Venice (I)

Nothing I'd heard or read could prepare me for Venice... though it took about ten minutes and five canals after entering the city for me to start to appreciate where I actually was. I’m finding this is often the case; it’s as though each new city or grand monument needs to knock at the gates of my senses for a few minutes (I'm Venice... Hello, Venice here!) before I can let it in; once I've done so, however, a city like Venice makes itself thoroughly at home, kicking its shoes off and reclining full-stretch on the couch in the living room of my soul.

From the hotel, I caught the bus with the other international delegates from the conference (see below) to the city proper, and by a stroke of good fortune we managed to find our minders, Roberto, the flamboyant professor with a creative grasp of English, and his three younger assistants, Davide, Piergiorgio and Laura, all current or former postgrads from the university.

As I said, after about ten minutes, I was overwhelmed. There was a brief moment when, standing before a shop window, I had to take two steps away from the group to pull myself together. Exhilarated by the sheer enchantedness of the place, I felt that saccharine promise of catharsis – ie. the urge to cry – welling in my chest. But whether it was due to conditioning (gender, nationality etc) or something else, I kinked the hose so that no tears came.

After a good half an hour of stumbling agog through the winding alleys and charming terraces, and sharing in the blissful idleness of those couples snuggling in the gondolas (for eighty euros a pop, thank you very much), we came to a piazetta which featured, as Roberto pointed out, the oldest church in the city. Opposite this church stood a marble plinth, whose inscription Roberto pointed to, which indicated that this was where the new laws of the city, as well as other legalistic proclamations, were read out to the people. Professor Ramaswamy pointed out that this was probably the setting for the judgement scene in The Merchant of Venice (act 4 or 5? Pound of flesh etc. It’s been a while.)

It took us fifteen minutes to cross the Grande Canal (though it could be crossed in two) as many of us stopped to take snaps, got lost among the hoards of fellow tourists, bought souvenirs etc, before miraculously regrouping on the far side.

Our destination was Piazza San Marco, the main square in Venice by the sea, but first we had one more treat from the university: a three course lunch at a nearby restaurant. Now I can honestly say that with the exception of the odd slice of pizza, I’ve eaten out (ie at a restaurant) in Rome, on precisely one – yes, one – occasion. (This has been partly for matters of frugality – given I paid for storage costs and a laptop out of my bursary etc – but also because I’d much prefer to wait until Emma arrives… I simply can’t bear to eat alone at a restaurant here in Rome, surrounded by couples feeding each other spaghetti!) So, thanks to the extreme generosity of Antonella, this week saw me sampling local culinary delights the likes of which I had not experienced in Italy, nor expected for even a moment. Let it be said then that the lunch was divine, seafood, white wine, and a typically well-paced affair – all in a restaurant with tablecloths (another rarity for this writer!) in a leafy courtyard.

Sated and reinvigorated by the meal, we set off for the Piazza. The promenade by the sea was swarming with fellow tourists, and the breeze was welcome. The scale of the San Marco Piazza (named after the saint, whose remains are found in the church of that name) is extraordinary – the square must be one of the most impressive in the world. The 15th century Torre dell’Orologio, or clocktower, sports a twenty-four hour clock complete with the astrological ‘time’ also, the phases of the moon, the position of the moon and sun in the sky. The Basilica di San Marco was modeled on one in Constantinople, from where the four bronze horses on the roof were stolen; the stupendously ornate architecture is blend of Byzantine, Romanesque and Renaissance architecture.

After regrouping again, we all had ‘free time’ (though the tour was hardly a constraint) to do as we wished. The Indian contingent made for the Campinile (bell tower), Richard, Fiona and Gera (their son) went for a ride on a gondola, and Tom and Vicky went for a general wander. Though I was the only Venice virgin among them, I did none of these things, for I had my heart set on one thing: the Peggy Guggenheim Collection.

Venice II - The Peggy Guggenheim Collection

While I haven’t yet seen many of the world's great galleries - including Madrid’s Prado, Paris’s Lourve, Vienna’s Kunsthistorisches or NYC’s MOMA (though the former three are on the itinerary for Emma’s and my backpacking trip after Rome!) - I predict that the Peggy Guggenheim Collection, Venice, will forever be a personal favourite.

There are many reasons for this, and it is difficult to put them in order. Of course, the primary reason is the quality of the collection. The first thing you come across is a sculpture garden, with the usual suspects, Henry Moore, Brancusi, Giacometti, Hans Arp and others. Near Peggy’s grave (she is buried with about fifteen of her cats) is a ‘wish tree’, a gift from Yoko Ono. This is a perfect introduction to the gallery itself.

If aliens visited earth after the apocalypse, and this gallery was the only thing left to represent twentieth century Western art, it would probably be enough. Being the private collection of the most astute collector of last century, there is absolutely no ‘filler’ here – every single work is a masterpiece: Picasso, Braque, Leger, Malevich, Delaunay, Duchamp, De Chirico, Mondrian, Ernst, Chagall, Magritte, Miro, Dali, Kandinsky, Bacon, Pollock and Clifford Still – and others whom I’ve shamefully forgotten. The gallery itself is immaculately curated, with Malevich staring down Mondrian, the analytic cubism of Picasso’s The Poet...

Pablo Picasso, The Poet (1911)

leading you around a corner (no pun intended) to Duchamp’s Sad Young Man on a Train,

Marcel Duchamp, Sad Young Man on a Train (1911)

... Magritte’s Empire of Light in your peripheral vision as you focus on a Dali etc etc. The gallery is really quite tiny when compared to something like the Tate Modern, but it is no way crowded – every painting has its moment. After only two rooms, I knew that it was going to stick with me forever.

Add to this the approach to the gallery. Though you can get there a couple of ways, we caught a traghetto across the mouth of the Grande Canal, and the tranquility of the lanes was in marked contrast to those in San Marco, a fact that brought much relief to myself, and Piergiorgio, and a mother and daughter pairing from New York, who accompanied me on the pilgrimage. Secondly, being on the Grande Canal, the gallery is situated on an unparalleled piece of real estate, with views to die for.

***

For a bit of fun, then, I’ll list my 3 favourite works in the Peggy Guggenheim Collection, and my utterly personal reasons for rating them thus – though the list is arbitrary, and could be entirely different on another day, or if I was in another mood:

1. Upward (1929) by Vasily Kandinsky

For me, Kandinsky strikes the perfect balance between the austere geometric formalism of Malevich or Mondrian, and the insanely bright pallet of Delaunay or Matisse. The result is a type of optimism: yes, there is room for colour in our world of hard edges and geometric curves, our world of inescapable rules. Up close, the subtlety of the bleeding tones is delightful. But what got me about this painting were the two shapes, in the lower left, and upper right corners. The former in particular: a simple, mauve rectangle, all at sea, a lone figure in the field. You know how in some works (ie by Monet or Goya) the artist includes a portrait of themselves in the scene? Well to me, that’s what this rectangle is: a clue to the lonely figure cut by the artist, perhaps by all artists, and by extension, the condition itself of being alone.

2. Study for Chimpanzee (1957) by Francis Bacon.

Readers of the London posts in this blog will know that Francis Bacon is one of my favourite artists. In my opinion, he nails the horror of the contemporary world, much like the way Munch does in his famous Skrik (The Scream). Bacon seems to say, we are all meat. This is kind of funny, given his name - but it is no laughing matter. His is a type of anti-humanism; just as the words beef and veal do a profound injustice to ‘cows’ – reducing them to items for our consumption – so, by reducing us to meat, Bacon seems to me to be acknowledging the utterly terrifying truth of our existence, that we can be reduced to nothing more than meat, meat that rots over time, meat that can mean nothing.

In this painting, we see the chimpanzee on its haunches – or is it Rodin’s The Thinker? – perched on a box or crate of some sort, and framed by a strange, feint geometric pattern. Indeed, the figure seems caught in a state between primate and genius, its identity smeared with the murkiest milky blue grey – like a mixture of sperm and ink. The pallet is typically nauseating.

3. Alchemy (1947) by Jackson Pollock.


The coruscating energy, the mesmerizing chaos – the universe on a canvas. What can you say about Pollock that hasn't already been said? Like a verse from Genesis, or a snapshot of the nanosecond after the Big Bang, the dominant black, white and grey is shot through with the primary colours, the optimistic yellow, traces of red and a finally the blue (water does come after light), with the faintest hints of orange and green for good measure. When the NGA bought Pollock’s Blue Poles in 1974, the typically conservative Australian public scoffed. ‘4 million bucks? My dog could paint that!’ To which I say, ‘Really? Well then why didn’t it?’

If my hypothetical apocalypse (above) was to occur, and if this gallery was saved, I’d hazard that this would be the one painting that would make the aliens (provided they could see) look meaningfully at each other, and nod in recognition...

Udine

Udine is a small but gorgeous city two hours north of Venice by train, the second largest after Trieste in the Friuli-Venezia Guilia region, the north-easternmost region of Italy, which shares its borders with Austria to the north, Slovenia to the east and the Adriatic Sea to the south.

In March I received a phone call from David Malouf, who offered to put me in contact with Antonella Riem, lecturer in English Language and Literature at the Universita degli Studi di Udine. Antonella, a close friend of David’s from his time in Italy, was hosting a conference at the university, and I soon received a call from her inviting me to attend and give a reading as part of a session that featured some other Australians.

Naturally, I accepted, and quickly discovered that the Australian contingent consisted of the Melbourne-based poet and novelist, Tom Petsinis (who was B.R.Whiting resident in 1999), Dr. Richard Nile (founder of the Australian Public Intellectual Network, editor of the Journal of Australian Studies – which published me in their ‘New Talents’ edition a few years back – and visiting professor of Australian studies at a university in Copenhagen) and Richard’s wife, novelist Fiona Murphy.

The hospitality I was to receive at the conference came as something of a shock – I expected to be lodged in either a boarding house, or a college on the campus (which apparently don’t really exist), but instead, I found myself in the elegant, four star Ambassador Hotel, one of the best in the city. If this wasn’t enough, I soon found out that all meals were catered for, including dinner each night at a different restaurant – AND that we were going to be put up for two nights in Venice by the university. Well.

When I booked my train, I decided to book a ticket to Trieste also, and a backpackers place for one night. I figured, while I was in the region, this was my one chance to visit the city famous for being James Joyce’s place of self-exile, as it were; also, I discovered during my research that the Duino Castle – where German poet Rainer Mariner Rilke wrote his great Duino Elegies – was only half an hour from Trieste by bus. So my itinerary read, Udine (three nights), Venice (two nights) and Trieste (one night – but arriving at lunch on the Monday and not departing until late Tuesday night). (Venice and Trieste posts to follow!)

***

Below is a summary of my time in Udine; it essentially in note form, but then to write up the proceedings of the entire conference would take a serious amount of time and effort, which I should be dedicating to the writing of poems.

Conference Diary

Wednesday 18 April

Catch the early train from Trastevere-Roma Termini-Venice Mestre-Udine. Give up the window seat I’d booked so that a tourist can sit with his family – not a good idea, as I’d planned to catch up on sleep during the trip, and now have nowhere to rest my head. The obscenely well-dressed man sitting opposite me (dark suit, mauve tie, laptop) disembarks in Florence. Change trains at Venice. Arrive in Udine with no idea about anything, but a quick phone-call to Antonella sorts me out. Stroll to the hotel, which bowls me over. Watch CNN in horror while resting on the bed, as news breaks of the Virginia Tech shootings, and wonder again at the almost pornographic depths to which these news stations delve into tragedies; it’s almost as though they relish them. Interesting dissection of US gun laws, revealing that the so-called ‘right to bear arms’ clause found in the US constitution is a complete misreading – what would be called a howler in any public commentary, what one Supreme Court judge has called the greatest hoax perpetrated on the American people (though, funnily enough, also by the American people). Quick jaunt through the city, the main Gothic church, the wonderful medieval and Renaissance architecture of the streets. Meet other delegates in the foyer for dinner at a nearby restaurant; accompanied by Raphael and Natalia, a very cool couple (she a South African spoken word artist, he a scholar of South African spoke word poetry!) whom I’ll get to know better over the next few days. Other delegates include four from India: S.L Bhyrappa (author of more than 20 novels), retired professor S. Ramaswamy (Bhyrappa’s English translator, three-time Fullbright holder, life-time fellow of Yale), K.C. Belliapa (Vice Chancellor of a university in northern India) and Saumitra Chakravarty (poet and translator). Am puzzled at dinner when Ramaswamy tells a story of Alexander the Great meeting with a particular Indian who, when offered the world by Alexander asks him to step out of the sunlight – for I know full well that this was Diogenes the Cynic, who was certainly not an Indian!

Thursday 19 April

Conference begins 9am at the university across town, to which we all walk as group. The room is packed with over a hundred students, both tertiary and secondary – which makes me slightly nervous ahead of my reading tomorrow afternoon. Antonella opens, followed by a keynote via video from Californian professor Riane Eisler, with a tough of the evangelical vibe (or is it just American?) as she stresses the need for models of partnership rather than domination – the breadth of subject matter, though, is remarkable and stimulating, ranging from cave paintings to contemporary economics. Reading by Bhyrappa from the English translations of his novels, though the translations are a let down particularly given Ramaswamy’s credentials – unfortunately, there’s not much worse than a series of poorly translated extended sex scenes, and in all honesty I have to restrain myself at times from succumbing to fits of laughter – which I’m sure is unfair on the original text. Lovely catered lunch in the courtyard, followed by wine and coffee. Terrific paper from Roberto Albarea (whose English is very creative) on education and alterity – he will be our guide in Venice. Rigorous and interesting papers on Renaissance literature; another on education by Davide Zoletto, one of numerous people with whom I will have stimulating conversation over the coming days. Dinner at a nearby restaurant, then a surprise cake organized by Vicky Petsinis (Tom’s wife, a school teacher whose organization skills kept us all from degenerating into a shambles over the conference and in Venice!) for Antonella’s birthday. Off to the theatre for a performance of Indian dancing by Ileana Citaristi and Saswat Joshi. Both are professional dancers, trained in India; Saswat in particular is phenomenal, looking just like one of the gods from the Hindu pantheon. Nightcap whiskey in the hotel bar – barman teaches me (the only patron) some of the Friulian dialect: ‘Mandi’ is the phrase used here for casual greetings and departures, like ‘ciao’ – its roots are fascintating: manus (hand) and di (God); ‘mandi’ meaning therefore ‘in the hand of God’.

Friday 20 April

The day of my reading. Morning begins with a video presentation sent from David Malouf (in absentia), reading from his new collection of short stories, Every Move You Make. (Recognise his living room, the fireplace, the indigenous paintings in the background.) Relish, as always, his peerless prose; thought he might’ve given a greeting in Italian for the benefit of the students. Three papers on Malouf’s fiction. Hang on every word of Franca Cavangoli’s, his Italian translator, as she discusses the difficulties of retaining Malouf’s music in translation. (This will provide the opening for the article I’m writing for the ALR on Malouf’s new collection of poems, to be published in The Australian in June.) Talk with Franca at lunch; later, after my own reading, she will invite me to Milan, where she works at the university (an invitation I intend to accept). She is also the Italian translator of J.M. Coetzee, V.S. Naipal, Toni Morrison, Nadine Gordimer and others. After lunch, my reading; I’m the last to read of the Australian panel, after Tom (reading from his new novel), Richard (who gives an impromptu on the role of Gallipoli in the Australian consciousness) and Fiona (also reading from her novel). Reading goes well; I try out all my new poems, and they seem well received. Some are sexy, some light, some heavy – many are set in Rome. Saumitra gives her paper on Toni Morrison and Mahasweta Devi, a subversive Indian writer. Back to the hotel briefly before dinner at a very funky restaurant (think Sydney, trendy fittings, cool music, cocktail bar and restaurant) called ‘My Way’ (ie. Sinatra, and the most common tune squeezed out of every accordion in Rome!). Most of us are buggered, and there are some grumblings about the length of time between courses – I can’t help but think, though, that complaining about the extended dining habits of Italy is a bit like complaining about cows on the roads in India. Talk translation with Davide – who teaches me the word for ‘crab claw’ (‘kela di grachio’) which I can’t help calling ‘kela di Gramsci’ or ‘the claw of Gramsci’ (Italian philosopher). After a few glasses of wine, this tickles me. Most delegates retire, but I stay at the restaurant with some of the postgrads and their friends (Marco, Marta, Laura, Raphael, Natalia) and Lance Henson, an American Indian (Cheyenne) poet who once drank with Tom Waits and Bukowski, and who shares their revolutionary spirit. Proceed to finish every bottle of wine on the table.

Saturday April 21

The last day of the conference is in fact a half-day, and perhaps the most diverse. Begins with readings from Lance Henson, Cheyenne poet, and Natalia Molebatsi, South African poet – both are wonderful, sonic feasts, Lance reading some poems in his native tongue, Natalia breaking out into song the way only African poets can. Raphael gives his paper on South African spoken word, and plays an audacious audio file, beginning ‘Last night I smoked a spliff with Jesus’! And I thought my reading was a little risqué! A guy named Piergeorgio (with whom I would visit the Peggy Guggenheim Collection in Venice the next afternoon) gave a kickarse analysis of the famous Shell advertisement that tries to seduce the public into believing the company is environmentally sound. Papers by Marta (on Aussie author Gillian Rubenstein) and Laura (on Irish dramatist Lady Gregory), who have both been a big help during the conference. The conference ends with a paper by Luisa Sello, consummate flautist, who guides us through the leitmotifs in a piece by composer Giacinto Scelsi, while playing the flute! After this we are all taken on a guided tour of Udine, a shambolic affair, and we all take refuge in gelati. Visit the Gothic church. Return to the hotel to grab our bags, then are seen by Marta to the train station, where as a group we all embark for Venice. Arrive in Venice, not really knowing where to go, and our search for our hotel, which is at least twenty minutes out of the historical city centre, will not be forgotten by anyone of the group. Dinner at the nearby ‘Crazy Pizzeria’, before collapsing in bed, looking forward to the tour of Venice tomorrow.

Roman Rainbow

(Dancing in the Rain)

Resurrection Day, St. Peter's

Buona pasqua! Easter in Rome... Let's just put it this way: chocolate certainly isn't the priority. In fact, it was only in the week leading up to the easter weekend that the small displays of chocolate eggs appeared in the supermarket - that's right, not a month, not February, but a WEEK before easter, a couple of SMALL displays (unlike at home!).

Though I didn't feel up to braving the enormous crowds for the Pope's address, I decided to go to St. Peter's in the afternoon, when things had quietened down. This was the first time I'd been inside the great basilica...

Apparently the church can hold 60,000 people - but this seems like an exaggeration by my estimation, and I suspect this figure must include the capacity of the Piazza San Pietro also, though of course I might be wrong.

On entering, I tried to leave Michelangelo's Pieta until last, but like a magnet it kept dragging my eyes towards it so I just gave in. Standing before the masterpiece (behind protective glass since someone attacked it in '72) for a good ten minutes, I realised I wasn't the only English-speaking tourist who was compelled to mutter the sculptor's age at the time of completion, '25', with astonishment. Bernini's 30-meter high 'baldachin' (read pergola!) over the papal altar (under which San Pietro himself is apparently buried) looks to me a bit like it belongs in a Tim Burton film.

If the dome looks impressive from the outside, from the inside the cupola is simply stunning (see first photo above). There is a apparently some argument as to whether Michelangelo designed it, although he was certainly chief architect when it was commenced. Because it was Easter Sunday, the famous dome ascent was out of the question - which gives me a perfect excuse to come back very soon (not that one needs an excuse, I suppose).

Some photos from Trastevere

In response to Jennifer Compton's request, here are a few photos from Trastevere (suburb of the studio), taken on the way to St. Peter's on Easter Sunday...

Gladiators: Roma v Man Utd

(Francesco Totti - that penalty)

While I was in fact looking forward to going out and having a few pints at 'The Scholar's Lounge' (a rather fun Irish Pub in the heart of the centro historico, and indeed, some scholars are to be found there) for the the AS Roma v Manchester Utd Champion's League clash, played here in Rome, I decided to be good and resist the temptation.

Turns out it was just as well. 18 people who attended the game have been hospitalised with one Man Utd fan in a critical condition after receiving a stab wound to the neck. Roma supporters have the unfortunate reputation of being the most thug-like in the whole of Italy, and evidently the equal of any Premiership League team. The team itself is a bit like the Brisbane Broncos or Sydney Roosters in the NRL (or 'kick it over the H' as Emma calls it, grunting - not all sports are as sophisticated as Rugby Union Em! (Canterbury Crusaders reference there)) in that while they are one of the benchmarks of the national competition, there are many sportsfans who love to loathe them.

Well, I've been trying to support Roma, but no amount of 'as the Romans do'-style persuasion has been able to oust from my memory Grosso's 50/50 dive in the World Cup last year against the Socceroos (sure, Lucas Neill should never, ever have tried a tackle like that in the box, especially on an Italian - but, as every local I've spoken to about it has said themselves: there was no foul in the challenge) and Totti's successful penalty - which knocked us out. Roma may go through to the final four by ousting Man U (Liverpool look like destroying PSV, Valencia and Chelsea are anyone's guess, and AC Milan v Bayern Munich is going to be a cracker) but even though their style of play is attractive, I simply am not feeling it. Looks like I'll have to pick a team other than Roma to support.

___

UPDATE: Since I wrote the above, Roma has gone down in the away leg to Manchester Utd. In fact, they were humbled (read hammered) 7-1 at Old Trafford; and whilst my rant about Roma above still holds, I have come to have a greater respect, both for the Roma team and for the average Roma fan (not the thugs), for the following reason.

Now if it had been Manchester who had been beaten 7-1, we could've expected scenes of riots, screaming, angry skinheads burning effigies etc etc on the tv screens. But something I've come to realise in the aftermath of the game - Roma have been extremely gracious in defeat. This could be because they were spanked so comprehensively, but the fans I speak to seem to be in agreement on a few points: they did well in the competition, they're proud of their team, they were outplayed on the night by a very good opposition.

So while I'm not sure they are the best winners going around, going on recent events I would have to argue that they are very gracious in defeat, and unlikely to resort to vitriol against their team, etc. Which is much better than the alternative, and which for me is more in the spirit of any sporting contest. Bravo Roma.

Sunrise in Trastevere

(From the window of the dining room)

Piazza del Popolo

After visiting the Ara Pacis - The Altar of Peace (post to follow below) - I made my way to the Piazza del Popolo, which in terms of historical mood is vastly different: this grand piazza, which sports an impressive Egyptian obelisk in its center, was, until Italy's unification in 1870, the most popular spot for that favourite European popcorn past-time, the public execution. Charles Dickens was but one of numerous writers who witnessed and wrote about such grizzly affairs, which were thankfully less grizzly after the importation of the efficient French invention, the guillotine. One thing, though, can be said for the uniqueness of the Italian-style executions: most Europeans found it an oddity that in Rome, the victims were not tortured before death - it was only after the person had expired that the public did unspeakable things to their body.

Of note also in this piazza are the young, um, punks...or perhaps, card-carying fascists, one might say. Only a few looked like your Romper Stomper types, the rest seemed fairly, well, harmless, verging on emo really. Mind you, although their sense of fashion is clearly at odds with the Via Condoti a few vias away (see earlier posts), it's obvious they still take as much time getting ready! (Ready for what, you might ask? Well, you know, hanging out - or what in Australia would surely be called posing! - around the stairs in the piazza. What else?!).

Then it was up a stairway, to the beautiful Pincio gardens, dappled with afternoon sunlight. It was here that Keats went for walks to try to convalesce, on advice from his physician (looking at the place, you almost wonder why it didn't work)- the hill links up, about ten minutes down the way, with the summit of the Spanish Steps. The gardens and parks on this hill are pretty much the place you take your missus (and where I'll certainly be taking mine!) if you're anywhere nearby - as evidenced by the oodles of canoodling going on. Seriously, you're lucky not to trip over a couple making out. So I can say with some certainty that the famous hills of Rome (my favourite so far is still the Aventine, though this one, Pincio, and Janiculum, which are not included among the famous seven, are not far behind) are the spot for lovers. Of course, it's a cliche to say the Italians have good taste, but the views really are spectacular, and the gardens are like a retreat from the hustle on the streets, which, even in early spring, are starting to get riotous. If you were on the tourist trail, you might never know these places existed, so I count myself very lucky to be able to explore these pockets at my leisure.

Santa Maria del Popolo

(Chigi Chapel, designed by Raphael)

This church, at the north end of the Piazza del Popolo (see post above) was built on top of the graves of a particular famous family, whose most famous spawn was the Emperor Nero. Legend has it that a tree here had become the haunt for a murder of crows (you know, I think that's the first time in my life I've ever actually used the collective noun for crows!) said to be the incarnation of Nero's soul. So it was cut down in 1099 to make way for a chapel (though all this has been consigned laregly to the realm of legend). The church as it stands now was built in the late fourteen hundreds.

The photo above is of the Chigi chapel, which was designed by Raphael. Near the main altar of the church are two famous Caravaggios, but as I approached them I was shushed away by an old man - who I soon discovered happened to be the priest, wanting to start mass!

The thing is, I would've made it the two or three minutes earlier to see the paintings if I hadn't been distracted by a rather humorous event, which goes like this. You may be aware of the religious act of intercession, whereby one prays to the good lord (perhaps the best justification ever devised for talking to oneself) on behalf of, or for someone else; the practice is common in fact to both Christianity and Islam, and probably many other religions. In churches such as this one there are candles you can light, to help a soul in purgatory, which is another kind of intercession. (Incidentally, the final poem in my 2005 collection is actually called 'intercession'.)

Well in this church I was struck by a strange sight, which I'm sure is quite common, but was a first for me. Instead of actual candles, I found a kind of rickety old switchboard, from which protruded roughly three dozen candle-like lengths of plastic, and which rested on something akin to a keyboard-stand; along the front edge are a number of switches; beneath this is a sign in Latin, which reads if I remember correctly per animae in purgatoria or 'for the souls in purgatory'; and beneath this, a coin slot. So the idea is, you put your money in, you flick a swith, the electric candle comes on and bingo, you've saved a soul. The contraption is I suppose a type of vending machine for wandering souls.

Now as I was looking at this strange contraption, somewhat bemusedly, a woman walked up beside me, clearly intent on 'using' it. I might mention that of the three dozen or so candles, only about seven or eight were 'on'. So she put her money in, and the poor woman flicks one of the switches; but it transpires that she's actually flicked one of the ones that was already 'on', 'off'. She realised right away, and, muttering something to herself (or God?), she quickly flicked it back on, and then flicked another one 'on' that had been 'off' (which of course revealed that payment was optional). As she underwent this ordeal, she caught my eye, and must've seen in my look that I was aware of the implications of her mistake; if in fact you save a soul by flicking one of the candles on, then had she just snuffed one out by mistakenly flicking one off?!!

She hurried away, and despite the gravity of the situation, I couldn't stop chuckling even after I left the church.

Ara Pacis

The Ara Pacis or 'Altar of Peace' was constructed in the decade before Jesus was born, to celebrate Rome's golden age under Augustus. The period was one of unprecedented stability and prosperity, which future generations looked back on as ideal; unlike the emperors who followed, Augustus was pious, lived in a modest pad, and didn't indulge in the decadent lifestyle (flamingo tongues for dinner, orgies for dessert etc) that we've come to associate with Roman emperors.

It is perhaps the most famous example of Roman sculpture, and has been pieced slowly together since the first marble fragments were rediscovered in the sixteenth century. It's about the size of a single garage, and shows various public personalities of the time in a pious procession. My favourite figure is the young child tugging at his or her mother's skirt.


I have to admit, though, that the building in which the altar is housed left me a little cold. It stickes out like a sore thumb as the most contemporary architectural structure in the Eternal City, and from the outside looks quite interesting. But the interior is sterile, and considering the entrance fee (with audio guide) was 10 euros, I don't think I was the only one who felt a little underwhelmed, despite the marvellousness of the altar itself.

A night at the theatre

Having attended both an art gallery opening and a soprano recital at the invitation of the Australian embassy, I was recently invited to a night at the theatre, to see acclaimed Aussie stand-up comic, Sarah Kendell, who is doing the whole London / Europe touring thang at the moment, and is, I think, presently based in the UK.

I had some difficulty finding the place, and was thankfully assisted by a kind stranger who gave me directions; it seems that if you make the effort with the language, the Romans can really be quite friendly. The delightful theatre-cum-club (whose name slips my mind at the moment) actually contains a Raphael fresco in the foyer; for the rest, think red Venetian velvet curtains, piano, bar, with a theatre in the basement.

In the foyer I met the Ambassador and his wife again, and I suppose it's not going too far to say we are now on friendly terms. I was then led by Clelia, the studio's contact, to a woman who was probably in her fifties, well-dressed in a slightly exotic sort of way, (think Morroccan jewellry etc) and quite a snazzy, cropped hair-do. "Jaya, this is Princess Nicoletta." Of course, when Clelia said the 'P' word I nearly fell over; I wish I'd been warned. We talked briefly about what I was doing etc. Then the Ambassador spotted us. "Ah Nicky, how are you?" So I was standing in a very busy foyer, between Princess Nicky and the Australian ambassador to Rome, and, feeling thoroughly out of my depth, proceeded to get slowly plastered on the free red wine.

The show was fun, and catered particularly to what was by far the biggest gathering of English-speaking expats I'd come across in Rome, with jokes about the English and the Kiwis, and some classic Aussie taking-the-mickey out of Italian stylishness etc. After the show, I met Sarah (and her charming Cambridge-educated partner, with whom I got on like a house on fire; incidentally, he was mates in college with former English cricket captain Mike Atherton, who gave him free tickets to all the home tests!). It turns out Sarah is best friends with the Sydney poetess and mover-and-shaker, Johanna Featherstone, with whom I've worked, and who I often see when I'm in Sydney. This was certainly my first 'it's a small world' experience in Rome - I agreed to return the next evening to have a drink after the show.

That night, the owner of the club, Enzo, and his son, gave the three of us a very special treat. He took us into the small salon with the piano, and the two proceeded to sing a duet in Italian, with guitar. Their voices were amazing, the harmonies spot on, full-throated ease, modulation, exhiliration. It was a love song that seemed to stress the fact that we are all water; Sarah was very moved, as we all were. 'This is my gift to you,' said Enzo to Sarah, 'for the gift that you have given to us.'

So the following weekend I returned to the club, on account of its friendly and very talented owners. This time, Enzo's wife, who seems a fair bit younger than he is, and who is a famous Roman violinist in her own right, put on a joint show for a the small, cosy audience. The videos here don't really capture the atmosphere, but it was the best I could do, given I was captivated during the best parts of the evening.