and spent nearly two hours with us, but refused to accept any money. The man simply wanted to share the beauty of his city.

Jan and I have been to Italy several times, but there is always so much more to take in. On this trip we went to Milano, Ferrara, and Padova (Padua), among other places, for the first time—and to Florence for the third or fourth time. In future trips we look forward to revisiting all these cities, and to seeing places like Ravenna, Sorrento, Lake Como, and the Italian Riviera, which we still have yet to visit.

Our initial reason for going to Milan was to see Leonardo’s “Last Supper.” We stayed longer than we had planned because Jan had HUG Your Baby work to do and we found a very comfortable, serviceable, and affordable accommodation there. But we also came to love the city and discovered it was easy to get around on foot and by Travel Scoot.

The Milan Cathedral is truly a remarkable place, one of the oldest and largest buildings in Christendom. Personally I prefer the quiet of a small sanctuary, but this Duomo is literally breathtaking, not only in its size and scope but also in the exquisite execution and completion of all its beautiful details, from magnificent marble and stained glass windows to soaring spires and stirring bells.

We placed our visit to “The Last Supper” (“L’Ultima Cena”) in the hands of professional art educators. They walked us over to it, commenting and answering questions from the group as we followed them along the old Roman road. But before that, they offered an excellent PowerPoint lecture telling the story of the painting, from Leonardo’s decision to try an experimental (and ultimately flawed) technique to how the fresco was very nearly destroyed by Allied bombs during World War II. Especially addressing us kinesthetic learners, they had their students assume the poses of the figures in the painting—and they even provided appropriate drapery. Are you surprised that Jan found herself in the role of Jesus? I played doubting Thomas, disbelieving the statement Jesus had just made: that one of his disciples would betray him.

As much as we admired this largest of Leonardo’s masterpieces, which he applied to the wall of a monastery’s dining hall from 1495-1498, we were even more captivated by Giotto’s magnificent frescoes in Padova’s Scrovegni Chapel, which he completed during the first decade of the 1300s. These magnificent frescoes have been lovingly preserved for 700 years.

They cover all the walls as well as the barrel-vaulted ceiling of the chapel, and they tell the story of the Virgin Mary and her role in human salvation. We were touched by the humanity of Giotto’s figures, amazed by the way he even painted faux marble pillars and frames to separate the panels of his story, and stunned to learn that he himself was probably the building’s architect.

We also loved the beautifully maintained medieval streets in this old university town (Galileo lectured here!) and followed them down to the marvelous “Il Santo” basilica.

Humbled by our exposure to so much beauty in Milan and Padova, Jan and I decided to revisit Florence. She especially wanted to see Michaelangelo’s “David” again. We discovered that it was a real deal to be disabled in Florence. Not only did we both get into all the museums free, there was never any waiting. We shot right up to the front of the line, where the crowd-control tapes were lifted for us to enter! Another choice we are glad we made in Florence (though its thick walls hampered our Internet access) was to stay in a converted Renaissance church. For ten days we lived in a building older than “America” itself.

Looking for affordable things to do for fun in Florence, I noticed that an American art historian would be speaking—and reading from his new book about the David—at an international bookstore one afternoon. We liked Victor Coonin’s talk, and Jan bought his book, which turned out to be an exceptionally well-informed and well-written account of its subject. Knowing more about the process of the sculpture’s creation, and the long story of its life, made our return visit to David even more meaningful. While Jan lingered under David’s dome, I made time to visit the Academia’s marvelous collection of musical instruments. Wow!

Italy is a thoroughly pleasant, friendly, and inspiring place to visit. Though Italian history contains more than its share of misery, the majesty of human achievement, and the longing of the spirit to surpass itself, outshine the darkness of the past to inspire the best in us today. That's why we came to Italy, and why we hope to return!

Italy: Deutschnofen, My Dad's Kind of Town

My dad gave me many gifts: a secure childhood, a fondness for music and encouragement to play it, a sense of responsibility to family and community, appreciation for sports and the outdoors, a do-it-yourself mindset, a love of learning, and an excellent education. He also gave me the desire to travel.

As a chemical engineer working in market research and then sales, Bob Henderson (1923-2008) used to travel quite a bit for the petroleum companies that employed him. Mostly he went to Europe and South America, sometimes for as long as several weeks at a stretch. Soon after getting back from such a trip, he would set up his slide projector and screen in the living room and entertain the family with photos he had taken. I especially remember ones of him and his Czech colleague, Rudi Novatni, travelling through the Alps in a red Mercedes two-seater (probably a 300sl).

When my dad got ready to retire, he seriously considered moving to Switzerland. Of course, I am glad he did NOT make that move because he and my mom chose instead to come to Chapel Hill, which permitted them to participate in the upbringing of Jonathan and David—an arrangement that greatly benefited all concerned. Nevertheless, I inherited from my father a fondness for travel—for the Alps, in particular, and for the Tyrolean village culture that has been fostered there through the centuries.

After spending a couple of weeks in Sud-Tirol, the largely German-speaking part of northern Italy, I can better see what appealed to my dad about this part of the world. Bob Henderson was a person who appreciated hard work, well-maintained properties, carefully groomed gardens and well-tended farms, impeccable examples of civil engineering, tidy and quiet towns, cool air, wide vistas, small churches, and good music (particularly of the choral and brass band sorts).

Deutscnofen is all that, and my dad would have loved it. I must say that Jan and I deeply enjoyed being here too, although more fluency with German would have helped us. Jan needed a quiet place to work on a couple of HUG Your Baby research and writing projects, and Deutschnofen perfectly answered that need (except when the Vodafone network occasionally failed to provide the computer access we rely on!).

Jan found the peace and quiet she needed, and I found plenty to explore. We both enjoyed splendid and constantly changing views of the Dolomites, super-fresh air, great picnic spots, lots of excellent music, and the relaxed pace of village life—all, for the most part, accessible both by foot and by TravelScoot.

The quality of the music we heard was astonishingly high. We attended an excellent end-of-year concert at the village middle school, featuring one piece, in turn, from the brass group, the strings group, the guitar ensemble, the saxophone quartet, a flute group, a couple of solo pianists, and two amazing button accordion players (one of whom stole the show, in my opinion). Elsewhere we heard a couple of very good community brass bands (in Alpine costume!), some pop bands at a music festival playing well rehearsed covers of Steve Miller Band and Stones tunes, and a trio of mature performers (not unlike The Sound Connection, with their sequenced drum tracks) who amazed me with their harmonized yodeling.

The most remarkable performance I attended, though, was in the village church (Roman Catholic) on Pentecost Sunday. A special performance had been prepared, featuring the regular choir in the rear loft with the organ, plus a men’s choir down front. I was astonished, first of all, by the number of people (of all ages) in attendance. It seemed like the whole village was there. Churchgoing has clearly not gone out of fashion in Deutschnofen!

When the music began, the volume was breathtaking. The organ was full on, and the members of both choirs matched its intensity. There was no mumbling of lyrics; all the singers’ eyes were on the conductors, and the conductors’ eyes were on the organist. This music was performed with both joy and precision. The antiphonal call and response between the choirs was superb, and their use of dynamics was powerful.

At the end of the mass, the organist played a remarkable postlude, and all the volunteer choir members stuck around to listen to its conclusion. The organist began with a brash sixteenth-note figure in his right hand (which he maintained throughout every bar of the song). His left hand played a repeating chord pattern (two eighth notes, followed by a quarter rest), while his feet carried the melody. The piece developed and modulated, and never let up until it reached a majestic conclusion. What a righteous, uplifting performance! It brought tears to some eyes, including mine.

My dad would have been just as moved. I imagined him standing next to me, smiling with the wonder of a full spirit, glad to be in his idea of heaven.

Italy: The Alps, Italian Style

To prepare for six weeks in Italy, Jan and I read quite a few books, and watched several films, about Italy during World War II. You might want to know that John Hersey’s A Bell for Adano still rings true as a novel about that era, and also that Roberto Benigni’s Life is Beautiful is a movie that hasn’t lost its power to make us laugh, weep, and cheer—all at the same time.

It may surprise you to know, though, that my experience in Italy has confirmed that I do have certain right-wing inclinations, at least in one respect. Hopefully, the only thing I may be said to share have with the Fascisti of the last century is their taste in real estate.

The lakes of northern Italy—the last seat of Mussolini’s government, his final hideout, and eventually the scene of his capture and execution—remain a deeply appealing destination, particularly as Jan and I were able to be there after the winter ski crowds had left and before the summer vacationers arrived.

Earlier this year I enjoyed spending a day in San Francisco with my friend Tony’s wife, Ronda Bowman. She wanted to visit a bar not far from Fisherman’s Wharf, where she and Tony used to enjoy Irish coffee and a splendid view. There we met a well-traveled, slightly drunk American businessman and his young, Asian-American secretary. Besides making jokes to the effect that Tony would not be my friend much longer after he learned I’d taken his wife to this bar, the well-traveled man strongly suggested that I visit Lake Garda when I came to Italy. He also had plenty of other advice, which I promptly forgot. But Lake Garda stuck.

So Jan and I rented a car and drove up there from Bologna, which we made our first home base in Italy. We loved being in Riva Del Garda, beautifully situated at the top of the lake. So much so that we arranged to stay longer.

The narrow lakes of northern Italy were formed by glaciers and contain many micro-climates that vary with elevation. Palm, lemon and olive trees flourish at lake level, while higher up the craggy peaks falcons soar, and fog clears to reveal glistening snowcaps. The towns of the lakes are linked by a good ferry service. Romans loved the area as much as the latter-day fascists, and the early Christians, did.

Culture and nature are equally captivating in this part of the world. I particularly enjoyed exploring small village churches, set in their own quaint piazzas that are often accessed via mazes of medieval archways. Typically the churches, and their bell towers, command beautiful views. The uniquely tuned bells toll the hours and joyously peal when prompted. Unlike many of their big-city counterparts, village churches are usually left unlocked. They are maintained as quiet settings for settling the mind and opening the heart during the week, and for celebrating the presence of God on Sunday.

The city of Bolzano, which slugs it out each year with Bologna for the title of   Italy’s “most livable” city, is located even further north: the gateway to the stunning Dolomites, a UNESCO “world heritage” mountain range—in a remote region of which the famous “Ice Man” was discovered, one of the most remarkable archeological finds of the last hundred years.

The museum in Bolzano that is devoted to the Ice Man and his story is well worth a visit. His mummified and frozen body can be seen, but even more interesting to me was the display, and analysis, of the clothing and artifacts that were found with his body, as well as the impressive recreation of what he must have looked like before his murder. (Yes, there is ample evidence that he was shot in the back by an arrow and bled to death in a crevasse.) Though his copper axe, tattoos, arrows, bows and amulet bag were unable to save his life, the dry air and thick ice succeeded in perfectly preserving his body for thousands of years.

Jan and I could not find an apartment right in Bolzano of the sort we have discovered we need (one with a separate bedroom, a full kitchen, free Internet, and plenty of fresh air and natural light), so we booked a place 30 kilometers away. We are so glad that we did—but we were not prepared to walk into the town of Nova Ponente and find everyone speaking...German! Aren't we in Italy?

The village of Deutschnofen (Nova Ponente’s German name) reached maturity in the days of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. In many ways this town lives in the past—but the past that its residents prefer to imagine predates both World Wars. The leather shorts, dirndls and Tyrolean caps that some residents still wear (both for work and for special occasions) reflect the nineteenth, not the twentieth or the twenty-first century. Streets, homes, farms and gardens are immaculate. Schools and churches are welcoming, beautifully designed, and well maintained. People are friendly, but they are not speaking Italian, let alone English!

Italian people we later met, during the 10 days we next spent in Milano, were not terribly generous in their views of the German “separatists.” “They want our tax money but not our culture,” we were told. While nothing suggested that the people of Deutschnofen were fascists any longer (if they ever were), we observed an unsettling insularity and uniformity of appearance among them, even as we embraced the charm and beauty of this small town’s peaceful way of life. What, if anything, did we not understand, and could we not, in our ignorance of the language, even ask about?

As the beautifully tended graves at each village church suggest, perhaps every generation takes its worst memories with it, leaving the next generation to remember and preserve what was kindest and best and most beautiful. However, if our ancestors’ hardest truths are lost, how do we, the living, avoid re-presenting them?

Italy: Where Past Meets Present

Italy became a destination for us because Jan was asked to speak at the annual conference of the Italian Infant Massage Association. The event was held in Bologna. Our hosts were exceptionally kind and welcoming, and the audience was engaged. We sold all the Italian HUG DVDs we had brought, and I made it an all-day project to have more copies made there to meet the demand.

Through the Infant Massage conference Jan made a connection at the University of Bologna’s school of midwifery. As a result she was asked to give a lecture at the oldest University in the world. It’s hard to imagine an institution so venerable that Dante is on their alumni list!

We enjoyed being based in Bologna. It is not unlike Durham—a gritty, commercial, academic, transportation hub city—just many centuries older. Here, in what some consider the food capital of Italy, we grasped the obvious truth that the secret to great cooking lies in the ingredients. We discovered the rich taste of mortadella (the REAL “baloney”), of the vinegar from neighboring Modena (especially in its thick and sweet glassa form), and of the cheeses from nearby Parma and Gorganzola (sold and served to discerning Italian consumers before they get too dry). We bought pasta, bread, and salume (of various kinds) almost every day. I added extra kilometers of walking to compensate for my palate’s pleasures.

It was easy to take the train from Bologna for day trips to nearby, medieval cities such as Cremona, Ferrara, Padova (Padua), and Verona. The violin museum in Cremona (with its collection of Strads and other magnificent sixteenth-century instruments) was well worth a visit, but just winding through the streets of this lovely town was even more fun. Ferrara’s enormous central piazza and picturesque castle with a moat are stunning. Padova has a breathtaking, multi-domed cathedral and offered one of the highlights of our entire visit to Italy: the amazingly executed and beautifully preserved Giotto frescoes in the Scrovegni Chapel.

I went to Verona in search of Shakespeare but discovered Gordon Parks instead. “Juliet’s house” (a lovely fantasy, but a real Renaissance home nonetheless) conveys a sense of the times and contains the bed constructed for the Zeferelli film, which Jan and I thoroughly enjoyed watched again—and appreciated even more for its skillful use of Verona as a set.

As I was smelling the heady jasmine in Verona and pondering whether Shakespeare could have visited Italy (he probably did not, though his fellow actor, Will Kempe, and his patron, the Earl of Southampton, both did), and why a third of his plays were set in Italy (probably so that he could present topics that would otherwise have run him afoul of censors or libel suits), I noticed a poster for a photography exhibit. The work of Gordon Parks, of all people, was on display in Verona.

Both the photos, and the gallery that contained them, were absolutely stunning. As you probably know, Gordon Parks (1912-2006) was one of America’s greatest photographers. His subjects included everyone from Malcolm, Martin, and Muhammad Ali to Marilyn Monroe. He is best known for his documentary work, and for being the first black employee of Life magazine (as well as a co-founder of Essence), but Parks’ scope as an artist was enormous. Beginning as a piano player in a brothel when he was a teenager, Parks was a lifelong musician. He wrote a piano concerto and several other works for orchestra. Parks was also a writer (The Learning Tree is his best known book), and he went on to become Hollywood’s first black director when he created the Shaft films. I learned at the exhibition that in 1976 Parks also made a dramatized film about Leadbelly.

One of Parks’ most iconic images is the one he did to illustrate his friend Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man. It depicts a black man’s face peering sagely from a manhole. The basement setting for the Verona exhibition of Park’s photos could not have been more resonant. Viewers move from room to room of reinforced concrete walls, neutral but confined spaces that are here and there punctuated by glimpses of footers, foundations, and floors dating from Roman times.

Literally built upon the past, contemporary Verona preserves an intact Roman colosseum and an intact Roman amphitheater, both of which are still used as performing arts spaces. Seeing Parks in an ancient, underground setting brought home how universal his themes and images are, as well as how they are bound to a specifically American context, some of which I am old enough to have glimpsed firsthand.

I was touched to hear an Italian teacher, standing before the foundation of an old Roman prison, explaining American segregation to his high school students. It gave me hope for the world, as well as a sense of the powerful role art plays in keeping hope alive and well grounded.