I spent two weeks in the Eternal City of Rome this January. The first part is here https://wolfiewolfgang.com/two-weeks-in-rome-part-one/ I’ve been here on numerous occasions over the years, either for work or for passing visits en route to elsewhere. I’d been to the Sistine Chapel (unforgettable, of course) to St Peter’s, also for work, and to a number of art museums and I’ve had a lot of good Roman meals, but I wanted to spend a longer time here and let it get under my skin. I think I succeeded.

I’ll begin the second part of these blogs about my Roman trip at one its most famous monuments, the Colosseum, Il Colosseo (AD 80), the largest ancient amphitheatre ever built, and a place with a bloody history familiar to us all from stories and films about the gladiators. It is an extraordinary place and, for all the gruesome stories about blood-thirsty massacres of slaves, prisoners and the early Christian martyrs, it’s also the site of mass picnics and other less sadistic entertainments. But, and it’s a big but, you can’t avoid feeling a scary, even shocked, connection to all those slaughtered victims in what was in reality a blood sport. Would we have cheered too, I wonder, if we were in those massive audiences for what were highly dramatised public executions? We don’t know the answer. I had only been past it before in taxis or buses before this, and, of course, when I finally got here, it had to do more than just rain, it deluged. You get weather in Rome during January.

It’s an amazingly well-preserved ruin and there’s more than enough here of its remains to get the feeling of dread and excitement that was felt here two thousand years ago.

It’s just a short walk from the Colosseum to the Roman Forum, Il Foro Romano, another expansive set of classical ruins, once the centre of the Roman Empire. Roman citizens those days called it simply the Forum Magnum, or the Forum.

How the mighty have fallen, I thought, looking at the remains of Ancient Roman glory. I was here on the day that Donald Trump was inaugurated, for the second time, as American president in Washington’s Roman-inspired Capitol building. Seeing the ruins in the rain with those broken statues of some of the Caesars, added to my despair at the American election, but then I thought that those broken statues should be seen as symbols for what will happen one day to the latest world tyrant. Is there hope for us all in the Fall of Rome? Yes! Nothing lasts forever, not even in the Eternal City.

I had brought my writer’s jotting book with me and, here in Rome, I wrote some Fibonacci Poems, Fibs, on the subject of Rome and would-be emperors. They were published in the February 2025 issue of The Fib Review. https://www.musepiepress.com/fibreview/colin_bell2.html

Feeling less depressed, I couldn’t resist giving my tai-chi practice a go here at the Forum Magnum, thinking that we would have had to learn how to defend ourselves in Ancient Rome.

I visited another famous Roman landmark, known as the Spanish Steps, (La Scalinata di Trinità dei Monti), (built in 1725). The Trinità die Monti is its Italian name. These 135 steps lead to the church of It comes from the church of Trinità die Monti the top, but the steps also lead down to the Spanish embassy to the Holy See, the Palazzo Monaldeschi. So thus the Spanish Steps, familiar from books (Tender is the Night by F.Scott Fitzgerald, 1933 and The Roman Spring of Mrs Stone by Tennessee Williams, 1950), and movies (mostly famously, Roman Holiday directed by William Wyler, with Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck, 1953). It is one of the most visited parts of the city. As with the Trevi Fountain, this is a place for lovers, romantics and/or just whimsical selfies. We all have our own internal movies, so why not indulge our imagination here for a moment when we can.

I hadn’t realised was the the Spanish Steps are also right next to the house where the tubercular English Romantic poet, John Keats (1795 – 1821), came for his health but really to die, at the tragically young age of just 25.

Here, in one of the most crowded parts of Rome, the poet’s house was practically empty of visitors which was excellent for me, a dedicated Keats lover since school days.

The room where Keats died can’t help but invoke the tragedy of the young genius’ death, even though the contents of the room itself all had to be burnt because of the health regulations in Rome at the time.

As a museum, it’s a splendid reminder of how much we still have of Keats’ work but, sadly, also how much we might have had if he’d lived to a full age.  Standing in the room where he died, can turn us all into Romantics.

I have been half in love with easeful Death,

Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme,

 To take into the air my quiet breath;

 Now more than ever seems it rich to die,

 To cease upon the midnight with no pain,

 While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad

 In such an ecstasy!

(John Keats: Ode to a Nightingale.)

One of the poet’s last letters is preserved here. It’s a brief and matter-of-fact epistle to his friend about the local doctor’s advice for the now rapidly ailing poet to go out. It was note to the English painter, Joseph Severn (1793 – 1879), who looked after Keats until his death a short time later. Looking down on the Spanish Steps from John Keats’ window, means that I will always associate the poet with this otherwise joyful place.

After Keats, yes, let’s think poetic, but also, maybe go for a refreshing and very Italian glass of Campari.

Just off the Campo Marzio, another of those grand Roman squares, is one of Rome’s many churches, the Basilica Santa Maria del Popolo (Basilica of Holy Mary of the People). It might not look that special from outside, but inside, on permanent display, are two masterpieces by the great Italian painter Caravaggio (1571 – 1610). This was one of three emergency ecclesiastical stops that I planned on my essential Caravaggio tour when I wanted to see all the Caravaggio paintings in Rome. It will surprises me that you can just walk into one of these churches and, yes, here’s another Caravaggio.

At this Basilica are two of the artist’s most dramatic paintings, The Conversion of St Paul (1601) and The Crucifixion of St Peter (1601).

At the Basilica Sant’Agostino, behind another discrete exterior, is another of his masterpieces, Madonna di Loreto (1606)

Here on one of the nave’s pillars, it is easy to miss this mural by Raphael, The Prophet Isaiah (1512). If you’re not careful in Rome, you practically trip over great Italian Renaissance or Baroque paintings everywhere you turn.

In the French church of San Luigi dei Francesi, (St Louis of the French), there are three more Caravaggios, commissioned works on theme of St Matthew, and painted between 1599 and 1602.

The centre piece, with St Matthew and an angel, is known as The Inspiration of St Matthew.

On a moody January day, it was pleasant getting to the Museum of Modern Art (Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Moderna) without having to get involved in the motor traffic. Walking through the gardens of the Villa Borghese, even at this time of year, is a breath of fresh air, literally, after all those albeit beautiful Baroque churches.

Here there is a permanent collection of mostly Italian paintings and sculpture from the late 19th century until the present. The late 19th century and early 20th century works are crammed together on the walls, 19th century style, but they are mostly visible to more than just a glancing eye. It was tempting to spend more time than I had in this section, but there was more room on the gallery’s walls than I have space for in this blog.

I discovered Italian artists that I wasn’t familiar with in the gallery’s current exhibition, Il Tempo di Futurismo (The Time of Futurism) exhibition, marking the 80th anniversary of the death of Filippo Tommaso Marinetti, Futurism’s founder, which ran at the gallery until the end of April this year.

I was drawn to the works by Sardinian modernist, Mario Sironi (1885 – 1961), whose reputation, like those of other Futurist artists have been clouded by their association with Mussolini’s Italian Fascist movement. Maybe now, after nearly a century, we should try to see the good things in the art of this period without always dwelling on the negative and disturbing trappings of history.

The exhibition was far from being only brutal and alarming, as in this room devoted to the sparkling light-saturated work of Piero Durazzo, or the photographic section on cinematic photographs of Luca Campigotto.

The relationship in the first half of the 20th century between man and machine, is shown in the most challenging and exciting exhibits in this show, which also includes some of the machines themselves – early aeroplanes and racing cars appealing to anyone who has ever liked making model aeroplanes or cars. Aeroplanes, for good or for ill, have a significant place in this exhibition, none less than a number paintings imagined from the pilot’s view of view from his cockpit, presumably on bombing raids. I haven’t seen anything like this before, that mix of Futurism, art deco abstraction, a touch of daring, and, I have to say, 1930s Fascist agitprop. This is a show that definitely made think and re-think about some of the artists, like the American poet, Ezra Pound, who working and even inspired under the shadow of Italian fascism.

Another quite different exhibition was showing at the same time, but across the Borghese gardens at the Galleria Borghese. It was quite a distance from 20th century The Time of Futurism to Poetry and Painting in the 17th Century. Giovan Battista Marino and the Marvellous Passion.

The ‘Marvelous Passion’ in the title was felt by the greatest Italian poet of the 17th century, Giovan Battista Marino (1569 – 1625), the author of an epic poem Adone (1623) about the love between Venus and Adonis. Marino also wrote an encyclopaedic poetry collection of 624 poems dedicated to, and paired with, an equal number of Baroque works of art, La Galeria (1619). The book is a series of reflections on the relationship between poetry and art. I feel slightly embarrassed to admit that this show was, at least on first glance, more my kind of thing than Italian Futurism. Call me old-fashioned, no, I won’t admit to that, I’ve learnt to love some of those Futurist pictures, and I’m certainly not anti-Modernist. But, I write poetry, maybe not as well as Marino, but I’ve even tried to write a few poems in the Italian language. I’m learning to speak the language and I have had a life-long fascination with Italian epic poetry, Taso, Ariosto and Boccaccio in particular. Add to that my enthusiasm for Italian art from the 14th to the 17th century, then I was always going to be drawn to this show. The exhibition includes paintings and sculptures from Titian to Tintoretto, Correggio to Carracci, from Rubens to Poussin, with Marino’s poems side-by-side. ‘Marvelous’ indeed, and, because of the subject matter, it is sexy too.

The exhibition places quotes from Marino’s work next to the art that he admired on the same subject matter. Here the story of Venus, the goddess of Love and her young lover Adonis, are shown in the sculpture by Cristoforo Stati and in the painting by Jacopo Palma next to apt quotes from Marino’s epic, La Galeria.

Next, and in pride of place, is Bernini’s wonderful Apollo and Daphne, seen from all angles because it is not just so beautiful, but well frightening too. Daphne, the beautiful naiad, a water nymph, from Roman poet Ovid’s story, is desired, maybe loved, by Apollo, but she has been cursed by a jealous Eros to loath sex. She tries to escape from Apollo advances and saved by being turned into a laurel tree by her father, Peneas, a river god. The metamorphosis, to use Ovid’s word for it, is an unforgettable mix of the shocking and the erotic, also caught in a moment when stone is turned into movement.

After so much passion on display here in these rooms at the Galleria Borghese, I moved on to another part of the gallery, the Silenus Room for a display of the gallery’s Caravaggio collection which matches the Marino exhibition perfectly. My epic walking tour of Rome’s Caravaggios continues.

After the famous Galleria Borghese, I wasn’t expecting to find another major art gallery on Rome’s busiest shopping street, the Via Corso, the Doria Pamphili Gallery which have three more Caravaggio paintings. I had to interrupt a trip around the bargain-laden clothes shops that line this bustling boulevard with every store declaring that there was 70% off everything – the ultimate January sales. sales. I didn’t buy anything here, it was time to look inside this relatively unsung palazzo.

Sure enough, the three Caravaggio paintings were here, in their own room, far from the shopping crowds outside. They are early works that already show the artist’s fascination with awkward poses, radical perspective, and ambiguous facial expressions.

Interesting as it was to see these three early Caravaggio works, geniuses are never boring, but, I have to admit that the star work here is definitely not a Caravaggio, but the Portrait of Pope Innocent X (Cardinal Pamphili) by the Spanish master Diego Velázquez. Portraitist supreme, Velázquez shows us a far from saintly pope, so sinister in fact, that I wouldn’t want to meet him in a dark Roman alleyway, or even in the great cathedral church of St Peter’s.

A much brighter and bigger alley leads to the St Peter’s….well, they say all roads lead to Rome, and it was out of the question, while I am here, not to go back to the big church at the centre of Christendom. Before I go in, just one last reference to Caravaggio. I wasn’t visiting the Vatican Museum on this trip, but if I had, I could have seen one last Caravaggio that is here in Rome, one of his greatest too. It’s always good to leave something special for another day. The Entombment of Christ (1603), with its figure of the dead Christ, shares the pose and the tragic pathos of Michelangelo’s Pietà, a sculpture much admired by Caravaggio. It is one of the greatest of paintings. The Michelangelo Pietà, housed next-door, was one of my main reasons for returning to St Peter’s.

And so to St Peter’s itself. It was a clear January day with a perfect blue sky. Pope Francis wasn’t here, he had been unwell, and in a month he would begin his long stint in hospital being treated for pneumonia, I hadn’t been inside the Vatican since the time of Pope John Paul II, and I didn’t realise that very soon there was to be another new pope, Leo XIV.

The scale of it all is still overwhelming, St Peter’s Square is truly vast when seen from the cathedral steps, and the interior is impressive beyond my words. Leo XIV must have gasped when he walked out onto the balcony just a week ago from when I am writing this. There was hope and a relief for us all to see a modest and caring American becoming a world leader

For all the magnificence of the cathedral, nothing can be compete with the human-sized statue in a side chapel – one of the wonders of the world.

It had been a long walk from my apartment near The Pantheon, and I needed to sit for a while before the return journey. Looking for a seat, I found this chapel not far from the exit. I admired the altar’s painting of St Sebastian by Domenichino (1631) and sat here as people, in groups or alone, came in to kneel at the altar. I didn’t realise until later that under the altar here is the tomb of Pope John Paul II (1920 -2005), but I could see that this was obviously a pilgrim’s destination. A statue of the sainted pope sits watching from on his throne to the side. I am not a Roman Catholic, I wasn’t always impressed by Pope John Paul II’s announcements, but I could also admire his courage and charisma. Whatever I feel about catholicism, I felt something here, more than just being rested and refreshed.

Outside, the sky was red, a shepherd’s delight, an awe-inspiring sight in an awesome place.

Impressive too was the flood-lit Castel Sant’Angelo on the other side of the River Tiber, across from St Peter’s. It was originally built by the Emperor Hadrian for his own mausoleum. It is another Rotunda in a more brutal style than the Pantheon, and it has served as a forbidding symbol of Imperial and Vatican power over the centuries. The ashes of Emperor Hadrian and all his successors were all buried here until the year 217. The last urn belonged to the assassinated Emperor Caracalla, one of the most tyrannical of all Roman Emperors. He set the bar so high that none of his successors could compete whit his reputation for cruelty. After the Fall of Rome, the castle/mausoleum became a papal prison a carrying on the tradition of cruelty, you might think. Executions were carried out there in a small inner courtyard, as in the last act of Puccini’s opera, Tosca. The opera that had begun its story down the road from here at the Basilica Sant’Andrea di Valle, as I described in part one of this blog. The tragic heroine, Floria Tosca, jumps to her death from the tower after her lover Mario Cavaradossi was tortured and then executed there by firing squad. Before he is shot, he sings another, his second, famous aria from up there, ‘È lucevan le stelle’ (‘The stars were shining’). Knowing he will die, he sings that he has never loved life so much. The second tenor aria in the opera, and the second of the two greatest of some of Puccini’s greatest arias for tenor. I couldn’t help humming it on my way back to the Pantheon. Here is Jonas Kaufmann again from the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden.

E muoio disperato!

E non ho amato mai tanto la vita,

I die in desperation

and have never loved life so much!

https://lyricstranslate.com/en/e-lucevan-le-stelle-stars-were-shining.html

It wouldn’t be fair to Rome, if I didn’t finish this blog with a record of all the fun I’ve had in Roman restaurants over these two weeks. Rome has the most extraordinary history, often bloody and tyrannical. It has a genius culture beyond compare, often in spite of the bloody history and an architectural history that has defined in some way almost every building that has been designed since. All of that makes it an unmissable city, but one of the main reasons why anyone should think of coming here is what it is like today. The food, the wine, the good humour and the sheer fizz of eating out in this city, makes it party town. I can’t wait until I am lucky enough to return.

After dinner, there will be a final leisurely stroll, known as a passeggiata, back via a floodlit Pantheon, to the apartment and bed. Arriverderci Roma!

The post Two weeks in Rome – part two. appeared first on Wolfie Wolfgang.

In January 2025, I spent two weeks on holiday in an apartment in the centre of the Centro Storico (Historic Centre) of Rome and I felt I had lived there for ever.

It was like being at home, but with many world famous landmarks just a few minutes walk away .

With a speedy internet on my trusted laptop, I was, I felt, truly at the centre of the world.

There was even a small courtyard downstairs where I could do my daily martial arts practice – White Crane style Kungfu and tai-chi. This space became my dojo, my training ground, and after just a few days, I felt grounded here.

I was living round the corner to a street that had the two thousand year old remains of an Ancient Roman building – a local resident told me had once been a Roman Baths. It appeared to be growing out of, even bursting out of, the surrounding buildings. Birds liked it too and used it as their cliff-top perch.

I’m next door to a shop too, not your average shop, but an upmarket ecclesiastical outfitters. I feel blessed every time I come home.

There was also, not only some good restaurant here but also a small café, the ideal place for a morning espresso and croissant. Perfetto.

The café was down my road but also across the street from the Pantheon, one of Rome’s most famous monuments, The Pantheon, a 2nd century Roman temple and, since AD 609, the Roman Catholic Basilica Santa Maria ad Martyres. Apart from its Corinthian pillared portico, the building is circular, in Rotunda style, one that was much copied through the Roman world and ever after.

The espresso was good too.

As with many famous Italian landmarks, people all seem to congregate in crowds outside the famous bits, and leave the adjoining streets empty. Going to Rome in January was definitely a good way to avoid the crowds.

I was not quite alone. This crow, a Pantheon resident, also takes an interest in croissants. He finds my morning routine much more interesting than the nearly two thousand year old building where he perches.

It is genuinely impressive to study the ancient brickwork and amazing to observe the concrete dome that has crowned the Rotunda through the millennia. And, as it is warm for January, to sit outside a café, people-watching.

Inside the Pantheon, in spite of the glories of the Renaissance decorations, the main attraction is the beauty of the circular space itself with its domed ceiling. The proportions are just right and I was not the only one who wanted to ignore the tombs and paintings and just to feel the space.

There are of course, a lot of tombs, most famously, the grand memorials to two kings of Italy, especially and, maybe, self-consciously impressive is this one for Vittorio Emanuele II ( reigned 1861 – 1878), the first King of a united Italy since the 6th century. He has a guard of honour and a monument fit for a king, even if it is still up-staged by the building itself.

The Guard of Honour, finely costumed, of course, are drawn from the impressively-named National Institute of the Guard of Honour to the Royal Tombs of the Pantheon. Nice work if you can get it.

Apart from the tomb of the influential Italian composer Arcangelo Corelli (1653 – 1713), the only other resting place that drew my attention was that of one of that great artistic triumvirate of Renaissance geniuses, Raphael.

The honourable gentleman of the Institute of Guards of Honour, paraded under my window the next day. And a fine, if slightly sinister, sight they made.

Very near to the Pantheon, and still just down the road from my apartment, is the Basilica of Santa Maria sopra Minerva, magnificent and the only Gothic church in Rome. It was built over the foundations of a Greco-Roman temple to the goddess Minerva, consecrated in 1370. I felt the rumblings of the pagan gods under my feet. The elephant statue with its obelisk, felt pagan too. It was designed by Bernini and unveiled in 1667,

Before entering the Basilica, I visited the adjoining building, the Convent of San Domenico, a lovely tranquil place with a garden, robed Dominican monks, and decorated cloisters. When I was there they were holding an exhibition of paintings, Saint Francis of Assisi from Cimabue to Perugino. My favourite picture was the honest and down-to-earth image of St Francis, complete with his big ears, soon after his death, painted by Cimabue (1240 – 1302) on the simile wooden coffin lid used for the dead saint until his grand memorial was built at Assisi. It helped me believe that saints are human too. I was moved too to see a specimen of St Francis’ handwriting.

The gothic splendour of the basilica was a special treat for eyes in danger of getting a bit too worn down by the Baroque. I loved to see the all the colours on the arches and vaulted ceilings that we have lost on our English gothic churches. Here was another moment, as in the Pantheon, to just stand and stare.

As a frequent visitor to Finland these days, I was amazed to find this side chapel dedicated to Finland’s patron saint, St Henrik, with a modern Gothic-looking wooden statue of the saint by the Finnish sculptor, Sakari Pykälä (1992). I discovered that I in Rome for St Henrik’s feast day and couldnt’ resist going to the celebration of the mass in his honour where the hymns were all sung in Finnish

Sitting in the congregation I could see a statue of Christ holding a cross to the left of the altar. I wasn’t expecting to come across The Risen Christ by Michelangelo, no less.

There is rain in Rome in January, but that was ok, an umbrella bought in a shop next to the apartment did the trick and there was still so much to see.

and to eat. Rome, as I am sure you know is a foodie’s delight – I loved it too, as the two kilos I put on while I was there proves.

After dinner, what better, well, you have many choices here in Rome, but, just down the street from here is that most famous of fountains, the Trevi Fountain as remembered by most cineastes for the moment Anita Ekberg uses it as her private paddling pool in Federico Fellini’s film La Dolce Vita (1960). I am also nostalgic for this most voluptuous of monuments when I listen to the underestimated composer, Ottorino Respighi’s symphonic poem, Fountains of Rome (1916).

The 18th century statues were designed by Nicola Salvi but completed by Giuseppe Pannini, it is the largest fountain in Rome and the crowds, especially the young couples, can’t resist its resist its romantic appeal. It Fellini every day here in this part of Rome.

Out of my apartment, turn left for the Pantheon and the Trevi Fountain, turn right for the baroque Basilica di Sant’Andrea della Valle, St Andrew’s Basilica. It is a majestic baroque church consecrated in 1650.

The altar is surrounded by the epic painting by Mattia Preti (1613 – 1699) of Saint Andrew crucified on his x-shaped cross, under one of the most spectacular domed ceilings in the city.

I was lucky to catch a concert here celebrating the 600th anniversary of the birth of one of church music’s greatest composers, Giovanni Pierluigi da Palestrina (1525 – 1594), or Palestrina for short. The music was supplied by one of the choirs from St Peter’s Basilica who were joined by a visiting student choir from the University of Minnesota. the match of youthful American clarity and mellow Italian experience worked wonderfully. Palestrina’s music was, after all, composed to be heard in just such an acoustic as here.

The other Italian composer associated with this church is, of course, Giacomo Puccini 18587 – 1924), for it is here that his opera Tosca begins when the tenor, Mario Cavaradossi, is painting a portrait of Mary Magdalene in the Capella Barberini, but the features are of his mistress, Floria Tosca, a beautiful opera singer and, because he’s an Italian tenor, he falls in love with the image on his canvas and sings ‘Recondite Armonia di bellezze diverse!’ (Concealed harmony of contrasting beauties). I couldn’t but remember this and just had to play the aria again when I got back to the apartment. Look out for part two of my Roman story, https://wolfiewolfgang.com/two-weeks-in-rome-part-two/but until then, here’s a link to Jonas Kaufmann singing the aria at the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden..https://youtu.be/xw-pOOdm7bs?si=HgufGktRIxZlsLg

L’arte nel suo mistero

le diverse bellezze insiem confonde:

Ma nel ritrar costei

Il mio solo pensiero,

il mio sol pensier sei tu,

Tosca, sei tu!

Art in its mystery

two beauties together confuse

but in painting this

my only thought is of you

Tosca, of you!

The post Two weeks in Rome – part one. appeared first on Wolfie Wolfgang.

The city of Ravenna in Emilia-Romagna on the Adriatic side of Northern Italy, is a civilised and quietly prosperous place, if it wasn’t for its most famous treasures, we wouldn’t guess that once, over a thousand years ago, the city was the capital of the Western Roman Empire. Those treasures are the sublime works of art that decorate the churches and basilicas that were built here in the 4th and 5th centuries AD, the declining years of the Roman Empire, at a time that we tend to think of Italy as being lost to marauding hordes of barbarians. Maybe our ignorance about the so-called Dark Ages, or Late Antiquity, makes a visit to any one of these extraordinary churches such an unexpected, overwhelming and moving experience.

I was in Ravenna in June 2024 and I can only repeat the superlatives of any sentient visitor to this small city’s remarkable eight Unesco World Heritage monuments. I took my camera and, for this blog, I plan to let the pictures do most of the talking, as was the intention of the magnificent mosaics that are Ravenna’s principal glory. It might help though to add a few notes on the way.

Galla Placidia’s Mausoleum (425 – 450 AD)

The little mausoleum, you could almost call the exterior cute, may have been intended but was not used as the burial site of the Roman Princess, Galla Placidia (393/3 – 450), who is said to have planned and overseen its construction and decoration with the mosaics which have inspired many generations of visitors to Ravenna. She is reputed to have often prayed there and, at times, even cried there. Galla Placidia was the daughter of the Roman Emperor Theodosius I, half-sister to the Roman Emperor Honorius, the Queen Consort to Ataulf, king of the Visigoths, Empress Regent to her son Constantius III. It appears though that she was much more than a royal daughter, sister, wife and mother, she was a powerful figure in the years of turmoil when Italy was being invaded by Visigoths (Western Goths) and Ostrogoths (Eastern Goths). She may have been a moderating voice between rival Romans and Goths at this time, seeing the qualities of both sides and having some responsibility for the artistic achievements of this mix of cultures. She was a remarkable woman, also a pious Christian who founded or restored a number of important churches in Rome, Jerusalem and Ravenna, and she spent some time in exile in Constantinople where she was born and she may have met the leading Byzantine architects and mosaic-makers who inspired whoever designed the mosaics in her mausoleum. Now, apart from seeing her face on a few gold coins, we can only get a glimpse of her from what she inspired.

The ceiling of her Mausoleum with its glittering stars representing a gateway to Heaven made a great impact on future mosaic-makers and on writers and artists over the centuries, including Carl Jung, and, reputedly, Vincent van Gogh’s painting The Starry Night and Cole Porter’s song, Night and Day. The often-admired glitter of the mosaics is achieved with tesserae that were made with gold leaf between pieces of glass.

The abstract patterns, and those starry night skies tell an emotional story beyond words, but there are narratives here too. The semi-circular lunettes show Christ the Good Shepherd. He is in a suitably pastoral scene, offering a gentle hand to stroke one of the sheep under the chin. Stay a while he seems to be telling us, you will be safe here. Facing this scene, in another lunette, we see a male saint, he might be Saint Vincent of Saragossa, who was ordered to reveal his hiding place for his sacred books, the four gospels – they were to be burned. He had hidden them in a safe place. Maybe they are hidden here in this little chapel. In another lunette two deer, or harts, referencing Psalm 42: As the hart panteth after the water brooks, so panteth my soul after thee, O God. I think we can feel the power and emotion that the founder of this place instilled here.

Basilica di Sant’Apollinare Nuovo (504 AD)

The basilica of Sant’Apollinare Nuova, was built by order of Theodoric the Great (454 -526 AD), the King of the Ostrogoths who became the de facto ruler, and self-declared King of Italy between the years 493 and 526. It was intended to be the chapel for Theodoric’s palace, the remains of which are still just down the road in Ravenna on Via Roma.

The most striking thing about the decoration of the basilica are the obsessive rows of figures – saints, prophets and evangelists on the window level, and virgins and martyrs on the level above the pillars. The higher row are more individualised in the Roman style but the lower levels ones are more uniform, minor figures, perhaps, to flesh out a scene or two, as in Byzantine art. There are many examples in this building of the theological and artistic clashes between East and West at this time. As a childhood collector of toy soldiers, I still love the way these figures are all made to stand in neat lines, making a kind of order out of the chaos that existed in the early years of Christian theology when Christian rulers and thinkers will still trying to work out what exactly we should believe.

Holy virgins and martyrs are queuing up in orderly fashion on each side of the church, the virgins are in line for the Virgin Mary and her small but adult son, Jesus. The martyrs, on the other side of the aisle, are heading for grown-up Jesus and his guardian angels. In front of the virgin queue are Caspar, Melchior and Balthassar, the three wise men, or Magi. I don’t know if they were virgins, but this image is said to be the first time the three kings have been named in pictorial art.

Theodoric was an Arian Christian, at that time a branch of Christianity that was at odds with the orthodoxy of the Byzantine Emperor, Justinian I (482 – 565 AD) and the Pope who were both pretty firm in their particular theology and thought that the Arians were troublesome and wrong . Arians believed that Christ wasn’t created divine but as a human being who was created as a human baby, like the rest of us, but became god-like after his crucifixion. This was seen in Rome and in Constantinople as a serious heresy and it was one that divided the Christian church in the 6th century. In this basilica there are two contrasted images of Christ, illustrating Arian beliefs – on the left he is a young beardless man, standing on his mother’s lap, on the right he is older and bearded as the Man of Sorrows. The decorations of the church were a kind of Arian manifesto which the emperor Justinian tried to blot out after Theodoric’s death in 526 AD.

At the back of the queues there were originally figures of Theodoric and his courtiers, in a realistic depiction of Theodoric’s Ravenna palace, they are now blocked out by golden bricks on one side and by rather dainty but incongruous curtains on the other. The alterations were part of clumsy Justinian attempt to air-brush Theodoric out of history.

If this church is seen as a kind of style war between Theodoric and Justinian, then I think Theodoric won. Justinian’s alterations merely focus our attention on that he was trying to cover up. The combination of styles is, however, a lot of fun, and we can even see the odd hand or foot that the Justinian mosaicist failed to hide. It makes these wonderful rows of holy people a game of Where’s Wally.

The guessing game continues with the image of the Emperor himself with its extra large label reading Justinian. Was this one of Justinian’s alterations? Some people claim it is the image of Theodoric altered by order of the emperor. I think it is Theodoric – and Justinian is the Wally.

Archbishop’s Chapel of St Andrew (c.495 AD)

The tiny chapel, later dedicated to Saint Andrew, but originally dedicated to Christ, was built as a private oratory for the archbishops of Ravenna and is found on the first floor of the archbishop’s palace. The mosaics date from the around the time of the chapel’s construction., but some of the mosaics below the ceiling were replaced in the 16th century by paintings of Christ by Luca Longhi.

A beardless Christ, in Orthodox rather than Arian style, over the entrance door, is seen dressed as an emperor treading on a lion and a serpent, in a style known as Christ treading on the beasts. This is the first known depiction of an image that became popular in early Medieval art. It is a visual quote from the Bible: The asp and the basilisk you will trample under foot, you will tread on the lion and the dragon. The beasts being a metaphor for the devil. This heroic, unbearded, but Orthodox, Christ is a warrior-god . The devil is will stamp out might well be Theodoric’s Arianism.

Next to the chapel is the Archiepiscopal Museum with its most famous exhibit, the Archbishop’s Throne, probably made and carved in Constantinople, is panelled entirely of ivory. The Archbishop of Ravenna at this time was Maximiam, or Maximianus (499 – 556 AD). This either saintly or merely politically acute man (or both) was appointed directly by the Emperor Justinian. He was on the front line between the Popes in Rome and the Emperor in Constantinople, with secular as well as ecclesiastical responsibilities, so he needed a strong seat to sit on. This elegant piece of furniture, carved from the tusk of elephants, seems like an appropriate symbol.

The Arian Baptistry (early 6th century AD)

The Arian Baptistry was an Arian Christian baptismal building originally standing next to an Arian Cathedral because Arians’ believed the baptistry had to be separate from the church. It was built at the beginning of the 6th century AD, for Theodoric’s Arian Cathedral.

The Basilica Spirito Santo with its 15th century portico was the original church built here for the baptistry it was much restored and has lost its original mosaics. This complex of Arian Christian buildings would also have included a priest’s accommodation as can be seen on the wall in the picture below. The octagonal Arian Baptistry would have had mosaics on its interior walls but only the ceiling mosaics have survived.

The ceiling shows the young, unbearded and nude Christ, submerged in the River Jordan (personified as an old man). He’s being baptised by John the Baptist. The Holy Spirit, a dove, emits the baptismal water directly over Christ’s head. The encircling figures are the Apostles led in different directions by St Paul with his keys, and St Paul with his scrolls. They are indicating the rather comfortable throne where Christ will sit. There is something decidedly homely and human about this scene. The Arian human god, is, for a moment in his short life, just like you or me….his disciples are too.

The Neonian Baptistry, or the Orthodox Baptistry (late 4th century or early 5th century AD)

The Neonian or Orthodox Baptistry predates the Arian Baptistry by more than 50 years and the mosaics were added at the end of the 5th century. The subject is the same in both baptistries, but here, Christ is a mature bearded man. He too is submerged naked in the River Jordan which is similarly personified by an old river god, and the baptism is being conducted by John the Baptist in conjunction with a descending dove representing the Holy Spirit. The Apostles form a circle led as in the Arian Baptistry by St Peter and St Paul. This baptism, in comparison to the Arian one, is a much fancier affair with the Apostles in voluptuous, flowing robes. The figures are more Roman in appearance – they are three dimensional with more differentiated expressions that in the flatter Byzantine design in the Arian. These two buildings are very different under their superficial similarities. Here in the Neonian Baptistry, we are meant to be in awe at the divine happenings up there in the heavens. The Arians are more human and, consequently, more down to earth – even modern-looking. No wonder the Arians were seen by the Orthodox authorities as dangerous heretics.

Basilica di San Vitale (547 AD)

The Basilica of San Vitale was built between 526 and 547 AD and experts in Byzantine architecture and art say it is one of the masterpieces of early Byzantine architecture and art – and who am I to disagree. It was finished just as the Emperor Justinian was about to begin his partially successful re-conquest of the Western Roman Empire after a long struggle for power between rival candidates for controlling the land mass we now call Italy. It is a magnificent building decorated with the largest and most complex set of Byzantine mosaics outside of Istanbul and the largest number of murals I have ever seen anywhere.

To simplify the complex, the two main subjects of the mosaics in the two giant apses, are Old Testament sacrifices, such as Cain and Abel and Abraham and Isaac, and the story of Moses and the burning bush. In the second apse the subject is Christ, either, quite literally, the Lamb of God, or the unbearded but god-like young man with his guardian angels. He’s seen on high, giving a martyr’s laurel to St Vitale, a local saint, and receiving a model of the basilica from the Archbishop of Ravenna. Saints, martyrs, evangelists, angels and apostles, can be found everywhere with depictions of flora and fauna mingled with abstract patterns in an overall wash of green, yellow and gold that I found quite intoxicating. I think English Pre-Raphaelites artists must have seen these colours on their European tours.

Amidst the glorious chaos of the over-all design, two panels stand out. This church, Maximiam, the Archbishop of Ravenna seems to be implying, is part of the brave new Western Empire, reuniting under its saviour, Christ, yes, but also its superhero Emperor Justinian. On one side we see the Emperor himself, in his imperial robes, flanked guards and priests with the Archbishop himself in pride of place next to him, holding a heavily bejewelled cross like a weapon. With the equivalent of an on-screen television caption, just in case you don’t recognise him, Maximiam has broadcast only one name over this elevated company, his own, Maximianus, in large letters above his head. The matching panel on the other side of the apse, is of Justinian’s wife, the Empress Theodora, imperial, glamorous and solemn – an equal match to her Emperor, surrounded by her team. Are they on the same team, Justinian and Theodora, I wondered. I’m not sure which side would win in a battle of wits, but I think everyone should watch out for that dodgy-looking Maximianus. Justinian and Theodora are the very images of power – too strong, they must have hoped, to be hidden from view by the golden bricks and draped curtains that obliterated Theodoric from his basilica down the road.

Between the Emperor and Empress, high above the window is Christ who is sitting on a blue globe that represents the universe, his kingdom. He is the ruler of all he surveys including this magnificence, and all its associated problems. As he’s the model of a this basilica by another bishop, not Maximianus, but Ecclesius, the builder and first bishop here. What can we do but look on, look up even, in awe? Well, it’s a great show of strength and a spectacular work of art.

Basilica di Sant’Apollinare in Classe (549 AD)

The Basilica di Sant’Apollinare in Classe (6 km from Ravenna) was consecrated by Archbishop Maximian, him again, in 549 AD and is dedicated to Saint Apollinaris, or Sant’Apollinare, the patron saint of Ravenna, whose ‘relics’ are buried under an altar in the centre of the church. He was probably born in Antioch but, after much travelling as a preacher, it is claimed that he became the first Bishop of Ravenna during the reign of the Emperor Claudius (41 – 54 AD). He was regularly persecuted and tortured during his twenty-six year tenure, until he was finally martyred (beaten to death) on a road in Classe. The town was then a small religious settlement built on swampy coastal land on the coast of the Adriatic Sea is where there’s archaeological evidence of ancient Christian and pagan cemeteries Within decades of Apollinare’s death, Octavian, Caesar Augustus, became emperor, he decided to make Classis, or Classe, the major port on the Adriatic for his naval fleet, but over time after the Fall of Rome, the port fell into disuse and it eventually silted up leaving Classe as an inland settlement with its glory days behind it. The busy port for Ravenna, Porto Corsini, is now 13 km away from the city in another direction.

Like many historic buildings around Ravenna, the Basilica was built on piles in the marshy terrain, like Venice was, centuries later. Classe with its giant basilica is now a small community set amongst grassy, and marshy, fields where Rough Marsh-Mallows (malva setigera) still thrive, and where the church keeps some of the original sense of remoteness that must have characterised the period of those early Christian cemeteries. The sculptural bronze Mediterranean female buffalos by Davide Rivalta (born 1974), add to the spirit of calm. They’ve been gently grazing here in front of the basilica since 2012.

The buffalos seem uninterested in their sculptural companion, the bronze copy of a statue of Emperor Augustus Caesar who stands, imperiously, with his back to the basilica.

The sumptuously decorated basilica’s relative isolation made it vulnerable over the centuries and the former marble and mosaic covering of the walls of the nave were pillaged by 14th century Venetian raiders and then by the famous condottiere, Sigimondo Maletesta (1417 – 1468)), for the construction of his Tempio Malatestiano further down the coast in Rimini. The basilica has done a pretty good job at recovering from the loss and, in some ways, the simpler and plainer decoration gives it an elegance and beauty. The original mosaics were left in the apse and on the triumphal arch and now they stand out with especial brilliance.

Sant’Apollinare stands in a verdant , and maybe marshy, valley, praying to God for grace to be given to his faithful flock – here represented by a row of twelve bright-eyed sheep, or lambs, or maybe the twelve Apostles, now with the addition of Ravenna’s very own saint as centre of attention. Three additional lambs, amongst the trees, symbolise the three saints. Peter, James and John, who were witnesses to the Transfiguration of Jesus, returning to Heaven in his god-like form, along with the air-borne figures of Elijah and Moses. There is a shimmering gold cross on a starry sky, copied from the Galla Placidia Mausoleum. Above them all is The Hand of God protruding from the heavens. Up above the apse, we see the twelve lambs again, along with the four symbols of the Biblical Evangelists (Eagle, Winged Man, Lion and Calf), and a transfigured, very god-like Jesus, demonstrating that this whole scene is a glorification of Christ’s divine nature, and it is also a condemnation of the Arian heresy.

On the arch, under palm tress symbolising justice, there are two archangels, Michael and Gabriel, and busts of Saint Matthew and another male saint. All the forces of Heaven seem to be here to join in the acclamation of the Truth and the Word. There are also four figures of bishops, the founders of Ravenna’s main basilicas, and a 7th century panel showing the Byzantine Emperor Constantine IV granting the city’s privileges to the Archbishop’s envoy. Finally there is a panel showing Abraham, Abel and Melchizedek offering sacrifices to God. For all its anti-Arian symbolism, the apse mosaics, like those in the Galla Placidia Mausoleum, leave us, mere mortals, with a less didactic message – peaceful beauty and tranquillity in the God’s creation. The sense of spiritual calm is complimented by the basilica’s architecture, a celebration of space, and of the grassy surroundings outside, mirrored up there with Sant’Apollinare and his sheep.

The So-Called Theodoric’s Palace (c.6th or 7th century AD?)

The building, or ruins of a building on the Via Roma in Ravenna has often been called the ruined remains of Theodoric’s Palace, but 20th and 21st century archaeology has discovered that the real palace lay behind this structure and behind Theodoric’s Basilica di Sant’Apollinare, a short distance from here. The remains we see today where probably part of the guard house to the palace complex which might have been the home of the Ravenna Exarch’s, governors appointed by the Emperor Justinian to rule the Italian peninsular after the death of Theodoric in 525 AD. After this, there is evidence that the building might have become a church and later still a private dwelling. Today it is a fascinating ruin from the time of Theodore, so the rather clumsy new name The So-Called Theodoric’s Palace is good enough for now.

The mosaic of Theodoric’s Palace on the wall of Basilica di Sant’Apollinare originally also showed Theodoric and his court ‘at home’ in the palace. The Emperor Justinian wanted the Ostrogothic King expunged from the record, so golden bricks and drapes were introduced to the work, leaving just the image of the palace which was taken to be the same building that we see in the photograph, even thought it is demonstrably different. The palace, which definitely existed in Ravenna was probably a grander affair than these ruins would suggest.

Imaging the restored building as a guard house, allows us to think of the spaces that remain as entrance vestibules with narrow sentry-duty corridors at the front and soldiers’ quarters up the spiral stairs to the first floor; which is now being used to exhibit some of the mosaics excavated over recent years and which appear to be from the floors of the real palace behind.

Archaeologists continue to find clues to Theodoric’s Palace, but the ruins already visible show us roughly where his palatial grounds were and how they fitted in with his great basilica next door.

Theodoric’s Mausoleum (520 AD)

Theodoric had his own burial mausoleum built in AD 520, five years before his death, and he was buried here with much pomp and ceremony in what must have been a magnificent display of Gothic ritual. His tomb was built in what was then open countryside outside the city of Ravenna, maybe to keep it safe from his likely successors, as he appears to have wanted his last resting place to be an Arian and a traditional Ostrogothic memorial. It is unique, as the only surviving mausoleum built in the Gothic style, without any stylistic features from Roman or Byzantine art.

It is still a distance from the city centre but the modern city has grown up around it and the mausoleum is now in a pleasant urban park. I was particularly attracted to the orderly rows of trees that remind me of those virgins and martyrs in Theodoric’s church, the Basilica di Sant’Apollinare Nuovo.

The building itself has a domed roof carved from a single stone that weighs 230 tonnes – not even the apparently superhuman Theodoric could have lifted it up there on his own. It is a two story structure with the actual burial chamber at the top. When I was there it was eerily silent apart from the calls of a few crows. Downstairs, inside, the curators have created a recording of unauthentic but Gothic-sounding music – unexpected but effective.

The dead king’s body would have been placed in this porphyry tub, something that wouldn’t be out of place in a luxury hotel. Theodoric had visualised his final resting place, lying here sealed up in silence in the country that he had made his own. Directly over his head was a Gothic-style Christian cross. It was all perfectly orchestrated.

The tub is now empty, of course, because the Byzantine authorities ordered that the building should be used as an Orthodox Christian oratory and Theodoric’s remains were removed – and, I assume, lost. The tub was found in the ruins that are now called the So-Called Theodoric’s Palace.

Theodoric, the civilised warrior-king with his subversively human theology would never have been allowed to rest in peace here, but he was far too big a figure to be successfully air-brushed out of history as his legacy in Ravenna still shows us.

The post Ravenna: the mosaics – essential sites and sights to see. appeared first on Wolfie Wolfgang.

The beautiful city of Ravenna, on the East Coast of Italy, in Emilia-Romagna, sits between Venice and Rimini, but is less crowded than its more famous neighbours. Once, however, it was the capital of Italy and one of the grandest cities of Europe.

That was a long time ago, in the 4th and 5th centuries AD, after the most glorious days of Ancient Rome, when the Roman Emperors had moved to Constantinople and the Goths, those people we still think of as barbarians and vandals, had invaded Italy, and Rome itself had been sacked, or as we say, after it had Fallen. The invading Goths forced the Roman emperors to leave Rome and set up a new capital at Milan, but that too became unsafe from attack, so, in the year 402, the Emperor Honorius (384 – 423) moved his court to Ravenna to the south. He transformed what had been a small swampy town built on piles on a series of small islands in a marshy lagoon, like Venice centuries later, and inland from the Adriatic Sea into one of the greatest cities and ports of Europe. It is now linked to the sea by the 18th century Candiano Canal

As a schoolboy, I thought people knew that Rome had fallen because they heard the bang, but history is never that simple. Ravenna is an example of that. I came here in a very hot June 2024, not sure what I would find, but generally, as they say, wowed by what was here. If it is nowadays a very civilised and gentle place, its position on the Adriatic Sea, facing the more civilised East, meant that between 35 and 12 BC, the town became Emperor Augustus Caesar’s principal Roman port at Classis, where he stationed the Roman Fleet.

The ancient port is now a series of ruins displayed in an open air museum, a vivid reminder of the glory and the fall of Rome.

The place is now a pleasant suburb of Ravenna, called Classe, a short train or bus journey from the city. It has one of Ravenna’s most magnificent basilicas, a few shops and a trattoria. It also has a glittering and spacious new museum which recounts the history of Ravenna with excellently designed installations.

Rome did ‘fall’ but it didn’t disappear, it remained the official capital of the land we now call Italy, even after the capital of the Roman Empire became Constantinople. The problem had been those Goths, Visigoths and Ostrogoths, and, especially Theodoric the Great (454 – 526), the King of the Ostrogoths (Western Goths), the Goths’ supreme military general, who became the de facto King of Italy after a series of invasions and skilled diplomatic treaties. He managed to become not only the conquering ruler of Italy but also its acknowledged ruler under the Roman Emperor in Constantinople. Was he a Barbarian? Well, most political leaders are barbarians, and he did his set of ‘bad’ things, but as he was also one of the most important figures in guaranteeing the continuation of Italian, and maybe European, culture after the so called Fall of Rome and before the rise of Charlemagne (748 – 814). Theodoric is important for us because he made Ravenna his capital and insured its magnificence much of which is still visible today.

If any of you are still thinking that those invading Goths were just rampaging barbarians, then you only have to visit the eight early Christian churches in Ravenna that are all on the World Heritage List. (See my next blog). The Ostrogoths were Aryan Christians, but let’s not go into the differences between them and the Orthodox Christians of Constantinople, or the Roman Catholic Christians of Rome, but, here in Ravenna, the three theological branches combined to produce, in the 4th and 5th centuries AD, some of the most magnificent surviving early Christian mosaics in the world history of art. Even if you are not interested in church history, or even any history, the sheer beauty of the art makes this place a must-see.

I will revisit these churches in the next blog because there is so much to see. I was lucky enough not only to visit all the sites, but to go to a concert held in the 2024 Ravenna Festival in one of those churches, the Basilica of San Vitale (547 AD)

The French early music group, Irini Ensemble, director Lila Hajosi, performed music by the great Franco-Flemish composer Guillaume Du Fay (?1397 – 1474) and a number of his contemporary Greek Orthodox composers, to celebrate and mourn the glory and then the fall of Constantinople in 1453. It would be difficult to find a more beautiful setting for this music. Here’s a video of them singing this music, not in Ravenna, but at the Abbaye de Fontfroide, Narbonne, France.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P8uaW3AvSdQ

Guillaume Du Fay’s 15th Century music felt positively modern after being immersed the 4th and 5th Centuries. I had been immersed in the Ravenna of 1400 years ago and it was easy to forget that Ravenna didn’t actually go to sleep after its extraordinary era of world dominance. If there was any danger of me forgetting the many interesting and dramatic centuries of Italian history since the death of Theodoric the Great, then this poster for a wacky art show here in the city centre, soon reminded me of some other celebrated names in the story of Ravenna.

Ravenna is proud of the poets who lived here. Dante Alighieri (c.1265 – 1321), author of Divine Comedy (Comedia Divina) which was partly written and completed in Ravenna when he’d escaped Florence, his home town, after falling out with its rulers over his opposition to the Papacy’s plans to rule all the Italian city-states. He was to live and die an exile, a political refugee, in Ravenna, where he is buried. Another poetic resident was the Englishman, Lord Byron, George Gordon Byron, (1788 – 1824), the great Romantic poet who, in the spirit of romance, came to live here (1819 – 1821) for the love of a married woman, Teresa, Contessa Guiccioli, and where he continued to write his epic poem, Don Juan, but also his Ravenna Diary. Teresa had to return to her husband but Byron wrote to her of his, or of their, love:  

“I love you, and you love me,—at least, you say so, and act as if you did so, which is a great consolation in all events. But I more than love you, and cannot cease to love you. Think of me, sometimes, when the Alps and ocean divide us,—but they never will, unless you wish it.“

In 1822, he went to Greece where he died working in support of the Greek fight for independence and where he died of a fever in 1824.

Byron lived in a house that backed onto the Piazza San Francesco which is also the site of one of Ravenna’s great basilicas, the former Franciscan monastery, now the Basilica di San Francesco, where Dante’s funeral was held after his death from malaria in 1321.

The Basilica di San Francesco was built on the site of the original 5th Century church in 1261 when it was handed over to the Franciscans as a monastery. It suffered the fate of many Italian churches from that period by being given 18th century Baroque ornamentation. This was removed at the beginning of the 20th century in preparation for the 600th Anniversary of Dante’s death. It has restored the basilica to how it would have looked in the 13th century.

The Piazza San Francesco is also where I found the excellent Caffè Pasticceria Palumbo ://www.facebook.com/caffepalumbo/ a great place to stop and have a glass of beer and a cake, or even, of course, a coffee. The piazza is a good place to just sit in the sun or to find a spot in the shade to think about Byron and Teresa or Dante and Beatrice, or about anything you fancy. My walks round the city often led me here.

Classense Library, part of a Camaldolese monastery in central Ravenna, is an active civic and research library, one of the largest and oldest in Italy, and also the custodians of a uniquely complete collection of first editions of Dante’s works. The cloisters are also a lovely place to sit and read or to discuss university exams or just to sit and think.

Walking round the streets in Ravenna’s historic centre, there are, of course, restaurants and bars a plenty, but, one last Dante reference, I promise, you can also ‘Walk Ravenna with the Divine Comedy’, the Camminare Ravenna con la Divina Commedia – I loved this idea. At various stops along the way you can use the QR codes on your phone to stop and pause with extracts from Dante. Yes, Ravenna is a truly civilised place.

You can also stop and pause for a beer outside the Osteria Enoteca Ca’ de Vèn, or, better still, you could go inside for a fine meal based in Emiglia-Romagna culinary traditions. https://cadeven.it/

It was a very hot when I was in Ravenna, in June 2024, so it was not surprising that a drink al fresco was a popular pastime, not just for me. It was also possible to watch the football because Euro 2024 was in progress, and sadly, but philosophically, received here (well, this is Ravenna). On a humid night in the city’s main square, Piazza del Populo, Italy lost 1 – 0 to Spain.

In a street just off Piazza del Populo, is one of the best restaurants I found. Al Cairoli, in Via Cairoli, is friendly, stylish and the menu and wine list is gourmet class. It was a special experience – repeated.

https://www.yelp.com/biz_photos/osteria-dei–ravennahttps://ristorantealcairoli.it/

Like the nearby Basilica di San Francesco, the 5th century Basilica di Sant’Agata Maggiore was considerably altered by an earthquake in the 17th century, with the loss of most of its mosaics. In the 18th century, there were further changes with the addition of baroque ’embellishments’, mercifully, these were removed in the late 19th century and early 20th century and further restoration was needed in the 1960s and 1980s to remedy the near destruction of part of the church during the Second World War. The result in 2024, for all the losses, is a beautiful and uncluttered church with sensitive attention given to the many original details that were discovered from the original building. An excellent example of what can be gained by such skilful restoration of much altered monuments. It is an oasis of peace.

Not far from Sant’Agata, there is another fine but traditional restaurant on a quiet side street in central Ravenna, Via Cerchio. Trattoria al Cerchio is charming and welcoming with a friendly and hard-working staff, great food and, a special and unexpected treat, framed quotes from Virginia Woolf, Henry James, Oscar Wilde and Lord Byron on the walls. Most of the clientele, with few exceptions, were Italian and many seemed to be regulars. It felt like the real Italian experience, even with English and Anglo-Irish writers on the wall. This place is well worth finding. I went there often and stayed longer than planned having an altogether excellent time. https://www.facebook.com/trattoriaalcerchio/?locale=it_IT

On the Via Roma, not far from where I was staying, is the Museo d’Arte della città di Ravenna, MAR, where I caught an impressive exhibition of 20th and 21st century mosaics that proved, if it still needed proving, that Ravenna is still the true international capital of this art form. It was a surprise to me to learn that Ravenna’s twin city is Chichester, in my own home county of Sussex, where some fine Romano-British mosaics have been discovered. This twinning makes me doubly fond of Ravenna.

The 2024 Ravenna Festival sponsored the reorchestration of the American Minimalist composer, Philip Glass’s music for the third of his Qatsi Trilogy, Naqqoyqatsi (2002) when he worked with the American director Godfrey Reggio. Glass rearranged his score to be a closer match to his scores for the two earlier non-narrative films, Koyaanisqatsi (1982) and Powaqqatsi (1988) (the names comes from the Hopi language – qatsi meaning life). The three films were screened on three consecutive nights, with Glass’ Philip Glass Ensemble playing along with the solo cellist, Erica Piccotti, the Orchestra della Toscana, the Choir of Siena Cathedral and the Children’s Choir from the Accademia del Maggio Musicale Fiorentino. The veteran conductor, a long-term Philip Glass collaborator, was Michael Riesman. It was a thrilling experience to see these still adventurous and modernist feature-length films with such a large group of musicians performing live in the beautiful Teatro Dante Alighieri (opened in 1852). The three films, now wearing the same musical clothes, made their full impact when screened as a live and truly epic three day event.

The Trattoria Il Buon Gusto, just outside the old city walls on Via Cesarea, is a small, owner-run and excellent restaurant, a kind of casa da casa, home from home, with informal and personal service that is also very reasonably priced. It was also only a very short walk from where I was staying. A great place. http://trattoriadelbuongusto.com/index.asp#chisiamo ↗

The city of Ravenna is near but not on the Adriatic Coast – it’s a twenty minute bus ride away – regular buses for the beach go from the Railway station. Look for Marina di Ravenna and the journey is easy.

This was June and very sunny and hot, so I was surprised to find the beaches so uncrowded during the week – and not over-crowded at the weekends. The sand is white and soft, the sea blue and warm, so there was every reason to make the journey here even if you don’t want to try the Ravenna fashion for Beach Tennis. I went to Big Mamma beach – well it was near the bus stop – and it was civilised, friendly, with loungers and umbrellas, a friendly bagnino, and perfectly good food and drinks. The swimming was truly wonderful.

Apart from trips to the sea and a bus ride to Classe, everything was easily accessible on foot in Ravenna and walking round this lovely city was an interesting pleasure in its own right.

I was staying by one of the ancient gates in the city walls, Porta Nuova, some of which still stand. I felt at home almost straight away and even my usual habits, such as morning martial arts practice, could carry on up there on my roof terrace dojo.

I will write about the sensational mosaics in Ravenna’s Unesco World Heritage sites in the next blog – here is the link. https://wolfiewolfgang.com/ravenna-the-mosaics-essential-sites-and-sights-to-see/

I came to Ravenna for the mosaics, of course, but after the Ancient Romans, the Goths, and the others, I was excited to find so much more and to discover that Ravenna is still a cultural capital for many of the things we still value, or should still value in Europe.

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This was in June 2022, my first foreign trip after Covid decided to keep us all home for a couple of years. I had been going on holiday to Italy annually for ten years. I love the place, the culture and the language. Cerco di fare uno sforza per parlare italiano ogni volta che posso. (I try to make an effort to speak Italian whenever it is possible). I don’t always get it right – far from it – but I get great pleasure trying to speak to Italians in their own language. I think I began to understand Italy a whole lot more after I managed to hold conversations about more things than ‘excuse me where is the station?’ ‘a beer, please’ or ‘can I have the bill?’ One day, I hope to understand everything Italians say to me.

So I missed the place during the pandemic and was impatient to return to this wonderful country at the first opportunity. Apart from the culture, the people, the landscape and the language, I feel so much better in the Italian sunshine. The coffee tastes better there too.

So, in June 2022, I packed my bags with hot weather clothes, a Panama hat, and my kindle loaded with Italian fiction, and made the journey to Tropea, in Calabria in Southern Italy, determined to relax and absorb Italy’s healing vibes.

Tropea is a small town by the sea in a part of the Italian south that hasn’t been so over-run as some of the other more famous Italian seaside resorts. Consequently perhaps, amiability, humour and relaxed hospitality are still important here, where a favourite restaurant or bar can soon become home.

I know I’m sounding like a brainless hedonist, maybe that’s who I am. In all honesty, it’s one of the many attractions of coming to Italy every summer. Forgive me, everyone, for I have sinned. No, it’s not a sin to appreciate the good things about the world, it’s a duty, I believe.

Tropea isn’t Rome or Naples, but it has most of the essentials for a quintessentially Italian experience.

Tropea is a beautiful place, one of the most beautiful in Italy, according to its award as one of I Borghi più belli d’Italia (‘The most beautiful villages of Italy’). The town itself sits on the cliff tops over-looking the Gulf of Saint Euphemia, part of the Tyrrhenian Sea.

There were a number of concerts here while I was in Tropea, at the medieval Auditorium Santa Chiara – a recital of operatic arias by the Calabrian composer, Francesco Cilea (1866 – 1950), performed by the sumptuously voiced soprano Lenny Lorenzani with pianist David Boldrini, a part of the Tropea Summer Music Festival

There was also a saxophone quintet concert with the Argentinian saxophonist and composer, Javier Girotto. (Javier Girotto – who played a variety of saxophones with Mattia Catarinozzi – soprano sax Alfredo Santoloci – alto sax – Maurizio Schifitto – tenor sax and Giovanni De Luca – baritone sax)

There’s a legend that Tropea was founded by Hercules, no less, when he was returning home to Greece after completing his ‘twelve labours’ – I don’t expect to rival his super-human strength, as in the Farnese Hercules that I saw in Naples in 2020…

…but I do my best to keep as fit and as strong as I can – even when I’m on holiday. The apartment in Tropea had a large terrace, over-looking the town and the bay and, every morning, it became my own private gym for exercises suggested by Gyles Abbott, my personal trainer, and my kung-fu and taichi practise as drummed into me by Kungfu instructor supreme, my friend Neil Johnson.

There was even a handy impromptu pull-arm bar in the bedroom.

At night, the terrace took on a considerably more relaxed mood, a look-out post to watch the festivities below accompanied by a vigilant moon, a glass of wine and a cooling breeze from the Tyrrhenian sea.

It wasn’t all about sun, sea and sand, but I have to confess, after two years away, I felt like Adam and Eve might have felt if they had been invited back to the Garden of Eden.

This blog, with its obligatory Tropea sunset, brings to an end my record of my Italian holidays between 2017 and 2022 – in Puglia, on the Amalfi Coast, in Naples, Sorrento and Milan. I planned to write them at the time but managed to neglect doing so while my website was being remastered. My apologies to those readers who missed the fact that these were separate past trips….if only I could have done this just now as a grand tour as some of you imagined.

I have mentioned Enrico Caruso a lot in these posts, so it seems right to finish them with his voice. In 1902, when this recording was made, Enrico Caruso had just created the role in Maurizio in Calabrian-born Francesco Cilea’s most famous opera, Adriana Lecouvreur at the Teatro Lirico in Milan (1902). Here is Caruso fresh from one of his early triumphs.

A reminder too of Francesco Cilea, whose operas are not performed as much as they deserve.

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I spent a week in Naples in January 2020, and on a sunny winter’s day, I took the train to Pompeii, the ancient Roman city that was destroyed by a cataclysmic eruption of the volcanic mountain of Vesuvius in AD 79

The eruption lasted for two days and killed at least 1,150 of the inhabitants because that number of remains have been discovered in the layers of ash that suffocated what had been a prosperous city luxuriating in the beautiful Bay of Naples. We still shudder to see some of the ash-preserved bodies of the victims in their moment of death.

Pliny the Younger, was a young man in AD79 living across the Bay of Naples at Misenum with his mother and his uncle, the famous natural historian, Pliny the older, who was killed when he made an exploratory scientific trip over the water to Pompeii on the first day of the eruption. Pliny the Younger wrote his unique eye-witness account of the catastrophe in a letter to his friend, the young Tacitus, later to become Ancient Rome’s greatest historian.

‘The ashes now began to fall upon us, though in no great quantity. I looked back; a dense dark mist seemed to be following us, spreading itself over the country like a cloud. “Let us turn out of the high-road,” I said, “while we can still see, for fear that, should we fall in the road, we should be pressed to death in the dark, by the crowds that are following us.” We had scarcely sat down when night came upon us, not such as we have when the sky is cloudy, or when there is no moon, but that of a room when it is shut up, and all the lights put out. You might hear the shrieks of women, the screams of children, and the shouts of men; some calling for their children, others for their parents, others for their husbands, and seeking to recognise each other by the voices that replied; one lamenting his own fate, another that of his family; some wishing to die, from the very fear of dying; some lifting their hands to the gods’ (Pliny the Younger, Letter to Tacitus, AD79).

It was a moving experience to stand on the site of Pompeii and to imagine the terrible scenes that occurred here so long ago but, in a quirk of history and archeology, still remains viscerally realistic to us today. I was lucky enough to walk round these empty ruined streets because this was January and there were not many people around what is usually a very crowded tourist destination.

Here the absence of those dead citizens of Pompeii was vividly reflected in the desolation of the ruins that felt all so abandoned still after normal life here ended in two days of horror. I acknowledge the importance of the site for historians and archaeologists, and admire them for their work, but for many of us, a visit to Pompeii is primarily emotional and philosophical.

We don’t know the names of those who survived or those who died but, remarkably, we have more than just the stone remains of the city to show us at least some of the details of who they were, these people of Pompeii, and how they lived and what they thought was beautiful.

The essential other half of a visit to this site, is to go to the Naples Archaeological Museum which is now home to many of the artefacts and works of art found here, preserved in the ashes. In Naples you can see some of the fine interior designs for some of the houses, as well as many works of art and utility objects from Pompeii’s citizens’ domestic lives.

There are also, maybe most interestingly, a number of what are probably portraits of some of the inhabitants of Pompeii. Wonderful images of ordinary people who look just like us, or more of less. These show us that behind the drama and the history, there were always human beings.

The grander houses of Pompeii had elaborately decorated walls in their main living spaces – some showed battle scenes like this one showing the military victories of Alexander the Great.

Other murals depict legendary figures, such as Perseus and Andromeda, or classical gods like Venus and Mars.

There are also more down-to-earth images, such as this troupe of lively actors and musicians.

There are highly realistic studies of animals, like this triumphant lion killing a leopard, or even what appear to be beloved domestic pets, a dog straining on its lead, or a pair of fighting cocks.

Maybe the most famous murals from Pompeii are not gods and goddesses or heroes of legends, but images that were probably displayed in brothels, and these are some of the more discreet ones. They might have been salacious for otherwise prudish brothel clients or, I’d like to think, they show a healthy, untroubled view of sex.

The phallus was a symbol of good health, good luck and prosperity for the people of Pompeii, presumably, the bigger the better, and phallic images were often used as street signs or good luck charms on door lintels to ward off evil.

Here Priapus is not represented as an erotic image, if he was meant to, this comically unrealistic mage might not have worked. Priapus here is a symbol of luck and prosperity but let’s assume, he also shows an unembarrassed and optimistic view of sex.

Actors and musicians often appear in these Pompeii murals and mosaics, and we can only assume Pompeii citizens loved the theatre – the amphitheatre here is well preserved and could have entertained large numbers in the city’s classical theatre-in-the-round.

I was persuaded to make a fool of myself in public – again – by our Neapolitan tour guide, who is also a Pompeii antiquarian, and to whom I had foolishly told that I once studied singing. He suggested that I go down to the centre of the stage and test the acoustics with a burst of song. To an audience of no more than eight or nine tourists, including some members of a young Chinese dance troupe, I did my best at an impromptu chorus of a song. I didn’t have to think long about what to sing – well this is Naples, so it had to be O sole mio. They could hear me at the back, I was told.

The Polish sculptor, Igor Mitoraj (1944 – 21014) was commissioned to make an exhibition of his work with its emphasis on fragmented human bodies. After the exhibition finished, this figure of Daedalus was kept here, now a permanent exhibit. It shows Daedalus, the man who made wings of wax and flew too close to the sun. it dominates the skyline at the entrance to Pompeii in a way that’s entirely appropriate to this inspiring but tragic place.

It deserves to stand here, just as a painting of Vesuvius by Andy Warhol has earned its place in Naples’ Capodimonte Gallery along with Caravaggio and Titian. Pompei and its fall, like Daedalus, will speak to every generation about the impermanence of life.

This visit proved to be the end of my four years of travelling around Italy, because the Covid virus over-took us all. only week after my visit to Pompeii. In Italy I found many new things and also confirmed to myself, the many reasons why I need to keep returning to this wonderful country. One of my earliest Italian enthusiasms, as I have reported here before, was the voice of that great Neapolitan, Enrico Caruso (1873 – 1921). I was thinking of him when I made my well-intentioned rendition of O Sole Mio at Pompeii, so it is only appropriate to end this series of blogs with the great man himself in a recording from 1916, proving, at least to me, amongst all this impermanence, the human spirit, like in Pompeii, is immortal.

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On the 6th January 2020 I returned to Naples not realising it was going to be my last foreign journey anywhere for two years. On 31st January two Chinese tourists in Rome were tested positive for the Covid virus and the Italian government declared a state of emergency. The first case of Covid was documented in the UK that day too, followed by a series of lockdowns beginning in March.

Soon we were all to be grounded, all over the world, for what was to become the worst pandemic in a century. With hindsight, I am doubly happy that I had such a good time in Naples, and in Milan a month earlier, while it was still possible to leave my small but lovely English town of Lewes.

I was staying in a small apartment on the top floor of an old house in the Avvocata district of Naples – in a wonderfully atmospheric street round the corner from the historic centre of Naples. The district, the street and the house were all set high up on a hill above the city and, the apartment too was up several flights of stairs. It was a little nest at the top of a large many-branched tree, or so it felt living there. Cosy, in a word….and very Neapolitan.

The apartment was on two floors, or one floor with a loft bedroom, accessed by a ladder-type staircase which was all fine after my vertigo subsided – which it did by the second day.

In Avvocata I was never in any doubt that I was not just in Italy, but in Naples – and by now I was already thinking Napoli, not Naples.

The street, a lively short-cut for vespa scooters and macho motorbikes, also allowed a first glimpse every day of one of those dramatic and equally quick-moving, sun-dropping sunsets. Round the corner too, there was a handy life-size crucifix plus nun. Yes, this is Napoli.

It was a short down-hill stroll to the Museo Archeologico Nazionali di Napoli, the National Archaelogical museum of Naples. This was no dull storage place for crumbling rocks, dusty artefacts and broken pottery, it has quite simply one of the great art collections in the world.

The museum is home to not just some extraordinary artworks from the nearby remains of Pompeii (more of that in my next blog), but it also houses a collection of famous Greco-Roman sculptures known at the Farnese Marbles. The Farnese here being Cardinal Alessandro Farnese, later to become Pope Paul III (1534 – 1549), who purchased, confiscated or, let’s face it, stole, many of these important works from rich Renaissance families from all over Italy. The Farnese family, the Pope’s family, also became Dukes of Parma and then on the female side, a Queen of Spain. Her descendants became kings and queens of Naples and Sicily. Well done that Pope. Thus, the Farnese collection moved first from the Vatican to Madrid and then finally arrived in the baggage of Ferdinand IV of Naples. I. don’t know – these rich people! – nothing ever changes. We, however, have the benefit of seeing these amazing statues, probably Roman copies of Greek originals, which are among some of the most influential sculptures in Western art.

Pope Paul III and his Grandsons, Cardinal Alessandro Farnese and Ottavio Farnese, Duke of Parma in a painting by Titian (c.1546). This triple portrait can be seen in Naples’ other major art gallery, see below, with a major collection of other portraits by Titian.

Hercules, massive but exhausted after the last of his The Twelve Labours, leans on his club which is draped by the skin of the Nemean lion. This is probably a Roman copy, by Glykon, of an original Greek work, now lost, by Lysippos.

The two matching bronze statues of athletes-in-motion, found in the ruins of the Villa dei Papiri in Herculaneum, near to Pompeii, are Roman copies of 4th or 3rd-century-BC Greek originals. They will run forever.

This bronze head of Doryphorus, a Marlon Brando look-alike, is a find from the Villa of the Papyri in Pompeii – a Roman copy of one of the famous Spear-Bearer statue by the Polykleitos, a Roman copy of the statue with torso is also here at the Archaeological Museum.

Atlas was one of the colossal Titans of Greek mythology, condemned by Zeus to hold up the sky, not a globe of the world, but a spherical representation of the constellations of the stars. The statue, which is certainly colossal, is a 2nd-century-AD copy of the Greek original that is the probably the oldest surviving representation of the celestial skies. The museum put him into a mirrored space that emphases his size and, unsurprisingly, dwarves the humbled but impressed photographer.

Lastly, the Farnese Bull, the largest single sculpture recovered from antiquity, or so I read. It’s a first-century-AD copy of a second-century-BC Greek original, showing the death of Dirce, whose niece, Antiope, was impregnated by Zeus and gave birth to twin sons, Amphion and Zethus. Dirce hated her niece and ordered her to be killed, but, instead, Amphion and Zethus kill Dirce by tying her to the horns of a bull. The dog and the child are probably later additions, but there is no denying the vitality and drama of this masterpiece which can only be fully appreciated by seeing it from all angles.

Back outside, on a fine January day, Naples was showing off its ripe oranges that line even the most inner-city of its streets.

It is difficult not to stroll here, to take in not just the architecture and the verdancy, but to explore the churches, cafés and bars along the route.

Il Vero Bar del Professore, the true Professors’ Bar – as opposed to the false ones, I assume, was a very civilised place to stop for a coffee.

The Church of Pio Monte della Misericordia was the first stop in my pilgrimage around Naples’ collection of paintings by everyones’ favourite painter, Caravaggio, well, you know what I mean. Here in its original position, is Caravaggio’s Seven Works of Mercy, seen as if it was a private view, with no one else around.

I took the opportunity to look round the rest of the church which has a museum of church plate, chalices, monstrances , pots and pans. If you like these things, then you will find plenty of them here in Naples. I’m afraid I just thought of all the silver polishing.

Another church, another restaurant – I could get into the habit of this Neapolitan passeggiata (Italian for an evening stroll).

After a few days in the historic centre, this titan set of escalators at Piazza Garibaldi railway station reminded me that I was still living in the 21st century.

Walking down the Via Toledo, in Naples’ well-known Spanish quarter shopping street, I came across the second stop on my Caravaggio adventure. Here at the Palazzo Zevallos, is Caravaggio’s last painting, the darkly moody Martyrdom of Saint Ursula. Once again, I had left a crowded street to spend quality time, alone, with one of Caravaggio’s masterpieces. Here the King of the Huns, who has slaughtered her eleven thousand virgin companions, is bewitched by Ursula’s beauty and, even more so, by her modesty, says he will spare her life if she agrees to marry him. She refuses, so he kills her with a well-aimed arrow.

Caravaggio would have been familiar with these dark Naples streets and, maybe, they were threatening places in those days whereas now they are safer, atmospheric and intoxicating.

Intoxicating too is the Piazza Bellini, which is now a centre for excellent and unpretentious restaurants and bars and an unlikely place to encounter a statue of the great Sicilian opera composer, Vincenzo Bellini (1801 – 1835) – writer of some of my favourite operas – especially the almost perfect, Norma (1831). I think the highly romantic Bellini would be happy that his figure is at the centre of a slightly bohemian and edgy piazza where, I like to imagine, anything could happen.

Mostly this part of town is a student, or a student wannabe hangout and, at night, it is the vibrant place to be if you want to be cool – or fool yourself for a moment or two that you are cool, or were once.

Just a short walk from those revelling students, off a tiny street is another sharp Neapolitan contrast. The highly ornamented Cappella Sansevero, a bit too much Rococo for me and I wouldn’t have bothered looking inside if I hadn’t wanted to see the famous sculpture that is at its centre. The Veiled Christ, by the 18th century sculptor, Giuseppe Sanmartino, is an eerily realistic image that, once seen, is difficult to forget. It draws crowds to this little church – on the day I visited there was a queue out into the street, as if, at this time, they were lining up to go to a nightclub. Once inside, people stood in solemn silence, it was as if a real body was lying there.

After the solemnity of the chapel, it was just another street corner before, Naples’ street life sprang back into action with a fine group of street musicians – continuing a long tradition.

Then, as per usual by now, during this week in Naples, it was dinner and then a few drinks, or a few drinks too many, in the many dimly-lit and characterful bars in the Centro storico. Here, everyone, including me, I like to think, simply blends into the background like extras in a Caravaggio painting.

The next day, it was all blue skies and palm trees with the mildest of Italian January temperatures, when I made my way up to the highest point of Naples, the top of the mountain, the capo di monte.

The Capodimonte Gallery or, more correctly, the Museo e Real Bosco di Capodimonte ( The Museum and Royal Forest), is Naples’ principal art gallery. Once a royal palace, now a people’s palace with art and recreation combined here – inside and out.

Here too was the final stop on my Neapolitan Caravaggio pilgrimage. Once again, I could admire the painting for as long as I wanted, in relative solitude, fully exposed to the drama and agony of this most dramatic and characteristic of Caravaggio emotional exercises in Chiaroscuro – the balance of light and shade.

I was alone too in this room, home to nine portraits by Titian. I felt like I could move in with a bed, a kitchen and a tv, and settle down here for life.

Cardinal Alessandro Farnese, Pop Paul III’s grandson, by Titian (c.1546)

Back in Avvocata, there was time for a glass of wine before bed and then, tomorrow, the journey back home to the UK. None of us knew then this was going to be the end of travelling for a couple of years.

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In December 2019, I spent a week in Milan. It was raining, no surprise there for this part of Italy during December. It was wet but achingly beautiful. As a fashion-shopping mecca internationally, not even the rain could dampen its elegance and style – especially as the rain appeared to be here just to highlight the city’s beautiful Christmas illuminations.

Galleria Vittorio Emmanuelle II (built between 1865 – 1877), is Italy’s oldest surviving, and grandest, shopping gallery, dare I call it a mall (?), designed by the architect Giuseppe Mengoni (1829 – 1877). It is, without question, unlike any of your average inner city shopping centres. Here, as in Milan generally, high fashion and design reign supreme, giving window-shopping and window-dressing a whole new meaning.

I was walking round the city with my camera, getting wet, and trying to get a shot of the cathedral, right next-door to the Galleria. I was not alone at this camera position, but I didn’t expect a glamourous woman to oblige with an instant modelling pose. I took a photograph, of course, and only afterwards realized that she was magazine fashion and that a magazine photographer was standing right behind me. I shouldn’t have been surprized. standing here in Milan, the international capital of fashion.

All the major fashion houses had their wares on display in the shop windows inside the galleria – they turned the building into an art gallery.

I was in Milan just before Christmas in 2019, and, tempting though it was, this was definitely not the place to go bankrupt for my Christmas shopping.

Even the ice-cream looked like the set for a fashion show.

After the Galleria, I looked for a bar. This place looked quiet and just right for a relaxing drink before moving on for somewhere to eat.

I hadn’t noticed the venue’s name, Ristorante Vista Duomo, and it was what just it’s name promised, a restaurant with a spectacular view of Milan cathedral. It was almost by accident that I found myself here. I thought it was just a bar for a quick aperitif before finding a pizza somewhere in this well-heeled city. Then I discovered that there was a restaurant upstairs that was just being vacated by a fashion magazine shoot and I managed to persuade the staff to let me take drinks up there for the view before the restaurant opened for dinner. One thing, and one drink, led to another, and, yes, I ended up at the best table with the best view in Milan. The food was excellent and not as bank-breaking as you might think. It was only later that I was told this this establishment is currently the trendiest restaurant in town.

The view from the Ristorante Vista Duomo with Milan Cathedral and the piazza all lit up for Christmas.

I was staying in Milan’s Chinatown in a street-level apartment, luckily with very efficient double-glazing.

Next day I found here was also a space at the back, a residents’ car-park, where there was room enough for my daily martial arts routine, tai-chi and kung fu with an over-optimistic salute to the sun.

Just as essential, round the corner, was a welcoming café that served first class coffee and croissants every morning. I like Milan.

It was a short walk from Chinatown to two famous apartment and office buildings, known as Bosco Verticale,(vertical forest), the 2014 inspiration of architect Stefano Boeri, regarded as one of the ‘fifty most iconic skyscrapers in the world’ (Council on Tall Buildings and Urban Habitat).

Bosco Verticale was impressive enough on a wet day in December, and I can imagine the thrill of living there in summertime.

Traveling round the city was easy on the remarkably efficient, clean and civilised metro system which always seemed to have a station exactly where I needed there to be one.

Chinatown to the Cathedral was a mere five to ten minutes by underground on trains that put the London system to shame.

Milan Cathedral is the largest church in Italy and the third largest in the world. It was built with Candogli marble. Work began in 1386, and, because of it’s uniquely complex exterior, this gigantic Gothic cathedral wasn’t officially completed for another 579 years, in 1965. When I visited in 2019, another bout of restoration work had just about been completed, that the building was looking just about picture perfect.

Another historically and architecturally important building in Milan is the Castello Sforzesco, Sforza’s Castle, a medieval fortification built between 1358 – c.1370 and rebuilt in 1450 by Francesco Sforza, Duke of Milan, and his son Ludovico Sforza, patron of Leonardo da Vinci, (who lived and worked here, as an artist and as an engineer, between 1482 – 1513) The castle was damaged and restored many times during five hundred years of tumultuous history of the city when Milan was under either Spanish, Austrian or Napoleonic rule, before Italian Unification in 1871. In the 20th century it was severely damaged by Allied bombing during World War Two. It is now an extensive museum complex with much to see, even on a typically wet Milanese afternoon.

Inside Castello Sforza is the Biblioteca Trivulziana, an historic collection of manuscripts assembled in the 18th century, that includes an autographed notebook by Leonardo da Vinci and fifteenth century editions of Dante’s Divine Comedy.

A page from Leonardo da Vinci’s Codex Trivulzianus, kept at the Biblioteca Trivulzian

The refectory, or dining hall, at the Dominican convent of Santa Maria delle Grazie is the site of one of the most famous paintings in the world – Leonardo da Vinci’s mural L’Ultima Cena, The Last Supper (1495 – 1498),

This much-damaged and restored icon of world culture, is kept in a strictly controlled environment where only a few visitors at a time are allowed in for a very restricted period when they can admire this great masterpiece by one of the greatest masters of all.

The Last Supper is familiar to everyone from photographic reproductions, but, my photographs included, none give a true impression of the power of this painting. Its profundity has an emotional punch that is more than the brilliance and drama of its depiction of Christ and his disciples and their last meal together. It was by only standing in the same room that I realised that Leonardo created a sense of true spiritual transcendence beyond any other work of art in my experience. If there was ever a must-see painting it is this.

There is too much see in Milan and I was only there for a week. I had to be highly selective about where I should go and what I should see – and what I should leave out. The Brera Art Gallery, however, was an essential visit, and even after seeing the Leonardo da Vinci, I felt I had to take the opportunity of seeing some of the other masterworks held here in Milan.

If I had to name two artists, I suppose it would have to be the Brera Gallery’s Caravaggio and Raphael but I can’t count, so the two would become four with Mantegna and Piero della Francesca. But, hey, I don’t need to say two or four or any other number. I just need to persuade you to go visit.

The Lamentation over the Dead Christ (c.1480) by Mantegna

The Virgin with Child, Angels and Saints (1472-4) by Piero della Francesca

The Marriage of the Virgin (1504) by Raphael

Supper at Emmaus (1606) by Caravaggio

Then there is the Museo del Novecento, sitting next-door to the cathedral and that too is filled with masterpieces, including Modigliani’s Portrait of Paul Guillaume (1915), but there are some other 20th century Italian painters new to me here too. Giacomo Balla, Giorgio Morandi and Umberto Boccioni. There’s a Picasso too.

Finally, of course, I can’t say Milan with immediately thinking La Scala – Italy’s most famous opera house. I would have been very disappointed if I had come here and not been able to go to an opera – especially an Italian opera, especially one by Verdi or Puccini.

Puccini it was….his opera Tosca with a terrific cast of singers and a big cinematographic production by Davide Livermore, conducted by La Scala’s dynamic music director, Riccardo Chailly.

Luca Salsi (baritone), evil and thunderous voiced as police chief Baron Scarpia

Francesco Meli, (tenor) mellifluous and passionate as romantic painter Mario Cavaradossi.

and Saioa Hernandez (soprano), big voiced and glorious toned as the prima donna Floria Tosca.

It was a wonderful way to mark my lifelong ambition to come to the opera here and to celebrate Italian opera in its international capital.

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In September 2017, when I was looking at Mount Vesuvius from Sorrento, across the Bay of Naples, I thought of Pliny the Younger (born 61 AD), as you do, who wrote a detailed description of the catastrophic eruption of the volcano (79 AD) that killed his uncle, the great Roman naturalist, Pliny the Elder, who sailed into the disaster because he was interested in the science of volcanoes. Pliny the younger watched the destruction of Pompeii from across the water, at Miseno, on the other side of the bay of Naples from Sorrento, where I was visiting. We both had panoramic views of famous volcanic mountain, Vesuvius. From Miseno, Pliny Junior was able to write the only detailed first-hand witness’ account of the eruption and subsequent destruction of the surrounding land. He was close enough too to hear the shouts and screams of the citizens of Pompeii as they were dying over there across the water.

‘You could hear the shrieks of women, the wailing of infants, and the shouting of men; some were calling their parents, others their children or their wives, trying to recognise them by their voices. People bewailed their own fate or that of their relatives, and there were some who prayed for death in their terror of dying. Many besought the aid of the gods, but still more imagined there were no gods left, and that the universe was plunged into eternal darkness for evermore.’ (Letters of Pliny the Younger).

There was no sign of an eruption on the day I came to Sorrento, but the famous ruins of Pompeii remain to intrigue us and to encourage us empathise with the many people who were killed that day. I, of course, found nothing more dramatic on my search for this vista than a well-positioned swing with its own ring-side view of the famous volcano.

I was here on a different mission, but I promised myself that I would go to Pompeii next time I was in these parts (I ended up going there in January 2020, just as the world was on the verge of another disaster). I came here as part of an on-going, if low-key, pilgrimage, and it started today, not with Vesuvius but a street called Viale Enrico Caruso.

Enrico Caruso (1873 – 1921), the Neapolitan operatic tenor, and possibly, the first star of the recording industry, was one of the first opera singers that I ever listened to when I was a child. His old records, some recorded at the end of the 19th Century, not only fascinated me but also went straight to my heart – where they have remained. I owe a lot of my passion for opera to this man. The opera geek in me is often up front in my brain when I visit Italy, and there is usually some new opera-based information, no matter how inconsequential, to find wherever I go.

Stories about Caruso are high on my list even now, one hundred years after his death. So it was a thrill to find his name all over town. Caruso came to Sorrento for pleasure, just down the road from his birth place in Naples, but his connection to this lovely town isn’t that significant apart from the fact that he liked the place and, when he was terminally ill, he stayed here at the Grand Hotel Excelsior Vittoria, for a short time before his final unsuccessful surgery and subsequent death in Naples.

I wasn’t expecting to discover the great singer here, but I was intrigued to hear about a ‘restaurant museum’ dedicated to his memory that had opened in the town centre in 1987 and which was also, so I heard, an excellent restaurant.

It was my birthday, and lunch at the Ristorante Museo Caruso was a birthday treat. I was surrounded by an impressive photographic and documentary record of the man. The music, of course, wasn’t mandolin muzak, it was wall-to-wall Caruso. Paradiso! Wonderful food and wine too – good enough for the enthusiastic gourmet that Caruso was.

After a splendid lunch, I was walking round Sorrento when I noticed this statue, honouring Giambattista De Curtis, the Neapolitan poet and lyricist who wrote, in Neapolitan Italian, the song Torna a Surriento, its well-known melody was written by his brother Ernesto. Torna a Surriento (Come back to Sorrento), is the other Neapolitan song, along with O Sole Mio, that everybody knows. I first heard both songs when I was but a lad in old recordings by, yes, you got it, Enrico Caruso. I don’t think anyone has ever sung them better.

Ma nun me lassà, nun darme ‘stu turmiento! Torna a Surriento, Famme campà!

But do not leave me, do not give me this torment. Come back to Surriento, make me live!

Sorrento is town of statues, I discovered, like Italy is generally. Italians like their history stand on plinths in town squares. Not far from the Torna a Surriento statue, I came across this one of Torquato Tasso (1544 – 1595), the Italian poet, born in Sorrento, best known for his epic poem Gerusalemme liberata (Jerusalem Liberated), a tale about how the knights of the now infamous First Crusade (1096 – 1099) recovered Jerusalem from the Turks. Tasso’s epic, has always fascinated me even though I had never read the 16th century original – I loved the heroic works of Ludovico Ariosto (1474 – 1533) too, especially his Orlando Furioso, (1516) with its stories of knights, male and female, and their passions, victories and tragedies. I came cross the main characters in both Ariosto and Tasso from their many appearances in Italian operas from the 17th and 18th centuries. Me and baroque opera go back a long way – and from my side, it was love at first sight.

So, knowing his Sorrento connection, I decided to make Gerusalemme liberata my holiday read while I was staying down the road at Marina di Cantone (see previous blog). I had a bilingual copy of the work on my Kindle and whiled away many indulgent hours on the beach by the sea, as it was in Tasso’s day, and let my imagination conjure up the operatic adventures of this very readable masterpiece.

I knew the story of the hero, Rinaldo, and his love for a Saracen girl, Armida (both became opera stars a century later) and I knew too all about the other crusader knight, Tancredi. and his Saracen love, Clorinda. These Tasso stories were to become operas by such famous composers as Handel, Gluck, Lully, Haydn, Rossini and Dvorak. It was pure pleasure discovering them again in the Tasso original.

Tasso’s Rinaldo and Armida by Antoine Ansiaux (1764 – 1840)

Probably the most famous of all these Tasso operas, and possibly the greatest, is Rinaldo, by George Frideric Handel (1685 – 1759). The opera tells the story of Rinaldo’s love for Almirena, daughter of the commander of the Crusader army. Their romance is endangered by Armida, the Saracen woman who is also a powerful sorceress and who falls in love with Rinaldo herself. Almirena is given a rough time and imprisoned by the love-lorn sorceress and, at her lowest point in the opera, Almirena sings about her cruel fate, losing her freedom as well as her love. The aria, Lascia ch’io pianga, became the hit song of the opera and remains one of Handel’s greatest hits. Tasso, I like to think, would have approved.

Let me weep
My cruel fate,
And that I
should have freedom.

The duel infringes
within these twisted places,
in my sufferings
I pray for mercy.

Lascia ch’io pianga
Mia cruda sorte,
E che sospiri
La libertà.

Il duolo infranga
Queste ritorte,
De’ miei martiri
Sol per pietà.

Here is a short arty film of the leading American mezzo-soprano Joyce DiDonato pouring out her grief as the unlucky Almirena.

I said arrivederci to Sorrento and moved on to Naples for the other half of my birthday celebration – another operatic treat. I had tickets for the San Carlo Opera House, one of the most important theatres in the history of opera. It opened in 1737 and is the oldest. continuously running opera venue in the world. Rossini’s La Gazza Ladra and Mosè in Egitto, and Donizetti’s Lucia di Lammermoor and Maria Stuarda had their first nights here . There have been many glitzy performances here by the very greatest singers of the 18th, 19th and 20th centuries. Most of of Caruso’s predecessors as superstar male singers sang here over the centuries, including the castrato soprano, Farinelli, and the tenor star of Bellini and Donizetti’s opera, Giovanni Battista Rubini…

The castrato soprano, Farinelli (1705 – 1782)

19th century tenor GiovannI Battista Rubini (1794 – 1854),

…and, in the early 20th century, a young Enrico Caruso, sometimes regarded as the greatest singer in history, but who went down badly with the critics in his debut at San Carlo in 1901 (as Nemorino in. Donizetti’s L’elisir d’amore), and he vowed never to sing here again. It was a promise he kept – his career was made and maintained, mostly, in the United States and the other great opera houses of the world.

Caruso as Turiddu in Mascagni’d Cavalleria Rusticana in Caserta, 1901

The greatest Italian opera composer, Giuseppe Verdi, didn’t rate the Teatro San Carlo either, and none of his many operas were premiered here but, since then, the theatre regularly stages his work and he is now honoured in the theatre with a very large bust, where he looks slightly apologetic for his rude words about this place.

I was coming to the opera house for a concert performance, no costumes, no sets, of Beethoven’s opera Fidelio, given by the San Carlo Orchestra conducted by the great veteran Indian conductor Zubin Mehta, honorary conductor of the Teatro San Carlo. The concert was held to mark his eightieth birthday. The photograph below was taken that day at the theatre. I, like many other classical music enthusiasts, will always associate his name with what might well have been classical music’s first sensational super audio disk – it’s still a sensation today – his version of Richard Strauss’ tone poem Also Sprach Zarathustra with the Los Angeles Philharmonic. I’d often listened to Zubin Mehta’s recordings, but I had never seen him ‘live’ and I was amazed to learn that he was now eighty years old.

Fidelio was given without its German dialogue, but with a descriptive narrative written and performed in Italian by the actress Sonia Bergamasco, known to me for playing Livia in the Italian television series Il Commissario Montalbano. It worked remarkably well with a strong cast of big-voiced singers led by soprano Anja Kampe (Leonora) and Peter Sieffert (Florestan).

I had an ideal seat in a box facing straight to the stage and here the clean acoustics of the theatre were heard at their best. The golden foot, in the photograph below, was directly over my head and belonged to one of two flying angels, part of the elaborate ornamentation of the royal box to my right.

It was all very elegant and plush, there were no empty seats, and the audience dressed to compliment the golden Rocco décor in true Italian style.

Afterwards, moved by Beethoven’s plea for freedom and humanity, there was still time to leave the theatre and cross the piazza to the legendary 19th century coffee house, the Gran Caffè Gambrinus, where, luckily, there was even a table available.

I had little difficulty deciding what to drink, prominently there on the list of cocktails, was a Cocktail Caruso, delicious, potent and magnificently green.

Near to Gambrinus, and across the road from the San Carlo, is the Galleria Umberto I, with its high end shops and cafés, where I had a room for the night in the newly opened, and, maybe, cut-priced, Hotel Art Resort Galleria Umberto. It was elegant enough to feel like an annexe to the San Carlo’s grandeur.

There were great aerial views of the Galleria Umberto I beneath, ideal for appreciating the design and engineering of its impressive glass dome and iron-work in the style known as Stile Umbertino. It was built between 1887 and 1890 and named after the then king of Italy, Umberto I (1844 – 19000. Work began on it ten years after the completion of its more famous counterpart, the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II in Milan.

I had an inspiring time in Naples, my second visit there, I had just enough time here to realise that I had only touched the surface and that a longer third visit should be high on my wish list. (I returned early in 2020, just before the world was locked down by the Covid pandemic).

I’ll leave you with the music and words that were still ringing in my ears after that performance of Beethoven’s Fidelio. The Prisoners’ Chorus, where abused political prisoners sing about repression and liberty, in a brief but profound moment when they can see that joy out there somewhere if they could only have their freedom. No need for me to tell you how many prisoners in the world are still suffering in just the way that Beethoven expressed. Great opera still speaks of important things today – we should listen.

PRISONERS’ CHORUS
Oh what joy, in the open air
Freely to breathe again!
Up here alone is life!
The dungeon is a grave.

FIRST PRISONER
We shall with all our faith
Trust in the help of God!
Hope whispers softly in my ears!
We shall be free, we shall find peace.

ALL THE OTHERS
Oh Heaven! Salvation! Happiness!
Oh Freedom! Will you be given us?

SECOND PRISONER
Speak softly! Be on your guard!
We are watched with eye and ear.

ALL
Speak softly! Be on your guard!
We are watched with eye and ear.
Oh what joy, in the open air
Freely to breathe again!
Up here alone is life.
Speak softly! Be on your guard!
We are watched with eye and ear.

The post Going to Naples and Sorrento – on an Italian opera trail. appeared first on Wolfie Wolfgang.

I’m looking back at some of the photographs I have taken on my Italian holidays over recent years for blogs that I am only just getting down to now. In the summer of 2017, the year before I went to Puglia (see previous blogs), I spent two weeks in a tiny fishing village of Marina del Cantone, in the region of Massa Lubrense, near the small town of Nerano, on the Amalfi Coast, one of the most beautiful part of southern Italy, over-looking the Tyrrhenian Sea and the Gulf of Salerno.

During my time there, I went on a bus excursion on the small vertiginous road to Sorrento and then by train to Naples. I’ll write about this trip another time, for now, just let me say, I was perfectly happy to linger, lazily languorous in Marina del Cantone, either on the small beach-facing balcony, in the excellent restaurant, no more than six steps from my front door, or a few more steps to the beach where there was always a spare lounger and sunshade and the very welcoming sea. Mostly, I let my eyes do the walking around the spectacular coastline I could enjoy lying on my back.

I could get used to living with a Mediterranean beach outside my front door with an outstanding, open-air restaurant, not even blocking the view. Dinner every evening was fish, caught locally that day, cooked with real imagination served with a bottle of Chianti Classico. I love Italy.

I found my own space for my morning martial arts practice, sharing the spot with a few local fishermen, who probably thought I was just another eccentric Englishman in the long tradition, going back to the 18th Century, when the English considered this part of Italy, the nearest an of us get to a worldy paradise.

My fisherman friend took a couple of days to suss me out, but he soon accepted me as an entertaining diversion. He didn’t speak English, like most of the people here, so my morning sessions were great practise for my Italian and my tai-chi. I was soon greeted a shout of ‘buongiorno signor Kung-fu’.

After kung-fu, I was always ready for a cup of espresso, in the little cafe along the beach.

Then it was time for a walk before the midday sun made it too hot for exercise. On both sides of the little fishing port, there were paths that lead high up to where you can, quite literally, see for miles.

The mountain paths were a test for my vertigo, but I. went on until I passed a man who was sitting on a rock who told me not to go any further if I didn’t like heights. He said he was going back down before his falling sickness made him want to jump off the rock face. I went on for as far as I could, before I too began to feel the pull of the precipitous drop into the sea once the rickety fencing ended. It wasn’t so bad if, instead of looking down from the cliff, I concentrated on the wayside flowers.

With the Tyrrhenian Sea calling me every day, I knew that I just had to find a boat if I was ever going to appreciate this wonderful coastline.

I could see many little boats out there, so I set out to find one with a captain for hire. Of course, in this little village, there was a boat for hire, across the path from my front door. So the next time, Luca, the brother of the apartment owner, agreed a price, and we were off for a couple of hours at sea. Needless to say, I loved it.

We sailed in grottoes where it was possible to swim from the boat in the clear turquoise water, before going further out to sea looking at rocking islands, like this one, known as the turtle – la tartaruga – a word that seemed unnecessary when I first learnt it. Luca doesn’t speak English, so I was delighted to understand what he was saying and to see why the rock is called tartaruga.

We travelled further out, far enough to see the island of Capri, before returning to port, home, Marina del Cantone. I felt like true resident, a sailor coming home, seeing my apartment waiting as we got closer to shore.

After dinner in our local restaurant, there was still time for a glass of wine as the sun set and the lights of the village illuminated the sea.

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