Reforming Zeal

 

My last formal history courses were in high school. I don't remember much. I do recall the day a smart classmate asked a show-offy question about terms on our French revolution study list: "Who was General Will?" Always admired her cheeky cleverness.

 I learn most of my history from the study of the art and architecture of each era. Last night I watched an episode of Kenneth Clark's Civilisation series.  It led me through the Reformation and its aftermath, the religious wars that raged through Europe for the next century.

To this point, I had been tutored in the architecture of the Counter-Reformation, the Catholic Church's push-back - the mightly Baroque. "See, we're the greatest church, after all!" (no offense intended by my over-simplication of the times.)

 One fact hit me like a blast from a bombard. In the so-called 'religious wars' (actually largely about money, land and power) that followed Luther's stand at the doors of Wittenburg church, the destruction of art - mostly religious at the time - was beyond comprehension. 

Whitby Abbey

Think of the dissolution of the monasteries - the English countryside is blessed with their picturesque ruins. They don't quite convey the hatred and ignorance and violence of the time. Here's a helpful essay if my history's a bit weak for you.

This is the line that hit me hardest in my reading. From this Cambridge university article found online, I read with horror: "It is believed that up to 97% of English religious art was destroyed during and after the Reformation." And here's an old article from The Guardian, sharing a sense of dismay at the failure to save the rare extant examples.

Reading about all this took me back to a bucolic bit of England visited with a member of my English family. Down a leafy lane lies the tiny medieval (Anglo-Saxon with Norman upgrades) church of St. Nicholas, at Oddington in Gloucestershire.

Among other breath-stopping details - the Jacobean pulpit, the Norman window openings, the fifteenth century font, the primitive stone bench used for sharpening arrows - the church wall displays a Doom Painting (think a medieval Last Judgement and you get the intent if not the style.)

In Oddington church prevails that "atmosphere of antiquity": intense cold, damp, stillness and something indefinable. Maybe the presence of centuries of the faithful in their certainties and confusion. 

My brother in law explained how rare and wonderful the fresco was - surviving damp and renovations and the depredations of the Restoration and later Puritan eras, uncomfortable with church 'art.' I believe he said it had been rescued from beneath a coating of whitewash.

If you find this fascinating, you will want to explore the church's story more fully in this profile in Great English Churches. Not as stuffy as you might think. The writer quotes Black Adder.

And lest you think there aren't many of these incrediblty rare Doom paintings in England, here's more info at this site. (Sixty in case you're wondering.)

Is anyone still with me? I've been on walking tours that sometimes disintegrate as bored or distracted participants fall away from the group. I'm remembering a particularly bad one in Siena...

Snow Day Escape

 

As the snow falls today and my mind and heart are preoccupied with my dear UK family, I am drawn back to this day in May at the incomparable National Trust property Snowshill Manor, in Gloucestershire. Of the impressively symmetrical sixteenth century country house I have little information, as this visit was all about the gardens.

 My host recounted that the home's interior was chockablock with the collections of the eccentric Charles Paget Wade  The National Trust corroborates. Wade's motto says it all: "Let nothing perish."

The property displays Arts and Crafts sensibilities, the garden growing outwards from the house,  which makes it especially delicious. 

Owner Wade used the talents of architect M.H. Baillie Scott in the  early 1920s to create the garden. Local builder William Hodge likely did the heavy lifting.

As my hosts soaked up the sun on an ancient stone bench, I scampered up and down steps marvelling at the beauty - there's something especially appealing about changes in elevation used well by gifted garden designers. 

And in the distance, the soft hills of the Cotswolds. It was tricky to give them proper attention while negotiating and loving the steps, terraces, walkways, pond, stone walls and the Well Court with its Venetian wellhead.

I loved hearing that Wade lived in the Priest's house, while developing the property and collections, to which the house was dedicated. Here's more from the NT if you're so inclined. Below is the Sancta Maria Byre, elevated from a cow shed. Note the religious statue above the door.

If I were inclined to take selfies, here I would inflict on you one taken in the Garden Court, me with a goofy grin a mile wide. Such a place of delights. 

 At the end of our delightful visit, we met at the bottom of the 2 acre garden, and a personable fellow took us by golf cart back to the entrance, bumping along a tree-canopied lane. I could imagine a child driving a small herd of sheep, in another century.

Lost in Time

 

I'm still lost, honestly.

I spent one long October afternoon, guided and solo, wandering the Roman forum, trying to find myself. 

During my week in Rome I made several trips along Via Fori Imperiale, with the outstanding viewpoints looking down on the Forum. I thought I was getting oriented, spotting some favourites.

Then with our clever guide, we time travelled a long hot afternoon, storm clouds and sun duelling for control.

By way of orienting myself from this new vantage point I kept track of my daily landmarks, sticking up above this ancient place, layers of time: the flamboyant white Victor Emmanuel II monument with its rooftop horses, and the yellow brick Capitoline Museums, to which I later time travelled via narrow brick stairs up from the Forum to Michelangelo's magnificent square.

I am a history nerd; I expect eventually to figure out the chronology of eras, if I try hard enough. Today for example I've been digging back into the succession of English kings and queens, prompted by a video series about the royal art collections I stumbled upon on BBC Select this week. I've lost my head over Charles I and his passion for collecting.

But back to the problem at hand. The forum So many layers. The buildings of this one forum alone span 1400 years, of kingdom, republic and empire.

The foundations of medieval buildings don't clear the picture at all. They pop up everywhere, built among and with the stones of the ruins. Perhaps one day we'll dig deeper?

Maybe I should just be satisfied by recognizing a few favourites.

 Like the Arch of Titus, photo awkwardly composed to obliterate a few hundred of us gawpers.

Like San Lorenzo in Miranda (below) a Baroque church of the early 1600s built inside the columns of the second century temple of deified Roman emperor and empress Antonius and Faustina.

There's a nice seventeenth century painting of the scene on this site. It reminds us that the area was then called 'campo vaccino', used as pasture for livestock. No respect. And the 17 metre high marble columns and attic did survive the plunder of so many nearby structures as a result of that church adopting the site.

It all became a bit clearer when we made our way up the long stairs to Palatine Hill, pausing a moment to enjoy the garden. From the edge of the hill, we looked down on all that astonishing history, and it became a bit clearer. Perspective.

So, I am still lost. But maybe I should just be satisfied that I got to be there, sitting on a wall in the heat, looking about me. So many layers. Makes my little worries about big events transpiring in January 2025 seem insignificant indeed. Perspective is indeed everything. 

This fine little Smart History video explains the confusion in 7.2 entertaining minutes.

Been there, done that

Duiring the past two years, I have been fortunate to visit a number of important galleries and museums. There I have made a personal connection with art-works that have been part of my life since undergrad art history, and likely before, thanks to a mother who encouraged our reading and learning, 

I have been short-of-breath and weak-kneed before well-known and well-loved works at the Uffizi, the National Gallery and Courtauld in London, the Vatican Museum and a good number of Florentine palazzi. So fortunate. Not bad for a little girl from 'the County', yes?

I have not been alone at these times, however. I have struggled with the selfie crowds. Now, far be it from me to impugn others' motives for visiting, but the oppressive throngs of people putting themselves or others into the frame with famed works of art was ... a challenge. 

I tried to laugh, to shut it all out, to find my own moment with a work. One especially funny experience was watching a group of  totally unselfconscious girls primping and posing for phone photos in the mirrors of the mind-boggling Florentine Baroque Mirror Gallery at the Medici Palace. "I'm ready for my close-up Mr. DeMille."

I remember another laughably frustrating episode at the National Gallery last spring. How hard could it be to get close to VanGogh's Sunflowers? Try impossible. Queues for a photo with the bouquet. Why? Maybe because we have all seen this image forever and everywhere. And a photo beside the sunflowers matters. "As seen on TV" has power.

Back at the Uffizi, I had to nudge myself to remember to find it all amusing, and find my own way to connect with Botticelli's Primavera. I found the simple act of standing at far right or left of works (not the ideal photo vantage point, which kept the crowds at bay) gave me a surprisingly intimate connection. "You'll let me stand this close?"  But then, I took the photo. The photo is proof that I was there. A physical memory. Is that why we do this?

I am pondering in public here, always risky. I'm looking for wiser heads than mine to explain it. Maybe I'll dip into John Berger. Not sure this 'Why we see art in museums' LINK helps, but it's there for you to decide.

Awe happens anyway. You know, when I found my solo corner beside the Botticelli, in a spot no-one else wanted, awe happened. And that's good enough for me.

Upon finally getting to the Pantheon

 
On a group tour of Rome in fall 2023, our guide wrangled us through the crowds of visitors, pointing out the Pantheon as we shuffled past. "What?! We're not going in??" Well, no, we didn't. The Pantheon has been on my bucket list since second year undergrad art history. And not to go?? 

I believe that moment was the catalyst for plans that formed over the subsequent winter months. I would go to Rome. Me, solo. I would book to see all the treasures I wanted, and enjoy them, on my own time, at my own speed. In my own company. And I did, and it was all that I'd hoped, and more.

As it turned out (well, it was planned), my small hotel was a two-minute walk from the Pantheon. I visited the piazza most days.  I used the Pantheon as my landmark as I found my weary way home from daily walkabouts. I ambled through the passeggiata crowds, enjoyed al fresco dinner in a cafe with the night-lit portico looming above. I joined a guided tour and went inside!

I won't try to describe it. Or capture its history. There are loads of experts out there.  I'll just try to capture what moved me.

altar of St. Paul

The Pantheon (a temple to all the gods) was built by Agrippa in 26 to 25 BC; Emperor Hadrian, who usually gets credited, was in charge of the 118-125AD reconstruction. The Pantheon is one of the very few ancient Roman buildings that has survived almost intact. 

And that, as is often the case, was because it was converted to a Christian church in 609AD. That didn't stop the building from being pillaged for building materials, as it had been since the middle ages. Even in 1631 Pope Urban VIII had the gilded bronze cladding removed from the porch and melted down for the Bernini's magnificent baldacchino in St. Peter's and cannons for Castel Sant'Angelo. According to this site, anyway. I've read differing opinions.

Did you know that the Pantheon's real name is Basilica di Santa Maria ad Martyres? I didn't.

So many layers of history reside in this magnificent strructure. I'll work on peeling back some of the layers in later posts. 

And if I may be allowed, a bit of my own layer of history with the Eternal City. This is a photo taken from my table at my last al fresco dinner in my second favourite city in Italy.

Garden Tour - Royal Gardens, Venice

 

This image delights me; I have it on my laptop homepage so I can visit this spot whenever I walk to or through my dining room 'office.' It's especially pleasing now, as I have just made plans to return to Venice, albeit briefly, this spring. This visit will be at the end of a two week tour of some of the best of Croatia and Slovenia (sounding like Rick Steves there.)

The tour is the 'consolation prize' after the cancellation of another solo week in  Florence, tacked onto the end of a two week hosted tour of the Italian Riviera . The tour was cancelled because of insufficient bookings - what's wrong with these people? 

Do I look disappointed to you? I'm told I have delights in store. I'm working on Croatian pronounciation at the moment. Studied Russian in high school, and although I likely won't bring up the subject, a number of the words sound somewhat similar. (To avoid any such gaffes, I'm reading a history of Croatia at the moment.)

But this peaceful photo (I can add the soundtrack from memory) of gondolas bobbing obediently along the Grand Canal pleases me not because of the obvious delights of Venice, but because I am about to enter the Royal Gardens. As garden expert Monty Don points out, it's a delightful and unusual garden, just down the canal from Piazza san Marco. 

Sure, I will enjoy seeing yet again the iconic bridges and canals, the incomparable St. Mark's and Doge's Palace, the enticing calle and hidden squares. I will enjoy an espresso and tiny sweet in a cafe on the piazza. I might even browse some San Marino glass (but without travel friends Mary and Sandra, I may not succumb). 

But once 'free time' begins, after the obligatory and informative guided tour, I will head to the garden. To the Royal Gardens, a quickstep from St. Mark's Square. I did not give this oasis the proper attention last visit, skirting around its perimeter, unaware that it was indeed a public garden.

But armed with this intelligence, an episode on Adriatic Gardens hosted by Monty Don (one of those little-screen experiences we could always agree upon), I shall return to give the Giardini Royale the attention it deserves. 

Here are some of the moments I did bring home with me.

Distracted by the postcard racks, and puzzling over the boat schedules, I failed to venture into the Royal Gardens' lush acre. Honestly thought it was attached to the imposing buildings beyond.

Missing a garden is unusual for me/us as we/I always head to the gardens when visiting new and old, cities. Need those phytoncides. And something lovely and green and cooling to immerse onself in. 

More on gardens is inevitable. I've just been revisiting my Boboli Gardens photos.

"Would you like a rug?"

 I've mentioned how I love creating a sense of home in a short term rental, or campsite. Here's a recent BC story from August of last year. But last May, I made a home in London's Kensington area, and herein lies a cozy story. 

My tiny home was in a 5-storey Victorian terrace in a good area bordered by Kensington Church Street on the west, and Kensington High Street to the south. Kensington Palace was a long block east along the High Street. Here's a detailed history of the development of the area, which evolved from the grounds of a Georgian mansion and the Glebe lands of the local St. Mary Abbots church (a beautiful Gothic Revival church right on Kensington Street) into quiet streets and closes, in the latter half of the nineteenth century,

My door was the red one

  

I found my 'home from home' on AirBnB, the fifth floor (my budget was fifth floor) of a yellow brick Italianate terrace (with no elevator,) a former private home now dubbed the Pocket Apartments. The terrace was dignified by white window trims, iron railings and granite pillars with Ionic capitals gracing the entrances. 

 

And the pocket apartments were aptly named. The room, which was the width of my single bed's length, was delightfully painted and decorated; amenities just enough, the bathroom superb. Clean. Quiet. Smelled good. I could lie in my wee bed and look out at matching terraces across the street through the boulevard of mature trees. It was all I needed to be 'home'.

I piled the pillow up, and pulled a soft orange fringed blanket over my knees. Instant warmth and cuddle. I had a closer look at my lovely rug. Soft, sturdy, produced by a traditional British weaving mill run by Bethan and John, a young brother and sister team.  And before I knew it, I was ordering mine from The British Blanket Company in Bristol, which is where I was headed next. I directed the package to my sweet niece, who lives in a village near the New Forest and added it to my bag.

And each time I settle into my reading chair, piles of books around me, my blue blanket is there for immediate warmth, security, memories. 

One of the lovely memories: my UK family loves the garden, and socializing is often on benches and seats in the lovely garden surrounding their 1700s barn conversion. The Brits are not wimps, they don't head indoors when the light fades and evening damp descends. They reach for 'rugs', cozy woolen lap blankets. 

And whenever I snuggle under my blue blanket, I hear my sweet sister-in-law in a rarely heard north of England accent, ask "would you like a rug?" And that is very warm indeed.