Monday, 24 October 2022

1994 Rome

 6.9.94  On the Pendolino

From Piacenza to RomaLovely train – red and sleek like a long stickleback.  In the Rome guidebook (one of the new visual ones from DK – excellently executed), page 87 – there is a patron saint of drivers: Santa Francesca Romana.  Rome.  Good to be back.  Driving through the streets I'd forgotten how beautiful – no, grand – it is.  The churches, the striated golden stone.  And motorini dappertutto.  Fine weather.  To Il Miraggio restaurant – fine spaghetti with a sprinkling of fish.  Bad news: I have seen the Mémoires of Saint-Simon in a second-hand bookshop…  To our room – number 106 – tremendous view of Trevi Fountain – tremendous noise too.

I sit outside San Pietro – refused entry because of my shorts - don't you just love the church's mercy? (Ironically, too, they are letting in others with shorts…)  A walk to the Spanish Steps.  Erroneously, I have to say, since I thought I was heading due west.  The sun moves to the west early here it seems.  Sun very strong – almost Yogyakartan at times – but there is a good breeze.

Down to the Tiber – very French, with trees (unheard of in Italy) along its banks.  Pass a square with bookstalls (but no prices).  So to here, driving up past the restaurant where I remember distinctly (why, I know not) eating Fegato alla Veneziana.  It's amusing (ish) watching everyone with shorts stride purposefully up to the cerberi, only to be refused (mostly).  To the Villa Sciarra (Trastevere after the Gianicolo (fine view).  Melancholy beauty of the ochre house.  Lots of kids, lovely evening.  Cats everywhere – Egyptian cats…

Now in Piazza della Santa Maria in Trastevere – a "characteristic quarter…" waiting for our Negroni.  Which turns out to be about four times stronger than any Negroni I've ever drunk.  Return to the hotel smashed.  Eat pizza (50 metres from the hotel), then gawp at the fountain.

Bella….

7.9.94 Hotel Fontana

The view from the third floor breakfast room (light with black grand piano) stunning down to the fountain (the coins visible).  The sun catching the papal stemma.  Last night very strange: smashed out of my head (I've never had such a strange single drink in my life), there were various loud noise – the police, cleaning lorries, who knows what.  But bed hard and comfortable.

The Pantheon - much bigger that I remember – really such a palpable demonstration of Roman power and ingenuity. M.AGRIPPA.L.F.COS.TERTIUM.FECIT in huge letters.  Behind me the restaurant/café where Mr Greenaway made The Belly.  On the way the strange wall of colours from the Temple of Adriano – now part of the Stock Exchange.  Motorini – lots of superb romane on them too, charging around.  Bikes less common. Inside the Pantheon – stupendo – such power and lightness – and that massive hole punched heavenwards.  The porch reminds me of Dendera – and perhaps has a similar function in a way.  

Sant'Ignazio – fine, powerful church, and even finer building outside – rare movement in the Piazza.  Wonderful ceiling in the church – extreme perspective.  Chiesa del Gesù – little to see because of restauri – but OTT.  Church of St. Louis of the French – three marvellous Caravaggios – especially the Calling of St. Matthew – those fingers: pointing à moi? - and à toi?  To the Piazza Navona – surely one of the most beautiful and dramatic of all – the church of Sant'Agnese in Agone, pure baroque, pure Borromini – I must learn more of him.  The manhole covers here have SPQR.

By Marcus Aurelius column, at the end of Via Tritone/Largo Chigi a wonderful pedestrian subway that is a bookshop. To Tazza d'Oro – wunnerful – near the Pantheon, too – my centre of Rome, my omphalos.  Bus ride (hot and crowded, Lire 1,200) to Stazione Termini, then to Santa Maria Maggiore.  Big, very big – I was able to see thanks to my long trousers over my short ones, carried all day.  Fine march of columns.  

Now at Da Giggetto – near the sinagoga, and the Portico of Octavia (by taxi – about 7,000 Lire for three people – very reasonable, and the taxisti always polite with their Roman drawl – one, yesterday, reading "Greek philosophy"…).  We sit near four free-standing columns from who knows when, and the remains of a portico.  The synagogue heavily guarded…  On the way here, the Vittorio Emanuele monument, a hideous pink…

Typical sounds – bad rock from a window high above us, a ball being bounced by bimbi, motorini (many), car alarm going off.  We try: artichokes a la juive, baccala' spinati (cod, fried), and – da-da – suppli al telefono (is there a wire?).  And then we'll see…  The Romans with their eternal telefonini (I went into SIP today to ask about modems and telefonini – they knew nothing even though they had some ads in their window.)  Opposite us, the old women out on their chairs in the street…

8.9.94

Basilica of Constantine – a bit impressive. Lovely in the early morning, cool shade, the deep green – especially the pines – which we can smell sometimes.  Truly romantic mixture of churches, trees and awesome ruins.  The fused bronze coins in the marble floor…  To the Capitoline Museum.  The Roman statues remind me of Musée Rodin – except that here there's a crowd.  Fine views of Campidoglio and Sindaco's place.

For no very good reason, down to E.U.R. on the metro – full, smelling like Jakarta.  On Linea B, a mad accordionist – earning around 10,000 Lire for five minutes…  Metro dull – functional, no ads.  Very sparse coverage of the city.  Just not part of Italian culture (even in Milan, very half-hearted).  cf. London and Paris – almost defines the city.

To the Colosseo Quadrato, the strange Palazzo della Civiltà Italiana – pure arches in the famous building (also called Palazzo della Civiltà del Lavoro, closed off), elsewhere columns reduced to rods.  The metro long and dull back.  The image better in films in this, cross between La Défense and Crystal Palace.

The wind is rising: a storm is on its way…

9.9.94

Café Greco – rather impressive, like a gallery – wonderful green conservatory before us.  Elsewhere plush scarlet velvet.  Some of the pix really very good.  The waiters in smart black tie and tails.  Marble table tops.  Fine.  Unlike the weather, which is turning.  To Piazza del Popolo – the double churches, but not as I remember them from winter.  

Motorini di Roma – along with the fountains, and pines, and ruins – Respighi – Rome is mopeds – the motors of the city – for a population too lazy to move – "Jump on me/Leap on me, O desire to work…".  Motto of the city – mopeds – they jump on their mopeds instead – fountains of youth, of history, La Dolce Vita.  Carbon monoxide or Cinquecento – renaissance/Fiat.  So be it: Roman Holidays...

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1991 Paris

29.6.91 Pyramid, Musée du Louvre

Well, I finally made it here.  Humbling, totally humbling.  The French really do have the arts sorted out.  London is an embarrassment in comparison.  This entrance hall is inspired.  So light, so logical.  A pyramid of sky and clouds.  Almost a refutation of an Egyptian pyramid – which heavy and dark: this is nothing but light.  And we are inside: it is pure volume.  John would not like it.  Nor the display of Egyptian antiquities amidst all the gilt Rococo splendour.  In fact, generally, the Louvre itself has too strong a personality, whereas the pyramid is suitably neutral.  Even the design of the Louvre is too French – long, long galleries.  Light, shining marble here.  Even with the increasing crowds, there's a feeling of space and air – they tend to stay around the outside.  A brilliant device for prams/wheelchairs: a cylinder rising and falling – an open lift.

Another gob-smacking experience: Jeu de Paume.  Transfigured.  Satie tinkles in the background; the walls a fierce white, the floors a lovely warm, bleached wood parquetry.  On the walls explosions of energy and colour: Jean Dubuffet at the west end, top floor, north wall, 36 pix – a riot of gore, jagged edges, slashes.  Mon dieu, paris est fait pour moi. Je commence à penser en français tout le temps... Je me sens presque français...

Thereafter, a long(-ish) walk to the Grand Palais, and the Seurat exhibition.  Disappointing – in that most of the "big" pix weren't there.  But once again, Seurat's mastery as a draughtsman is very clear – right from the first academic studies.  Lunch there, cheap, unspecial.  I walk to Musée Rodin in another first.  Not as I imagine: more like the Belvedere in Vienna than the dark town house I expected.  But very impressive.  You can see how this terrible old git loved the human form.  Roomful and roomful of it.  And anybody who can produce hands – especially "Le Secret" – as he can, has got to be good.  Lovely studies for the Balzac.  I sit in the garden, the sun beating down.  At the entrance to the Musée was a beautiful young woman – a model – being photographed.  

To the Musée d'Orsay.  Once again, the immediate impact is one of shame: why can't we rise to challenges like this?  Imagine Battersea Power Station turned into a huge gallery…  This place is so cool – in both senses.  Such a brilliant conceit to have a museum inside the railway hall.  Ah well, voyons.

The ground floor is a rather endearing hodge-podge of nineteenth-century stuff.  The first floor is rather tiresome second team, and at the top, under the natural light, the Impressionists.  [One thing on the ground floor: a model of the streets around Opéra Garnier – with glass over it which you could walk on.  Even though others did – and I did – I felt strangely unsafe as if tip-toeing across frozen ice.] Rather nice wicker-work chairs for viewing the pix – strangely civilised.  Typically French: by the toilets, above the café, there is a computerised system – a touch keyboard, million-pixel screen with (all/most of) the works…

By the RER to Gare d'Austerlitz.  Through the Jardin des Plantes – very French, very formal.  Glorious sunshine.  To the greenhouse – that magic smell, hotter than outside, damper.  Then to the mosque, where I sit now in a polygonal central courtyard, trees providing shade.  I have just acquired a steaming hot mint tea – sweet, needless to say.  But nice.  What can I say about this place – Paris – except that I must live here…

Well, what larks: 2.45am, Boulevard St Michel, just by the bridge, tobacco smoke wafting over me, but strangely I don't care.  It seems right for Paris, the land of the eternal Gauloise.  Anyway, to recap first.  After the Musée d'O (comme on dit), by RER to [café crème here is 40 Francs – is this a record…?  But what did I expect…?] Place de la Bastille, to gawp at the new opera.  'Orrible, no sensitivity at all – and already graffiti on its stone facing.  Then by Métro to Les Halles, where after long wanderings, a descend into the depths to FNAC.  Where, after more wanderings, I find [moon gibbous tonight – this place is La Périgourdine – live music, bluesy guitar, voice and piano stuff] I find one Racine play (Andromaque) – which has a certain resonance as I remember – the Gainsbourg pour Gainsbourg plus some Yves Montand with, ludicrously enough, "La Bicyclette", which I heard on France Inter, and was gob-smacked thereby.  Back to the hotel, utterly knackered.

Where I meet the others from work, and feel, partly out of duty, but also, je l'admets, a desire to be with a group on a Saturday night, the archetypal time of being out, of "socialising".  We discuss ad infinitum what to do, but by some miracle find a good restaurant – part of the Flo chain, directly opposite the Gare du Nord, part of the Hôtel du Nord.  We share a Fruits du Mer – well, as it happens, I end up with 20 (sic) oysters – I hope they were OK – then have capitaine – a type of white fish.  Bright, smoky, bustling, very French.

Yet more discussions.  Unable to find a taxi, some of us begin walking to the Seine, others hang about at the hotel. I lead the walkers.  Time around 1am, Paris bustling.  We find ourselves in the Rue Saint-Denis – with the ladies of the night, some quite young and attractive, many black, some none of these – sad, even – especially – on a beautiful night like this, around 19°
C.  One thing in Paris is the blatant porn everywhere – even in ads for yoghurt, I mean… ["Take 5" being played – a versatile band with sax and drums too now…]

I write now (at around 4.30am) with barely any light, sitting opposite the east end of Notre-Dame – which looks like some huge monster or a complex life-support system.  Dawn is definitely coming, with the north-east sky lightening.  Below me, two people sit on the quai; two tiny red fireflies in their hands…. The mood has definitely changed from night to morning, that most magical moment of the diurnal round, that invisible pivot.  Worth waiting up for.  Below me, too, the water like glass, the bridges reflected to perfection.  The first dog starts barking with a racking smoker's cough.

30.6.91

I decide two hours' sleep are better than none, waking at 8.30am.  Not feeling too bad – at Gambetta station: after Père Lachaise Cemetery.  Must be great in winter with mists and everything.  It looked very Greek to me.  Found Proust's tomb, very simple black polished stone.  Today is going to be rather unsatisfactory, I fear, with various deadlines – getting out of room, and to airport etc.

To Jeu de Paume again, for a pleasant lunch of taramasalata, then round the show after reading the intro.  I am just so gobsmacked by all this.  The more I look and learn about this geezer, the more I'm impressed.  Gave up business at 41 to be an artist.  Remained outside the establishment.  What works.  They look so energetic, so full of life – like coiled springs of DNA.  And yet there is a unity of form, and even a humanity amidst this matter.  Really, it is unique in 20th century art.

Upstairs, with the late works – which are suitably Beethovenian in their paring down, in their "spirituality".  Even more so in the very last room of all – on a black ground, like space, the universe, these last deep calligrammes, inspired doodles of noumena (yeah, well...)


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