The Shock of the Old

The Last Street

2011-09-28T10:02:00.005+02:00

The last hidden street, Via S. Antonio, Sessa Aurunca

I learned early in my walks around Sessa of the town's trick of hidden streets. The old houses in the center, built one upon the other, jut irregularly into narrow, meandering streets, making it impossible to judge from any sort of distance what is the corner of an intersection and what is just the end of a façade. Narrow alleys, often stepped, intersect with streets at irregular intervals, looking like flights of stairs that lead to houses. I learned to suppress my shyness and walk confidently through spaces that seemed private, and sometimes the reward was a new street or alley I hadn't seen before.

Over a year ago, or maybe two years, I thought that I had found them all. The last one had been a particularly spectacular discovery (from the point of view of someone who likes to walk around old towns looking at crumbling buildings) but it was a bit disheartening, because I took it to mean that Sessa no longer had any surprises for me.

One evening this summer, while out for a walk for in the area of Piazza Mercato, we passed a small, short street that I had photographed unsuccessfully countless times.

"Have you gone up this street?" N asked.

"Oh yes, I can't tell you how many times I tried to photograph its diaphragm arches. I gave up perhaps a year ago."

"Then you know it lets out near our house."

"Cosa? (What?)"

At the end of the little street, at its very end, or rather at what seems like its very end, a narrow flight of steps turns ninety degrees, invisibly to anyone who is not standing directly before it, and leads to another level where the street opens up again. Then, at its end, its real end, it widens into a piazzetta, with a water fountain on one side, and a gated niche that holds a statue of St. Anthony of Padua on the other. At the far corner, a narrow flight of stairs leads to one of the wide streets that mark the edge of the newer part of the historic center, which is our neighborhood.

Niche with statue of Sant'Antonio da Padova

It was gratifying to feel that old sense of excitement at having seen something new and it made me laugh to think that after all my years of exploring the town, I had been unable to find its last hidden street, as close as it was to where I pass almost all my time, without the help of someone who knew Sessa better than I did.

A very clever trick, indeed.

Food drop-off log, July 2011

2011-08-01T10:47:00.004+02:00

9 July:
400 grams of homemade tagliatelle, dried in wound circular forms, piled in a large white plastic bowl

July 12:
twelve tomatoes
sixteen overripe peaches
a watermelon weighing eleven kilograms

July 14:
two bottles of chickpeas cooked in broth with tomatoes and celery stalks

July 21:
bean soup in a white porcelain tureen with a broken handle, covered with an aluminum lid, in a white plastic shopping bag

July 27:
200 grams of homemade tagliatelle, dried hanging over the back of a chair, in a reused perforated bread bag
366 grams of beef fillets from the supermarket, shrink-wrapped on a white polystyrene tray, with the instruction to eat them immediately "lest they loose their blood"

July 29:
thirteen fried zucchini blossoms, on a reused polystyrene tray, green and brown decomposed organic material visible through the perforations in its surface
tomato-based meat sauce with various unidentifiable ingredients in the white porcelain tureen with a broken handle, covered with an aluminum lid, in a plastic SISA produce bag; nine meatballs with zucchini chunks, cooked without salt, four in the sauce in the tureen, the remaining five loosely and partially wrapped in a reused sheet of aluminum foil

Sant'Agata dei Goti

2011-07-17T16:21:00.009+02:00

View of Sant'Agata dei Goti, in the province of Benevento

Sant'Angelo de Munculanis

Bar 'Perna'

Spoliate shaft with Neoclassical portal

Marching band

View toward Duomo tower

Belltower, Santa Maria del Carmine

'Piccolo Bar'

Pata at the fountain

Historicism

2011-07-13T14:00:00.001+02:00

Roman relief of Mercury and scenes from the thirteenth-century St. Peter cycle
on the portico of the cathedral of Sessa Aurunca (click to enlarge)

The low-relief sculpture fragment of Mercury in an archaizing style dates to the reign of the emperor Hadrian (117-38 CE.) Its presence on the portico of Sessa's cathedral, together with an inscription reading "MERC"once visible in the interior, gave rise to a tradition that the cathedral was built over the ruins of a temple of Mercury. While excavations on the site have not produced evidence supporting this claim, it is likely that some spoliate material used in the construction of the cathedral came from a temple dedicated to Mercury.

Its placement beside the thirteenth-century sculptural cycle illustrating scenes from the life of St. Peter creates an interesting juxtaposition of two very different episodes of historicism. The sculptor of the Mercury panel carefully emulates the stiff figural poses and stylized drapery treatment of Archaic Greek art; at the time of its creation, older styles were favored by the Roman market. In the case of the Petrine sculptural cycle, the referent is Rome, though here there is another sort of relationship between the work and its visual influences. For the artisans who carved the cycle, Rome was a memory, distant, though refreshed through the continued presence of ruins and spolia, and viewed through a prism of centuries of iterations and interpretations.

Corbels

2011-07-06T10:56:00.002+02:00

Upper portion of the façade, cathedral of Sessa Aurunca, twelfth century (click to enlarge)

The long restoration campaign at the cathedral is nearing completion and the scaffolding has finally been removed from the façade. I had been waiting for months to photograph some of the animal sculptures, and a couple of mornings ago, as I trained my camera on the ox at the upper left of the window, I was reminded that quite a few of the façade's decorative corbels are animal heads, among them, a pig, without question my favorite.

Figural corbels, façade, cathedral of Sessa Aurunca, the pig is second from the left
(not a great photo, click to enlarge)

A corbel, or console, is a projecting, usually load-bearing, architectural element, functioning much like a bracket. A series of corbels supporting an arcade is called an arched corbel table, a common motif in Romanesque architecture. These were often left unadorned, but sometimes their corbels were carved with decorative or figural ornaments, as at Sessa. The pig appears in the corbel table beneath the gable of the façade, which is the only one that retains all of its decorative corbels.

Food drop-off log, June 2011

2011-06-30T16:21:00.009+02:00

1 June:
beef fillet folded in half, wrapped in plastic wrap, in a plastic shopping bag with the SISA logo
chickpea soup with tomatoes and celery greens, in a white porcelain tureen with a broken handle, covered with an aluminum lid, in a plastic Paone pasta bag

3 June:
four cucumbers from an unspecified garden and about two hundred grams of slightly under-ripe cherries, both in a plastic shopping bag with the SISA logo
artichokes, cooked almost to a pulp with a considerable amount of garlic, in a plastic container with a screw on lid

5 June:
fish soup in a bottle and two cucumbers, all in a plastic shopping bag with the SISA logo

10 June:
nine zucchini, half a kilogram of green beans, and six eggplants, all in a large pink plastic bag

17 June:
lasagne rolls, in a pale green casserole dish, loosely covered with a sheet of reused aluminum foil

18 June:
lentil soup, in the pot in which it was cooked

20 June:
two kilos of plums known for their laxative properties, in a plastic bag with the SISA logo

22 June:
three pizzette with provola and dried sausage, one with cherry tomatoes and garlic; two tramezzini filled with smoked salmon sticking to the stale white bread; two slices of a rustico made with provolone and and prosciutto crudo; seven small crescents of puff pastry dough filled with a variety of savory fillings, none identifiable; baked tagliatelle with tomato sauce, miniature meatballs and hard boiled eggs, in a pale green casserole dish; six bignè with oozing cream, on a single-use plastic dish, covered with a loose sheet of reused aluminum foil; all items delivered in a large circular aluminum pan, covered with a pastel plaid dish cloth

29 June:
white beans with tomato, celery greens, and garlic, in a bottle; fried peppers, in a reused jam jar;
additional fried peppers, in a removable tray within a plastic container with a screw on lid, and eggplant cooked in such a way to make it green, in the same container, but beneath the removable tray; all in a plastic shopping bag with the SISA logo

The pendulum swings

2011-06-02T18:36:00.003+02:00

Last month we decided not to send Pata to preschool anymore we couldn't deal anymore with her getting sick every.single.week. I'm going out of my mind trying to entertain one very talkative and extroverted little girl, but there has been a huge upside:

Pata: Papà, voglio un popsicle (pronounced pahpsseekuhl; Papà, I want a popsicle.)

N: Che cosa? (What?)

Pata: Un qualche popsicle! (Just some popsicle!)

Me: He doesn't know what that is, you have to explain it to him.

Pata: It's a stick with...

Me: I know what it is, you have to tell him.

Pata: Eh...è... un...qualche...popsicle, papà. (Um...it's...just...some...popsicle, papà)

Montecassino

2011-05-31T14:10:00.007+02:00

So-called "Cloister of Bramante", Abbey of Montecassino

I was a freshman in high school first time I ever heard of the abbey of Montecassino. As Sister Helen, the librarian, pointed out the features of the school's library on the first day of Library Science class, she mentioned that the fireplace was from an Italian abbey, destroyed in the second World War, and called Montecassino. (The school had once been the townhouse of an art collector.) I can't remember now how old she said it was, or even what it looked like except that it was elaborate and imposing. It shocks me that I have failed to remember any more of it, especially because I was interested in art history even before finishing high school.

Detail of the triumphal arch of the well, with landscape beyond

Years later, I did one of my Ph.D. exams on eleventh- and twelfth century architecture in Italy; Montecassino was one of the monuments central to my reading. In the time of the Abbot Desiderius (1058-87,) the abbey must have been spectacularly beautiful. Desiderius acquired vast quantities of spoliate marble (including columns and capitals) from Rome and had them shipped to the port of Suium, from where they were transported over land and up the steep rocky hill to the abbey. Of the works of the mosaicists that Desiderius hired from Constantinople, the chronicler Leo of Ostia tells us, "one would believe that the figures...were alive and that in the marbles of the pavements flowers of every color bloomed in wonderful variety."*

Atrium (this small person kept getting in my photos)

Of course, the Montecassino of Desiderius doesn't exist any more; it had ceased to exist long before the abbey's near destruction in February of 1944. Centuries of alterations and restorations canceled out the colorful, glimmering richness of its medieval appearance. What exists now is a handsome ensemble, staid for the most part, but a bit pompous in the decoration of the basilica. (I will refrain from posting any photos of that.)

Courtyard

The small courtyard that leads to the museum entrance has some spoliate columns and capitals on view. There are a couple of dark, gated chambers on the right hand side that have fragments from the Cosmatesque pavement.

View of the dome from the courtyard

As we moved from space to space, Pata repeatedly proclaimed "che bel posto! (what a beautiful place!)" I forgive her lack of discrimination because she is only three, and because I know that the abbey seems less beautiful to me mostly because I compare it to a mental image of a thing that no longer exists, a thing which I myself have never seen. In fact, her appreciation of the place made me happy: she has a childhood of looking at art and architecture ahead of her and I hope she won't spend it complaining about how she'd rather be doing something else. Her enthusiasm did wane at the entrance to the museum but that's fine, mine did too when I saw that admission was 7 Euro for adults. (I had also visited the museum on an earlier trip to the abbey.)

Having fun (and wearing her favorite blouse, which I made for her)

So we enjoyed the sunshine and fresh air and (relatively) wide open spaces instead. Everything in its own time.

*Leo of Ostia, Chronicle of Montecassino, reprinted in Caecilia Davis Weyer, Early Medieval Art 300-1150 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2003) 138.

May flowers

2011-05-15T12:09:00.008+02:00

No fruit yet at Campo di Pere, just wildflowers. These were the prettiest:

Girl Italian

2011-04-16T16:31:00.005+02:00

Pata likes to hear a story every night before she goes to sleep. She has long tired of following along as I read, preferring instead to babble to her dolls or bears. Whenever I pause, she insists that she is listening. I ask her questions just to be sure.

"What is he looking at?" I ask, pointing to the Little Nutbrown Hare.

"The lune," she tells me.

"What? A loon is a bird. What is that?" I ask, indicating a white crescent.

"The lune," she tells me once again, giggling.

"That is the moon. It is not a loon."

"Moon," she says, smiling. "Moon," she says again, emphasizing the 'n' so much that it sounds as though it is followed by a vowel. Laughing, repeats herself: "Moon-uh," she says, as though it were a Neapolitan word.

***

In the parking lot of the municipio she wants to know why there is a pile of trash near where N has parked the car. "Ma chi ha messo tutta questa sporcizia qua?! (Who put all this filth here?)" she asks him.

"Dove? (Where?)"

"A terra! (On the ground!)" she exclaims, pointing to the pile.

"Dirty people," I tell her, "dirty people put it there."

"Where they are?" she asks, looking around.

"Where are they?" I correct her.

"I don't know, Mommy. I don't see them. I think they went to their home."

***

She pushes her armchair next to mine and snuggles up to me. "Mommy, I want one thing good because I love you."

"You've had enough today," I tell her.

"Mommy," she says, shaking her finger, "now I am angry to you because you won't give me a caramella!"

***

"Papà's mommy is nonna my," she tells me, as she draws a row of faces on a bit of scrap paper.

"Oh, really, and who are you?"

"I'm the baby your," she says smiling.

"Yes, you are my baby."

A couple of minutes later, I see her jabbing at the table with the pencil. "What are you doing?" I ask.

"No Mommy, I'm not ruining your cloth table," she assures me.

"My what?"

"This, Mommy," she says, poking at the tablecloth with the pencil, "I am not marking up your cloth table beautiful."

***

Preschool hasn't caused Pata's English to suffer as much as I feared it might, but it has made it clear that even though she is a native English speaker, it is not her first language.

Medieval Bestiary: Stork

2011-04-15T15:52:00.004+02:00

Stork devouring a serpent, ca.1224-59, pulpit, cathedral of Sessa Aurunca

The stork is a gregarious bird. Having no call, it converses with the clatter of its beak. Led by a pair of crows, storks fly across the seas; they go to Asia, where they herald the spring. Returning each year to nest in the same place, they warm their broods with feathers they pull from their breasts. In their old age, they are fed by their children, who remember their parents' solicitous attention. They are the enemies of serpents, which they catch in their beaks, and eat.

***

The small figure of the Stork devouring a serpent adorns the corner of one of the six capitals of the pulpit in the cathedral of Sessa Aurunca. Its placement allows for a dynamic composition in which the stork, its wings splayed to conform to the concave shape of the capital, twists its head back to pull at the serpent it holds in its bill. Given its context on the pulpit, it is likely a symbol of triumph over sin.

Zainetto

2011-04-12T11:52:00.000+02:00

Pata's new zainetto (backpack)

On Pata's first day of preschool I sent her off with a water bottle that never returned. Next I tried juice boxes. They did come back, empty, a good portion of their contents spilled onto the bottom of her backpack. After I tired of cleaning the mess, I decided to send her with nothing but a cup. She came home parched, begging to drink. Once I happened to give an English lesson while the children from another class had their snack. I saw that a few of them had bottles that had clearly been reused. The next day I wrote "non buttare, grazie (don't discard, thank you)" on a bit of masking tape and stuck it on a bottle I filled with water, and like magic, the bottle found its way back home.

But by then the backpack was already ruined, filled with crumbs and stained by juice and half-eaten fruit, and one of its pockets smeared with chocolate from half a pastry of unknown provenance. (As I came to learn, at the end of snack time the teachers direct the children to toss whatever they haven't finished directly into their backpacks.) That old backpack was store-bought, a gift from a teacher aunt excited about Pata's first year of preschool. It was typical of the backpacks the preschoolers here bring to school: brightly-colored, wheeled, and adorned with cartoon characters. It was not machine-washable. I knew that if we bought another, it too would soon be juice-stained and chocolate-smeared, a waste of money and a waste of a backpack. I also knew that a backpack made of sturdy cotton, without an irremovable cardboard insert, plastic frame or wheels, could be put in the wash whenever dirty, and once old, faded, and torn, could even be cut down into cleaning rags.

I made Pata's new zainetto using the toddler backpack pattern and tutorial from Indietutes, lengthening it a smidgen because Pata is a smidgen bigger than a toddler. I didn't have interfacing so I used a canvas-weight cotton and doubled up the fabric on the side panel to give the backpack more structure. I sewed the two layers of the side panel together with several rows of stitches help it keep its shape, and I did the same with the straps. You can see the stitching in the next two photos:

detail of the side panel

detail of the straps

I'm very excited about how well it turned out. I intend to make another for next year, altering the proportion of the pattern to make it longer and thinner, and perhaps adding a zippered pocket.

Pocketbooks

2011-04-08T12:07:00.000+02:00

That's what my mother used to call them. And that's what I called them until I went away to a college where most of the students came from a higher social class then mine, and I learned that they were called purses or handbags. To be fair, I don't know that the use of the term pocketbook is associated with any social class in particular, though I've only heard it pronounced with a certain kind of accent, and if you're from New York, like I am, you probably know which I mean. I myself spoke with that accent until adolescence, when I became self-conscious about it, and I snobbishly began to eradicate it. But nostalgia is a funny thing, and here I am calling purses pocketbooks once again, but sans the correct accent, as it is lost to me, and my attempts to reconstruct are invariably comedic.

Groovy pocketbook (Well, I think it's groovy)

Both of these bags are based on the free Burdastyle Charlie bag pattern. For the first one, I lengthened the straps, tapered the sides, added gussets, and added a flap with a button closure. It has two large, but simple interior pockets. I used an cherished old decorator fabric- in its last incarnation it was a pillow cover- that I brought with me when I moved here. It doesn't match the style of most of the furniture in our house (much to my chagrin) and so it languished in my drawer of things to repurpose until I imagined this new, pleasing use for it. I lined it with fabric from an old curtain, also brought with me when I moved and unsuitable for our house.

The second bag is a more faithful rendition of the Charlie pattern. I made it perhaps three years ago to replace the diaper bag that came with the car seat-stroller-bassinet combo that we bought when Pata was born. I don't remember making it- I don't remember much from the first several month's of Pata's life- but I can tell you that I used the same Ikea fabric for the exterior and the lining, and like the groovy green pocketbook, it has interior pockets, though more of them. I haven't used it as a diaper bag for quite a while, but I continue to carry it around with me because it's capacious enough to carry all the sorts of things a three-year-old might need on a walk around town, like copious amounts of bubbles.

Blowing bubbles, and the bag, erm pocketbook

Frogs and Dragonflies

2011-04-03T20:35:00.000+02:00

Late last year (while I wasn't posting here,) I converted our guest bedroom into a room for Pata. I spent days inventing elaborate themes but I realized that if I chose anything too complicated, I'd never finish it. So instead of repainting the walls and transforming the full-sized bunk bed into a castle/cottage/coral reef, etc., I limited myself to what I could finish in a month's time: repainting a wardrobe, making new curtains, and hanging some pictures. (Except that in the end, it took more than a month, but only because the pieces for the last of the curtains lay in a pile on the dining room table for a few months while I avoided them.)

Window in Pata's room with the straggler curtain on the right

The color scheme was inspired by curtains I saw at Ikea that combined red gingham with green, which I thought was interesting visually. Frogs appeared as a motif in the same product line, and I decided to use them as well. I had planned to use a larger gingham print for the bands at the top of the curtains, but was unable to find any in time, so I settled for the smaller print. The gingham and three spools of red, green, and white thread were all that I purchased to make the curtains. Everything else (including the lining, which isn't visible in the photo) was repurposed or left over from past projects.

Curtains for the French doors

I made a matching set for the doors, though they were actually the first that I sewed, (because they were easier, of course.) After I hung them, I thought it would be a good idea to add another firefly to each panel, but working on the more detailed window curtain disabused me of that notion.

These are the first appliques I've ever done. I drew the patterns as simply as possible and sewed them on with my machine, using the satin stitch. The larger appliques were difficult because I had no way to fix them to the curtain other than with pins, (I suppose I could have basted them on, but I wonder if that would have made much difference. Having never found regular interfacing here, I decided not to waste time looking for anything as fancy as adhesive interfacing.) My hands and wrists got a real workout holding everything smooth while I sewed. Regardless, I thoroughly enjoyed sewing them because they made me feel excited about being able to express my creative impulse. (Even if they are rather naive in style.)

Apple Cake

2011-03-14T13:15:00.003+01:00

Ingredients:
1 kg (2 lbs.) apples, peeled, cored and cut into thin slices
2 eggs
200ml cream
210 g (1 cup) sugar
1 tsp. Melanurc or other apple liqueur (optional)
195 g (1 1/2 cups) flour
pinch of salt
butter for the pan and dotting the cake

Preheat oven to 190°C/ 375°F. Grease a 10-inch cake pan with butter. Whisk together the cream and the eggs. Add the apple liqueur, and then the sugar. Add the flour and salt and blend until smooth. Add the apples to the batter and mix until they are well coated. Pour batter into a prepared pan. Dot the surface of the cake with small bits of butter. Bake 55-60 minutes. Serve warm.

I lifted this recipe from Marcella Hazan's Essentials of Italian Cooking, where it appears in slightly different form as "A Farm Wife's Pear Tart." The original recipe doesn't call for apples or apple liqueur (obviously), and it uses 1/4 cup milk instead of cream.

I've used 125ml and 200ml of cream and both amounts work, though I prefer the results with 200ml. (Can't imagine why.)

Campo di Pere, January

2011-01-07T10:25:00.003+01:00

Setting sun, New Year's Day

She says 'cheese' although I never taught her to

Procrastination

2010-10-20T15:46:00.011+02:00

Last week the aunt gave us six cases of persimmons. (Yes, a thoughtful gift for people who have two persimmon trees of their own.) The aunt likes to pick her persimmons before they ripen and then wait for them to mature, one by one. In the past, this has meant that her gifts of persimmons have never been very useful to us. (I mean, aside of the obvious fact of our not needing them because we have our own.) I don't like persimmons enough to eat several cases of them in the space of a month, N doesn't like them at all, and the thought of giving a ripe persimmon to Pata, who has yet to perfect her technique with a spoon, makes me shudder. All that is left is to cook or bake with them, but when only two or three are ripe at a time, it limits the possibilities.

This year something different has happened. All of them ripened within one week, too many persimmons to bake into cakes, even for someone who likes cakes as much as I do. This surfeit of persimmons reminds me of the time when N and I used to pick our own, already ripe, and more flavorful than those of the aunt, before her insistent gifts of them made ours redundant. If the fifty tiny wet-waste bags allotted by the comune every three months were any larger, I think I would just toss all the aunt's persimmons, out of spite.

Somehow this week I realized that persimmon pulp can be frozen. And that's a bit of what I've been doing lately, making persimmon pulp and freezing it so that I can use it later when I have the time or inclination. (If you want to see what else I've been up to, have a look at my sewing blog. There's a link in the sidebar, in case you haven't noticed.)

Interview

2010-10-16T18:22:00.008+02:00

I have a few new posts planned for the rest of this month, but the first is still a few days away. In the meantime, have a look at my recent interview by Catherine from Passage to Italy. It's about my experiences in moving to Italy. While you're there, check out Catherine's blog, in which she writes about her love of all things Italian and her pursuit of Italian citizenship.

'Medioevo Sotto le Stelle'

2010-09-07T15:32:00.003+02:00

('The Middle Ages Under the Stars.) Except that the historical period in question wasn't exactly medieval. Nor was it nighttime. Small matter, the pageantry on view in Sessa's Piazza Mercato last Saturday afternoon was thoroughly entertaining, despite the imprecision.

Drummers and Sbandieratori of the Gruppo Storico Marino Marzano

Medioevo sotto le stelle is a yearly event organized by Sessa's Gruppo Storico Marino Marzano. This year's production included performances by Sbandieratori (Flag throwers,) Pistolieri (Pistoleers,) and a reenactment of a battle between King Ferdinand I of Naples and the rebellious Duke Marino Marzano. Some photos:

The court of Ferdinand I (Ferrante) of Naples

Smoking Pistoliere

Loading ammunition

Preparing for battle

Swordfight

Gruppo Assalto La Rosa e la Spada

Medieval Bestiary: Beaver

2010-09-03T18:17:00.002+02:00

Hunter and beaver, thirteenth century, entrance porch, cathedral of Sessa Aurunca

Beavers live in the water and on land; they have coats of fur and fishy tails. They cut timber with their strong teeth, chopping down trees as though with steel. In rivers and in ponds, they construct castles of wood, working with great artfulness. They are hunted for their testicles, which make good medicine. Pursued by hunters, they castrate themselves to preserve their lives, and as they flee, cast their testicles behind them. If a beaver, already castrated, encounters another hunter, he climbs up to high place and stands on two legs to reveal that he has already forfeited that which the hunter seeks.

***

The small stone block with Hunter and beaver is located in the central bay of the cathedral porch, where it has been wedged into the northeastern corner at the springing of the vault. Judging from the pose of the beaver, who stands on his hind legs and folds his hands as though begging to be spared, this is not the first time he has encountered a hunter.

Gita Italiana

2010-08-22T19:58:00.000+02:00

Michelle of Bleeding Espresso has been celebrating Ferragosto with the Gita Italiana, a series of guest posts by Italy-themed bloggers, including today's post by me. The virtual tour, with stops all along the peninsula, continues through the end of the month. Don't miss it!

Cosmatesque Pavement

2010-08-14T18:46:00.004+02:00

Cosmatesque pavement, thirteenth century, Cathedral of Sessa Aurunca (click to enlarge)

Restoration in progress at the cathedral permits a rare unobstructed view of the pavement.

The adjective 'cosmatesque' derives from the name of a family of marble workers, the Cosmati, who worked in and around Rome in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. Their works, and the works of those who emulated their style, are characterized by geometric motifs formed of cut pieces of marble and other stones, like porphyry. The materials used were often spolia; the large circular slabs, for example, were sliced from ancient columns.

Medieval Bestiary: Lion

2010-07-30T17:46:00.003+02:00

Samson killing the lion, thirteenth century, façade, cathedral of Sessa Aurunca

The young of lions sleep for three days and three nights after they are born, waking only when they hear their father's roar. A lion's mane is the sign of his strength: if it is short and curled, he is weak; if it is long and straight, he is fierce. Surrounded by hunters bearing spears, a lion will gaze upon the ground to banish his fear and regain his courage. They sleep with their eyes open, ever watchful, and hide their tracks from hunters by obscuring them with their tails. They are full of mercy, sparing anyone who prostrates himself before them, and allowing freed captives to pass unharmed as they return home.

Lion, thirteenth century, façade, cathedral of Sessa Aurunca

The sculpted lions pictured above are just two of a numerous pride that inhabits Sessa's cathedral. Most of its members appear on the façade and the porch, where they stand, open-eyed (and open-mouthed,) as vigilant guardians, or spring to attack man or beast, or subdue their prey by trampling it beneath their feet. There is even a lioness who holds one of her cubs in her mouth while she suckles another. The choice of the lion as a central motif was perhaps an obvious one: the animal is a symbol of Sessa Aurunca, whose patron saint, Leo IX, himself bears its name.

In the Middle Ages, the lion could be an ambiguous symbol: while it often represented majesty or nobility (hence its appearance on thrones,) vigilance (as with the watchful lions of Sessa's façade,) and/or magnanimity, it was sometimes associated with sin. An example of this last, negative connotation is Samson killing the lion, which was considered a prototype for Christ's triumph over sin.

Summer

2010-07-15T14:16:00.005+02:00

A photo post because it's just too hot for me to concentrate on finishing any of the posts I've been working on for the last few weeks. (And if you visit the same expat site that I do, you know that I've already written quite enough in the last couple of days.)

Abandoned Cinquecento near Gagliardelle

Something about this photo says 'summer' to me, I think it's the color scheme and the overgrown grasses about to turn golden, but I wonder if the image isn't operating on a deeper level for me, evoking sensations of childhood summers I've mostly forgotten.

Ants!

2010-07-01T15:49:00.002+02:00

It seems that Pata has picked up on the revulsion I feel whenever I encounter insects, despite my best efforts to hide it.

But fear of ants and flies and bees (and all sorts of other icky little creatures) won't do for a campagnola (country girl) and N and I have been working on showing her how bugs can be simpatici (nice.)

It turns out that all Pata needed to know about ants to reconsider her position on them is that they bump heads when they meet one another. (Well, as long as they're at arms length. And not in the house. But it's a start.)

Cascina

2010-06-17T14:52:00.002+02:00

Chickens

My sister-in-law didn't have enough room in her house for all the guests who traveled north to celebrate her son's First Communion, so N, Pata, and I stayed at an agriturismo nearby. I appreciated the respite from, well, you know, and Pata enjoyed seeing the farm animals. The cascina itself was beautiful, but certain aspects of our stay left a lot to be desired. How is it than on a working farm the only milk on offer in the breakfast room was about-to-expire UHT in a tetrapak?

Hm.

An orderly field with some controversial red flowers in the foreground

Pig

Pig tail (calls this old post to mind)

Q & A

2010-06-16T15:49:00.005+02:00

"They live near the airport," the aunt tells me. She has been to N's sister's house before and considers herself an authority on it.

"Yes, I know. Linate," I say.

"No, the other one," says the aunt, derisively.

"Malpensa?" asks N, surprised.

"No," the aunt says, "the other one."

"Fiumicino?" he suggests, laughing.

"No, it isn't that one either," she says, refusing to acknowledge the joke.

A while later, she indicates a field of poppies and asks, "What are those flowers?"

Still annoyed, I hesitate to answer.

"They look like poppies," N tells her.

"Yes, they are," I say.

But the aunt is not convinced. "No. Those are not poppies," she says. "They are too small and too dark, and their petals look doubled."

"Maybe that's because they aren't completely open yet," I suggest.

The aunt, ignoring me, wonders aloud what they can possibly be.

I begin to doubt myself and spend the next few minutes squinting at distant red flowers. They are poppies.

Some time later, when we exit the highway, we come to a stop alongside a field of red flowers.

"Look," I say, glad to see them up close. "They're poppies."

"Yes, those are poppies," says the aunt, "but they aren't the same flowers."

In the evening, the aunt calls to me across the dinner table. "I know what airport it is," she says with a self-satisfied grin. "Linate."

All eyes on me, I cannot help myself. "Yes, that's what I told you," I say with a fake smile.

The next day she stops me as I pass her in the hallway. "I know what those flowers were," she tells me proudly.

"Oh, really?"

"They were poppies."

"Yes, that's we thought they were." I remind her.

I spend the rest of the day avoiding any conversation that begins with a question asked by the aunt.

Later we have dinner in a grand restaurant to celebrate our nephew's First Communion. The aunt wonders aloud whether there is too much cheese in the risotto.

It is perhaps the lightest risotto I have ever eaten. I tell her so. "It doesn't have very much cheese at all," I add.

"I don't eat much cheese and I know when something has a lot of cheese in it." she insists.

"But this doesn't," I tell her, despite the voice in my head singing, la la la la la la. I've had a long day of holding my tongue.

N turns to me and says, "She is saying that she is sensitive to the presence of cheese because she doesn't eat it."

"Does it seem like it has a lot of cheese to you?" I ask him. "Aunt," I tell her, "if you're that sensitive, a little will seem like a lot."

She will not hear of it. "This rice is creamy," she protests. "You can see the cheese!"

I have been waiting for this moment. This is a game I cannot help but play. I explain risotto to her. Her eyes are glassy by the time I get to the word amilopectina. (Let me say in my defense that I become a pedant only when someone refuses to acknowledge that I know a thing.)

N decides to take another tack. "Aunt," he tells her, "Karen often adds a lot of cheese to her risotto. She knows when there's a lot of cheese."

"Well, I wonder if they put too much cheese in this rice," she says, starting from the top.

My head hurts. I realize that that I'm allowing an excellent dinner to be ruined. "La la la," sings the voice in my head. I listen to it.

After dinner, one of the waiters brings a plate of cookies to Pata. Among them are five tiny meringues. The aunt picks one up and asks, "What is this?"

"La la la la la la," says the voice. I give a meringue to Pata, and then another.

"Mommy, these are good good," she says. She takes one from the plate and gives it to me.

Out of the corner of my eye I see the aunt staring quizzically at the meringue. She catches my sidelong glance. "Chissà che cos'è," she says. ("I wonder what it is.")

I've never been much for listening to voices. "I don't know what it's called in Italian, but in English it's a meringue," I tell her.

She looks at me as though I am an idiot.

Sigh. What was that song again? My mother-in-law, who was fascinated by my discourse on risotto, asks me how meringues are made.

"With egg whites-"

"We have that too," the aunt interrupts, "It's meringa. But this isn't a meringa," she says, shaking the meringue at me.

"Believe me, it is. I just ate one."

"No, this is something else," she tells my mother-in-law.

"It's a meringue," I say, just for the sake of it.

A few seconds later, the aunt pronounces the final verdict. Speaking with a mouth full of meringue, she announces, "This is a meringa."

I shrug my shoulders. "Se lo dici tu," I tell her, ("If you say so.")

Sewing blog

2010-06-15T15:35:00.004+02:00

At long last, I've made my sewing blog, Making as Meaning, public. (I write that as though it's an event of great importance.) You can view it here. Please remember that it's a work in progress! I've opened it up now only because I realized that if I didn't do it now, I never would.

Chocolate Cherry Clafoutis

2010-06-08T13:06:00.005+02:00

We didn't get many cherries this spring, though the birds up at Campo di Pere had a fine feast of them. I think I made three clafoutis last year, but this year I only had enough cherries to justify one. I decided that it had to be really special, hence the chocolate.

A clafoutis made with pitted cherries, like the one pictured above, is not traditional, but it is safer for a toddler to eat.

Ingredients:
1 lb or 500g cherries (pitted if you plan to share with a toddler, otherwise not)
4 eggs
3/4 cup sugar
1 cup milk
2 tsp. vanilla extract (or brandy)
3/4 cup flour
pinch of salt
4 oz. (115g) dark chocolate
1 oz. (28g) butter

Preheat your oven to 375°F (190°C). Butter a ten-inch pie pan.

In a small heavy saucepan or double boiler, melt the chocolate with the butter. Remove from heat and whisk in one of the eggs until well blended. Set aside.

In a large bowl, beat the remaining three eggs with the sugar until frothy. Add the milk and vanilla extract and beat until smooth. Stir in the flour and the salt, and blend well.

Combine the two mixtures and blend until smooth.

Spread the cherries in the bottom of the prepared pan. Pour the combined batter over them. Place the pie pan on a cookie sheet and bake at 375°F (190°C) for ten minutes. Reduce the temperature to 350°F (175°C) and bake until the top of the clafoutis is puffed, about 35-40 minutes. Cool on a rack for half an hour. Dust with powdered sugar before serving if desired.

San Giovanni a Villa

2010-06-07T12:13:00.016+02:00

San Giovanni Battista (or a Villa) from Gagliardelle

The church of San Giovanni a Villa was built in the thirteenth century, but it owes much of its present appearance to eighteenth-century renovations. I like to think that the unadorned geometry of its dome and presbytery recall at least some of the church's medieval aspect. (Gagliardelle is the name of the unfortunate piece of land described in this post. So for full effect, imagine the stench of untreated waste as you look at the photo above.)

Elettronica

2010-05-17T14:21:00.003+02:00

Wooden sign, centro storico (click to enlarge)

Sessa has quite a few old wooden shopfronts and signs, most of which are no longer in use. The one pictured above isn't the most beautiful or even the most interesting, but I'm particularly fond of it because of the disjunction between the style of the sign and the wares once on sale there. Note how the word 'stereo' at the left, hand-painted like the rest, runs off the raised rectangular panel into the contrasting border.

Biblia Pauperum

2010-05-12T17:55:00.003+02:00

(Gregory the Great's defense of images is one of my favorites.)

Among the writings of Gregory the Great (540-604) are two letters to Serenus, the bishop of Marseilles, who had instigated an episode of iconoclasm (the breaking of images) in his jurisdiction. Serenus' response does not survive, but the opening of Gregory's second missive suggests that the bishop was unapologetic. Gregory censures Serenus for his allegation that the first letter, and the legate who carried it, were fraudulent. Serenus had claimed that he thought it preposterous that the bishop of Rome should argue in favor of the use of images.

Iconoclasm in Christianity is often, (though not exclusively,) motivated by the prohibition of representational images found in the second commandment of the Hebrew Bible: "You shall not make for yourself a graven image, or any likeness of anything that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth." (Exodus 20:4) This proscription was based on fears of idolatry, which is made clear in the next verse: "You shall not bow down to them or serve them; for I the Lord your God am a jealous God..." (Exodus 20:5)

Christians developed an enduring tradition of religious imagery despite this, and while the reasons for that development are varied, the most important of them is perhaps that Christianity was born into an already image-rich culture. Romans had a long tradition of representational imagery and a practice of using images to communicate information. As the ranks of the early church swelled with pagan converts, the use of imagery became more acceptable, and more practical. (For more on the romanization of Christianity, see Peter Brown's excellent Cult of the Saints.) By the time Gregory the Great became pope, Christian representational art had existed for centuries.

It was partly on the basis of tradition that Gregory criticized Serenus' destruction of images:

"Tell us brother, have you ever heard of any other bishop anywhere who did the like? This, if nothing else, should have given you pause. Do you despise your brothers and think that you alone are holy and wise?"

Gregory then introduces a defense of religious images based on their didactic potential: "To adore images is one thing, to teach with their help what is to be adored is another." Note how he addresses the fear of idolatry, drawing an important distinction between the different ways in which pagans and Christians use images, i.e. Christians do not worship them. He continues, "What scripture is to the educated, images are to the ignorant, who see through them what they must accept; they read in them what they cannot read in books." Gregory then reminds Serenus that "this is especially true of the pagans," an important consideration for a bishop in Marseilles. He closes his letter enjoining Serenus to restore the destroyed images and "explain that it was not the sight of the story there related in a painted text that angered you, but the worship which had been paid to them illicitly."

Gregory's defense, sometimes summarized by the two words biblia pauperum (the bible of the poor,) became one of the most influential arguments in favor of the use of images in Christianity. In truth, it was not a thorough defense, as it's more easily applied to narrative imagery, like the fifth-century mosaic cycle at Sta. Maria Maggiore in Rome, than to iconic images, like the Madonna and Child or Christ as the Pantocrator. Moreover, it offers no defense of imagery aimed solely at literate elites, of the type Bernard of Clairvaux (1090-1153) inveighed against, when he wondered what use monks had of unclean apes and monstrous centaurs in the cloisters of their monasteries. But that's the subject of another post...

_________________

The text of Gregory's second letter quoted above appears in in Caecilia Davis Weyer, Early Medieval Art 300-1150 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2003) 47-49.

Diversion

2010-04-27T15:35:00.001+02:00

Examining a cement mixer, Borgo San Leo

We came upon this abandoned cement mixer in a tiny alley we had never walked down before. I was glad for it because it kept Pata busy while I explored. (She has a penchant for knocking on the doors of strangers, which I find incompatible with my desire to remain unnoticed while I take pictures of their houses.) Not finding anything interesting enough to photograph, I turned to tell her to follow me and realized that I'd just found yet another charming juxtaposition of new and old.

Turning the wheel

Castelforte

2010-04-26T15:49:00.004+02:00

Castelforte from Campo di Pere

N and I have finally admitted to ourselves that despite how busy or tired we are, we always feel better if we spend our free time outside the house and that a day spent doing nothing at home isn't actually more relaxing than going for a walk here in Sessa or exploring a nearby town. Carinola was the first of the places we've visited since deciding to set aside a few hours every Sunday to do something interesting, fun, or just different from what we usually do; Castelforte was the second.

Sculpted figure incorporated into a wall, centro storico

Torre Civica, eleventh century, centro storico

Detail of the Torre Civica

Passageway adjacent to the Torre Civica

Alley, centro storico

Mural with scene from the French occupation, centro storico
(Two companies from Castelforte fought with Fra Diavolo against Napoleon's troops)

Red door, blue paint, and Jesus, centro storico

Old doors and new doors, centro storico

Castelforte, situated at the foot of the Monti Aurunci in southern Lazio, has a small medieval quarter in the highest part of the town. Its most impressive monument is the eleventh-century tower; there is also a church dedicated to St. John the Baptist, originally dating to the thirteenth century but rebuilt after it was destroyed in World War II. (Castelforte was on the Gustav Line and was heavily bombarded by Allied troops in 1943-44.)

Pasquetta II

2010-04-23T15:19:00.004+02:00

With a considerable part of Pasquetta given over to religious devotion, the Sessani take another one the very next day, making the Tuesday after Easter Sessa's vera Pasquetta. N, Pata and I went up to Campo di Pere with some friends for un picnic, which N informs me always includes a cookout. (This cultural difference caused some confusion and even some consternation when I suggested packing some panini for the lunch up there.)

In the evening we returned to Sessa and took a passeggiata through the center of town, made unusually magical by the lights illuminating the Corso. Next we descended into the parking lot just outside the walls where every year a few carnival rides are set up. After a couple of turns on the carousel, we climbed back up to Piazza Mercato, bought some candied almonds from a candy maker's stall, and went home.

Some photos of Sessa's Tuesday Pasquetta:

Fire

Interrupted while eating Easter chocolate

Lights, Corso Lucilio

'Ballerina'

O' per e o' muss

Pasquetta I

2010-04-19T15:42:00.004+02:00

On the Monday after Easter the Sessani celebrate their two protectors, St. Leo and the Madonna del Popolo, with a grand procession through the streets of the historic center.

St. Leo and the Madonna del Popolo in procession

According to local legend, Pope Leo IX fled to Sessa Aurunca after the defeat of his army at Civitate in June 1053. He first concealed himself in a farmer's cottage near the eastern walls of the city, but his identity was soon discovered. Emerging from his hiding place, he was transferred with great ceremony to a monastery located in the area of the ducal palace. A nineteenth-century church now stands on the supposed site of the first part of his sojourn.

More reliable accounts maintain that Leo was taken prisoner by the Normans after the battle, and that he was held at Benevento for nine months, making his stay in Sessa impossible, unless he fled there before being captured. Sessa Aurunca is perhaps half the way to Rome from Civitate, and it seems unlikely that a successful flight that far would go unmentioned even in the briefest accounts of the battle and its aftermath. (I suppose it's helpful to remember that in hagiography, truth is often metaphorical rather than literal.)

St. Leo before the church of the Annunziata

The silver and bronze statue of the saint now carried in procession dates to 1982, when it was commissioned to replace an earlier effigy that had disappeared under very mysterious circumstances. The earlier statue had in turn replaced another, in silver, broken into pieces and divided among French soldiers looting the city in 1799.

The saint in profile

The Madonna del Popolo, Sessa's most venerated image, dates to the sixteenth century. The panel was transferred to the high altar of the cathedral from the church of Sta. Anna in the early seventeenth century when it began effecting miracles. The gilded frame and crowns that adorn it were added in the nineteenth century, the crowns in particular replacing earlier ones also stolen by the French.

Madonna del Popolo

Giovanni Maria Diamare, the sixty-first bishop of Sessa and chronicler of the city's history, invented a longer history for the painting (or perhaps he simply repeated the inventions of another.) Diamare claimed that the panel was of ancient origin and that it had been hidden in Sta. Anna to protect it from barbarian assault or iconoclasm. Fortunately for the Madonna del Popolo, it was never in any danger from either of the two, as its creation postdates both of them by several centuries.

Early April, Campo di Pere

2010-04-03T18:54:00.004+02:00

This morning we skipped Sessa's Holy Saturday processions and drove up to Campo di Pere instead.

Meadow and trees, Campo di Pere

Busy bees (click to enlarge)

Examining

Contemplating

View toward the northwest from Campo di Pere (Monti Aurunci in the distance)

Medieval Bestiary: Raven

2010-03-29T12:38:00.002+02:00

Raven, ca.1224-59, pulpit, cathedral of Sessa Aurunca

The young of ravens feed first upon the dew of heaven; born without black feathers, their mothers do not recognize them. Then, once their plumage darkens, their mothers recognize the blackness that mirrors their own, and nourish them assiduously. Eating of the corpse of a man, a raven first plucks out the eyes.

***

Ravens were ambiguous creatures in the Middle Ages because while their croaking was thought to be an evil portend, they play a positive role in the stories of Elijah, St. Anthony Abbot and St. Paul the Hermit, feeding those men while they were in the wilderness. They were moreover associated with preachers, which makes the raven pictured above an appropriate inclusion in the decorative program of the pulpit in the cathedral of Sessa Aurunca.

The Shock of the New

2010-03-23T17:53:00.003+01:00

Window and street lamps, Via S. Nicola

Lately I've become interested in documenting the juxtaposition of old and new that I see everywhere in Sessa. Above, electric wiring creates an almost decorative effect against the background of an old palazzo's crumbling façade. The style of the lantern affixed to the wall aims to evoke a historical moment similar to that in which the palazzo was built, but its visible wiring and light bulb give the game away. Suspended from a cable is a second street lamp, whose sleek modernity belies its older age and achieves greater formal harmony with the older architectural elements that surround it.

The OPOL Enforcer

2010-03-22T09:56:00.001+01:00

Me: Are you going to eat this last piece of salsiccia?

Pata: No, Mommy, that's a sausage.

***

N (wanting to practice English): What color is my hair, black or brown?

Pata: È marrone, papà! (It's brown, papà!)

Renaissance, Carinola

2010-03-18T15:50:00.005+01:00

Church of the Annunziata, Carinola

We went to Carinola after I read in a guidebook that there were some charming fifteenth-century houses and a Romanesque cathedral there. To be honest, I was more interested in the cathedral, despite my training in fifteenth-century art; I figured that at best the palazzi might have some handsome stone portals and window frames, but given the general quality of Romanesque churches in the area, the cathedral would be the most worthwhile part of our visit.

I wasn't at all prepared for what I found.

Window, ruined castle, Carinola

As I photographed the ruined castle that the guidebook hadn't mentioned, a man driving by on a scooter stopped to tell me that there was a small church down the street, and that if I wanted to see it, I should ask his mother, who had the keys. I doubted that I would because I was anxious to see the cathedral, but a house with what looked to be a medieval arch incorporated into its façade drew me halfway down the street, and from there, chasing after Pata brought me right to the steps of the church.

Oh.

Lunette with Annunciation, church of the Annunziata, Carinola.

Looking up, I saw, in the lunette of an elegantly simple portal, a faded fresco of the Annunciation, Renaissance in style. I've had a longstanding interest in the iconography of the Annunciation, and among the projects I abandoned when I left my old life for my new one was an examination of the semiotics of a few fifteenth-century Italian depictions of the theme. Every Annunciation I see reminds me of the euphoria of first conceiving of the idea, and the heartache of having given up such intellectual pleasures. Of all my abandoned projects, it is the only one that I could take up again at any moment. But I dither, and push it out of my mind, telling myself that working on it would get me nowhere.

While I trained my camera's lens on the portal, I overheard a conversation spilling out from the open windows of the house next door.

"Are they here? Has the signora arrived?"

"Who?"

"Yes, yes, she's already here."

I didn't realize they were talking about me until, looking away from the church, I saw N and Pata walking toward a very small, elderly woman holding a key in her hand.

Unlocking an old wooden door, she led us into a room adjoining the church, an oratory, I think. As she indicated the entrance to the church with a wave of her hand, a flood of memories came over me, memories of other churches and other keys, of anticipation and wonder at seeing something for the first time, and of frescoes, frescoes most of all. I remembered the sensation of my eyes poring over cycles whose scenes unfolded across entire walls of chapels while my heart beat impatiently, and fighting the inclination to glance hurriedly here and there because I couldn't wait to know what I'd find.

Inside the darkened church, I took a deep breath and scanned the walls of the nave for frescoes. And there they were: a couple of them fragmentary and faded, others darkened, and one completely unexpected.

Madonna and Child with Sts. Sebastian and Roche, church of the Annunziata, Carinola

Fictive marble, shadows "cast" by the painted framing pilasters, the figural style a bit clumsy and thin, but all of it beautiful enough, and so clearly fifteenth-century. And in the summit of the arch, in a lunette, an Annunciation.

(Someone was trying to send me a message that day.)

Outside the church, the woman, pleased with the tip that N had given her, told us we could come back whenever we wanted. As I photographed the bell tower against the blue sky, I contemplated new possibilities, and Pata stepped in a patch of wet cement. I washed her shoes in a fountain at the top of the street, and, back at the car, placed them in a sunny spot on the dashboard. We left them there to dry, deciding to walk around the town for as long as Pata would tolerate being carried.

We didn't get to see the Romanesque cathedral. It didn't matter.

Palazzo Petrucci, Carinola

2010-03-17T13:01:00.009+01:00

Some photos of Palazzo Petrucci, a fifteenth-century palazzo in the nearby town of Carinola:

Balcony in the cortile

Partial view of the façade, left, and entrance portal, right

Biforate window a croce guelfa in the main façade

Another view of the cortile balcony

(Longer post on Carinola to follow.)

On not giving a damn

2010-03-13T11:19:00.003+01:00

I've wanted to write a post on menefreghismo* for a long time, but the complexity of it has kept me from doing so. As I began to respond to the comments on my last post, I found that what I was about to write touched upon certain issues central to the topic, and I realized that posting my thoughts in response to some of the comments was a good opportunity for me finally to write something about it.

I won't address every point made in the comments, so I recommend reading them if you haven't already.

Karen, from South of Rome, related an episode from a lecture on Italian culture, in which the speaker presented photos of castle in Naples and asked the assembled group what they saw. When someone responded, "trash," the speaker, offended, wondered why Americans always focused on the trash, and not the beautiful monuments behind it. Miss Footloose of Life in the Expat Lane wrote of a slightly different encounter: she recalled hearing an obviously embarrassed Italian apologize for a nearby garbage heap.

Both of these comments reminded me of a conversation I once had my mother-in-law about foreigners' impressions of southern Italy, in which I mentioned that the dirtiness of the public spaces troubles many of us. She was surprised by that, and more than a little insulted, I think, and she told me that she had heard that there were dirty places in the United States too. "Well, of course there are," I responded, "but the dirtiness isn't omnipresent there, like it is here--." I stopped when I realized that telling her that trash-strewn streets in the United States tended to be associated with urban decay was only going to deepen the insult.

I remember asking N once why he never littered, when so many other people did. He told me that his parents had taught him that it was maleducato (ill-mannered). When considered in the light of her having taught her children not to litter, my mother-in-law's remark becomes the poignant confession of a civil person who, having lived for so long in the midst of so much incivility, is no longer able to imagine its opposite. I think this is what saddens me most about the neglect of public spaces here in the south, not the fact that trash-strewn streets and crumbing buildings are eyesores, but the destructive effect that they have on a person's psyche.

Public spaces are neglected because, as Audra, from that girl in italy, writes, there is a persistent belief among many in southern Italy that they belong to no one in particular. This is a historically determined belief, one that comes of past centuries of neglect and exploitation by rulers who often governed in absentia. In response to the chaotic no man's land that many Italians** found outside their doors, they turned inward and invested their energies in putting their households in order. It was a natural, logical, perhaps even intelligent response, but ultimately it had the effect of perpetuating the chaos. (The stark contrast between immaculate houses and the filthy streets they line that Amber of Care and Feeding of Wild Things mentions is just the (outdated) modern manifestation of that response.)

Of course there are those who reject the modern continuation of this (anti)social pattern. My mother-in-law taught her children not to litter. An anonymous commenter wrote that, as a child, she and her classmates participated in yearly cleanups of their town and learned the importance of caring for it. Why does the civility of people like these not prevail?

N, the man who will not litter, often reminds me that "ci sono furbi e ci sono fessi" (there are the clever, and there are the fools.) Furbizia, a cleverness based on cheating and scheming, fuels menefreghismo because it posits only two classes of people, the swindlers and the swindled. It prizes success achieved at the expense of others, absolving the swindler of any wrongdoing because it isn't his fault that the fool is what he is. For the fool, there is no absolution, only shame. Man is wolf to man. It's better to be the wolf.

In this paradigm, anyone who cares is a fool. Anyone who is civil, who does not litter, who pays all his taxes, who follows laws on principle, etc., is a fool. Menefreshismo derives all of its power from this, and it is the reason that it persists.

Notes:
*An attitude of not caring for anything or anyone outside an individual's small circle of family and friends
** I'm using this term as a shorthand, obviously the fact that Italy did not exist as a unified state before the nineteenth century is inherently important here.

Colpa Nostra

2010-03-10T13:04:00.005+01:00

Divieto di Scarico (No Dumping) Garbage accumulates next to the
newly restored convent of San Domenico. (Click to enlarge)

Siamo noi a non valorizzare quello che abbiamo. (We are the ones who do not turn what we have to advantage.)

That's a sentiment I've heard repeated often enough here that it has become a commonplace for me, and I was reminded of it when I came upon the trash heap pictured above while out on one of my walks around town.

If you read this blog regularly, you know that Sessa Aurunca has a Romanesque cathedral and the ruins of a Roman theater, quite a few beautiful churches, some very interesting architecture, and lots of spolia. I still haven't written about the castle, or even mentioned the Ponte Ronaco or the Cryptoportico, two structures dating from the Roman period. Outside the town, in the frazione of Rongolise, there is a small chapel with twelfth-century frescoes. There are several big restoration projects in progress, including the cathedral and the castle, with its civic museum.

I sometimes imagine a town like Sessa Aurunca in northern or central Italy, with good transportation links and some similar towns like it nearby. There would be fewer buildings crumbling from centuries of neglect, more shops and restaurants, a few hotels, and even tourists. I don't mean to suggest that tourism ought to be the the aim of every place of historical importance, and I admit that it changes the character of a place, but in a town without industry or enough commerce to provide jobs to a significant portion of its inhabitants, it could provide much needed opportunities for employment and revenue. All of this is an oversimplification, but it serves to make a point, albeit a rather cliched one, about the future prospects of broad swaths of the Mezzogiorno.

The truth is that castles and churches and evocative, narrow alleys with diaphragm arches overhead do not cancel out piles of trash and other similar signs of neglect. I understand the political and cultural circumstances that have historically determined the condition that so much of the south finds itself in. But I find it ever more difficult to accept that sort of explanation for the continued absence of a enough of a sense of civic responsibility (and pride) not to spoil what beauty is left. And I believe that if places like Sessa Aurunca never improve themselves, that absence will be the fault of it.

The Order of Things

2010-03-05T14:18:00.002+01:00

You might want to skip this one if you don't find (bilingual) toddler speech patterns absolutely fascinating.

Before Pata was born, N questioned my intention to speak to her in English. He feared that before going to preschool, she would speak more English than Italian, and that would make it difficult for members of his family to understand her. When he was unmoved by my suggestion that her being bilingual was worth a little of their inconvenience, I argued that as a young toddler, she probably wouldn't have many words anyway, and it wouldn't be difficult for his family to learn the few that happened to be English.

We were both wrong. Pata's vocabulary is very large: there must be at least a thousand words in it, and perhaps many more. (It's difficult to estimate how many because she seems to know the word for almost everything, and she assimilates new words immediately upon hearing them.) What I find most remarkable is that her words are almost evenly split between English and Italian, and that with very few exceptions, if she knows a word in one language, she knows the analogous word in the other one. This represents a significant change from the situation I described in this post six months ago, and for me it has been a completely unexpected development.

The equality between English and Italian in her vocabulary does not, however, extend to her syntax. She's been speaking in sentences in both languages for several months now, and as they've become longer I've noticed something interesting about her word order in English. More often than not, she places adjectives after the nouns they modify. A couple of recent examples:

"Be quiet you, Mommy, I want cookies chocolate!"

"It's eating carrot bunny little little, look at this, Mommy!" (Note the repetition of the adjective for emphasis.)

Both of these demonstrate another frequent quirk of her English: the placement of the subject after the verb. Here's one of my favorite examples of that:

"Broke it Pata."

I imagine that those of you who speak Italian perceive a certain logic in what's she's doing. In fact, one of my recent favorites:

"Oh no! Baby turtle! Leg this broke it, help us papà sticky-sticky put it on, Mommy,"

seems little more than a string of words in English, but makes more sense translated into Italian:

"Si è rotta la zampa (questa), ci aiuta papà la colla a mettere, Mommy."

(Just a side note, I didn't teach her "sticky-sticky" as an alternative word for glue, instead, not knowing that word, she simply invented her own, using her rule of repeating adjectives to create emphasis.)

So while English and Italian are equally represented in her vocabulary, it seems that Italian grammar has a stronger influence on her sentence construction. That doesn't surprise me at all given that she hears more Italian than English, and it reminds me of the sìsìhorse and the aquaplus, two (endearing) examples of her trying to make Italian sense of a couple of new English words.

Quarantana

2010-03-03T14:12:00.003+01:00

Another photo post because I'm feeling lazy and it seems I can't finish a few longer posts I've been working on.

Quarantana in Sessa's medieval quarter (click to enlarge)

I had no idea what these were until I read this recent post on Lenten traditions by Rowena of Rubber Slippers in Italy. I love this one because it looks like she's a recycled Befana.

Local color

2010-02-24T12:04:00.015+01:00

A silly title, I know. Yesterday Pata and I took advantage of some unexpected sunshine by wandering around the medieval quarter. I was struck by how much color we saw; I tend to think of Sessa as a rather cheerless place.

A rainy winter has left its green mark on the houses of Via Marconi

Orange and white cat, orange and white walls

A pink portal in the Catalan style (I believe)

A yellow and pink house with blue trim

A red coat reflected in slick black paving stones

She brings color with her wherever she goes and teaches me to see with new eyes.

Pompei

2010-02-19T11:55:00.002+01:00

If you're an anglophone Catholic in southern Italy, in the modern city of Pompei is a nice place to go for confession in English (especially if you happen to get an African priest, who will be very sympathetic to your nostalgia for more exuberant displays of faith than you find in the typical Italian mass.) The modern and roomy confessionals, located in the complex behind the church, line a u-shaped corridor that overlooks a simple but pretty glassed-in garden. I imagine it provides a peaceful setting conducive to examining your conscience if you don't happen to be chasing after a toddler intent on leaving a trail of raisins on the white marble floor.

Bell tower and Church of Our Lady of the Rosary, Pompei

The basilica, built in the late nineteenth century and expanded in the 1930s, is a site of pilgrimage, housing a venerated image of the Virgin at its main altar. Visiting the site is worthwhile for anyone interested in popular religious devotion, as thousands of ex-votos are displayed throughout the church and sanctuary complex.

Trumpeter Angel, Bell Tower

Part of the piazza in front of the church is given over to a well-tended green park with fountains and a reflecting pool, the low walls of which are the perfect height to allow toddlers very quick access to the water if their parents are not on high alert.

Piazza Bartolo Longo

Pata (with raisins) at the reflecting pool

(Fortunately, I knew just what that intense gaze meant, and we all stayed dry.)

Snow on Monte Massico

2010-02-12T11:06:00.003+01:00

View from Sessa Aurunca of a rare snow-dusted Monte Massico

Sessa Saturday: Pavement fragments

2010-02-06T12:13:00.006+01:00

Several of Sessa's churches were decorated with maiolica pavements, but of those only a couple are in good condition. The rest are fragmentary, having been worn away over the course of time. All that is left of the one in my parish church, the Annuziata, are some patches around the walls and piers, and behind the altar.

Church of the Annunziata, remains of maiolica pavement in the south aisle

Church of the Annunziata, traces of the maiolica pavement in the north aisle

The Annunziata pavement dates to the eighteenth century and may have been the work of the dei Massa of Naples. For an example of a well-preserved maiolica pavement, see this post by Laura of Ciao Amalfi about a particularly impressive one in Anacapri.

With this post I am retiring the Sessa Saturday feature. I started it just under a year ago to get back into the discipline of blogging after a long hiatus, and to try to make myself feel more positive about living in Sessa Aurunca. It served the first purpose well, the second, perhaps less so, but I think it has outlived its usefulness. I will continue to write about Sessa, I just won't be following a schedule.

Nutella Incognito, (a.k.a Grilled Nutella)

2010-02-05T15:30:00.009+01:00

There's nutella hiding in there!

This is a good way to eat Nutella when you aren't alone, but don't want to share.

1. Announce to your companions that you will be serving grilled cheese.

2. Assemble the grilled cheese sandwiches in the way that you prefer.

3. Spread a generous, but reasonable, amount of Nutella on a slice of the same kind of bread used in step 2. Place a second slice of bread on top of the spread nutella. Remember that a) whole grain bread will make your Nutella Incognito more "healthy," and b) using too much nutella will cause it to ooze from the sandwich while you eat it, making it much less "incognito."

4. Melt a pat of butter in a frying pan. Gently place the nutella sandwich in the pan. Ignore the urge to tamp down on it with a spatula. Cook on each side only until lightly browned. If you are cooking it together with the cheese sandwiches be careful not to confuse it with them.

5. Depending on how perceptive your companions are, you may want to cut the Nutella Incognito into halves. I cannot recommend this, but I know that each of us is comfortable with differing levels of risk.

6. If you do decide to cut it into halves, cut it into triangles, which taste better than rectangles.

7. Eat carefully so as to avoid leaving tell-tale Nutella deposits around your mouth or on your chin or hands.

World Nutella Day, now in its fourth year, is hosted by nutellaphiles Michelle of Bleeding Espresso and Sara of Ms. Adventures in Italy.

Happy World Nutella Day!

Sessa Saturday: Portal

2010-01-30T12:54:00.008+01:00

Stone portal, Via Ferranzio

Detail of dentilated sculptural decoration

"Means"

2010-01-27T11:55:00.004+01:00

Lest you get the wrong idea about Pata from yesterday's post (her yelling "basta, basta!" at her crying doll,) I just wanted to mention that she is typically very sensitive to the feelings of others, perhaps unusually so for a two-year-old. She cannot bear to see anyone mistreating anyone else, and this applies as much to fictional beings as to real people. One example: Hugga Wugga, a Muppet Show sketch that I find brilliant, but that Pata refuses to watch because the steam-blowing main character is "means:"*

*I wonder if "means" results from confusion with the third person singular of the verb "to mean," or if Pata has tried to amplify the adjective "mean" by attempting to make it plural.

Medicalization begins at home

2010-01-26T11:29:00.001+01:00

A month or so before Christmas, there was advertisement on television for a doll called Nenuco Bagnetto, which shivers and blows bubbles from her nose when placed in water. I haven't been able to find a recording of it, so you'll have to trust my memory. The ad begins with a scene of two girls giving the doll a bubble bath while the jingle narrates:

La bimba è contenta nel bagnetto,
Ma quando la tiri fuori prende freddo!

(The baby is happy in the bathtub,
But when you take her out she catches cold!)

Then the doll blows bubbles from her nose and one of the girls says, "Accidenti! È raffreddata!" (Darn it, she has a cold!)

Convinced that colds are caused by a virus, I thought that was all kind of funny (and rather Italian, though it turns out that the toymaker, Nenuco, is Spanish.) My amusement failed to prepare me for what happens next, which was alarming enough the first time I saw it, that I resolved to pay careful attention to the ad the next time, (hence the well-remembered first part.)

The second girl appears wearing a white doctor's coat and wielding a syringe while the jingle continues:

Con una puntura, guarira!

(She'll get better with a shot!)

The rest of ad is a fog. That scene proved so startling even on successive viewing that my "Oh my God!" reaction got in the way of processing whatever may have come next.

***

I thought of Nenuco Bagnetto when my mother-in-law gave Pata Cicciobello Bua (bua may be roughly translated as boo-boo) for her birthday. Poor Cicciobello Bua cries and has bright red cheeks, requiring that he be examined with the stethoscope and instant-read ear thermometer included in his package. The diagnosis? La febbre (a fever!) Curing him requires a giving him a combination of medicines, i.e. brightly-colored liquids in color-coordinated baby bottles, and sticking him in the rump (in a predetermined spot where there's a sensor) with a syringe. The upside is that batteries aren't included.

For several days Pata was content to drag a silent Cicciobello by one of his legs around the house, dropping him on his head whenever she happened to spy something more interesting. Then one evening N asked, "Where's the doll my mother bought for Pata?"

Fearing what was about to happen, I tried to be vague. "On the floor somewhere, I imagine," I told him.

Pata must have sensed that something was up because she appeared instantly, holding Cicciobello in her upraised hands. "Eccolo qui (Here he is,)" she said, offering him to N.

N looked the doll over, then asked me, "he doesn't have batteries yet?"

"Well," I said, shrugging, "I've been so busy I haven't had the time."

"Oh, you should have told me. I'll put them in now," he said.

Sigh.

It turns out that Cicciobello is a high need baby, and in very delicate health. As far as I can tell, he is out of sorts whenever he's been switched on, and other than guessing the correct regimen of colorful baby bottles and injections, the only way to quiet him is to put his succhiello (pacifier) in his mouth. Pata, having very little experience of any of those things, hasn't quite proven to be up to the challenge of caring for him. "Basta! Basta! (Enough! Enough!)" I often heard her yelling at him in the day or two before we decided that everyone would be happier if he were permanently switched off.

***

I appreciate that dolls like these can encourage children to imagine that they are doctors.* I know that when children play with toys, they often don't follow the scripts suggested by the toymaker, or even their caregivers, but I wonder if giving them syringes to "cure" their dolls' runny noses or red cheeks isn't sending a dangerous message. So many parents jump to medicate their children at the first sign of a sniffle, and toys like these normalize and reinforce that kind of misguided behavior. Toys aren't just playthings; they're also cultural artefacts that seek to communicate and inculcate prevailing values. And that's why I find these two dolls so disturbing.

*Note how the second page I linked calls Cicciobello Bua "il bambolotto per le piccole dottoresse" (little [female] doctors.) You know, because boys aren't supposed to play with dolls, and anyway, if a boy wants to grow up to be a doctor he doesn't need to practice on a doll like a girl does. Yuck.

Sessa Saturday: Playground

2010-01-23T13:26:00.000+01:00

Playground, Villa Comunale

Another view of Sessa's Villa, not quite as appealing as last week's.

Sessa Saturday: Fountain

2010-01-16T15:57:00.004+01:00

Fountain, Villa Comunale

Sessa's Villa Comunale (town park) has been uncharacteristically clean over the last few months (I guess I'm too much of a pessimist to believe that it has changed its character,) so I've been incorporating it more often into our walks around the center. Pata's favorite feature is the fountain, which does little more than spurt water from metal pipe lodged in a mound of moss-covered stones, but a very small person standing close enough to the balustrade will get splashed in the face, and I'm sure that's the draw.

Pescocostanzo

2010-01-15T08:57:00.001+01:00

N, Pata and I spent a few days between Christmas and New Year's in the town of Pescocostanzo, in Abruzzo. We went there hopeful for snow, but found very little of it, as days of heavy rains had washed most of it away before we arrived. But we had little choice in the timing of our trip, and we tried to make the best of it, (which wasn't easy, considering that it continued to rain almost constantly while we there.)

On the only sunny morning, we drove up into the mountains and stopped at the first patch of snow large enough to pull Pata around in a sled.

Don't be fooled by her expression. That snowball (which is pronounced "no ball" if you're wondering) was dear enough to her that it rode with us all the way to Sulmona, where I succeeded in prying it from her hands only because she had fallen asleep.

View of Pescocostanzo

Pescocostanzo is an elegant town with an interesting history and some very fine architecture. Though I'd been there three times before, this visit was the first time I was able to get a good look at the town. The photos that follow would have benefited from blue skies but I was just delighted that it stopped raining long enough for me to get my camera out.

Santa Maria delle Colle

Long view toward Santa Maria delle Colle

Typical street

Sant' Antonio Abate

The town is full of interesting architectural details. These were two of my favorite:

Doorway

Window with lintel engraved "Chi sa" "Who knows"

Most of the town is a pedestrian zone, which is always a joy with small children, especially if you have a runner like we do. Pata enjoys going for a stroll, or passeggio, as she prefers to call it, but she doesn't care much for holding hands. We're working on that, but in the meantime it was a relief to be in a place where we didn't have to worry about cars. And Pata, feeling free to be herself, had a great time.

Pata on the Strada Vulpes

More fun with bath toys

2010-01-11T12:23:00.013+01:00

Yesterday morning, Pata was poking around in her bag of sea creatures while I cleaned the bathroom. "Popilo!" she cried as soon as she saw the octopus.

I think that sometimes toddlers mispronounce words in ways that improve them, and this is certainly the case with popilo, which I find far more endearing than polipo.

"That's an octopus," I told her, reminding her of the English word she prefers not to use. (Honestly, with popilo as the alternative, I can't blame her.) "And what color is the octopus?"

"Blue!"

"Yes, that's a blue octopus!"

"Blue acquaplus," she repeated, nodding solemnly.

(See above about toddler mispronunciations.)

"Pata, it's oct-o-pus," I corrected, repeating the word slowly.

"Oh," she said thoughtfully, and added, "Altropus!"

"Oct-o-pus," I repeated once again, but by then she had already moved on to the clam.

Sessa Saturday: Spoliate Stelae

2010-01-08T14:58:00.019+01:00

Two Roman stelae bearing dedicatory inscriptions, Corso Lucilio

The pair of stone slabs pictured above are two of four that have been incorporated into the walls of a seventeenth-century structure (the former Convento dei Crociferi) on the Corso Lucilio. The stela on the right is the more famous of these two. It was dedicated to Matidia Minor (c. 80-after 161 CE,) an influential and well-connected noble Roman woman, by the citizens of Minturnae. At Sessa, Matidia paid for repairs to the theater after damage caused most likely by an earthquake. The slab on the left is a simple funerary dedication by one Firidia Naige to her husband, L. Domitius Iustus.

For the lovers of epigraphy among you, a transcription of the inscriptions:

1.) D M S/ L DOMITIO/ IUSTO/ FIRIDIA NAIGE/ CONIUGI BENE/ M F

2.) MATIDIAE/AUG FIL DIVAE/NEPTI DIVAE SABINAE/ AUG SORORI/ IMP ANTONINI AELII/ AUG PII PP MATERNAE/ MINTURNENSES DD

Mitten ornament

2009-12-19T18:04:00.001+01:00

I make an ornament for Pata every Christmas. This year I hoped to make a gingerbread man from some old corduroy but I had to abandon the project because it was just too difficult to work with, given the size of the pattern I had made. (I guess I have a history of using fabrics that aren't perfectly suited to what I want to do.) After the frustration of the impossible gingerbread man, I knew I wanted to make something simple, and a pair of mittens I had just made for Pata inspired me to make this.

Earlier ornaments appear here and here.

Update

2009-11-25T16:19:00.001+01:00

I've been neglecting the blog, and I apologize for that. I haven't felt much like writing because I've been in a funk, and I've been very busy too, working on several winter and holiday sewing projects. I will be posting more regularly, but at a reduced pace, over the next couple of months. Between now and the beginning of February, N, Pata and I have all of our onomastici and birthdays, which, together with the holidays, will leave little time for blogging.

A couple of recent projects:

Velvet wreath

Table runner (sorry about the very crappy photo!)

(For those of you who are curious about the sewing projects, I'll be writing about them in more detail on my other blog, which I'll make public soon.)

Some photos from a recent trip to Sperlonga:

Code Mixing

2009-11-10T16:05:00.004+01:00

Yesterday morning, Pata was playing with her bath toys. As she pulled each one from the mesh bag that holds them, I asked her for their names.

"Pinguino," she said, holding the penguin up for me to see.

"That's a penguin," I told her, in the nth futile attempt to teach her the English word.

She placed the pinguino on the edge of the tub and rooted around in the bag for a few seconds before drawing out another animal.

"Oh, what's that, I asked?

"Duck! Quack quack." She said, placing it next to the penguin.

"Ooh! Ooh!" she cried, looking into the bag. She pulled out a seahorse, and without my prompting, exclaimed, "Questa...caba...caba luccio (cavalluccio)!"

"Oh, that's a seahorse," I said.

"Oh, horse!" she repeated. Then she neighed.

"No, it's a seahorse," I told her, "it doesn't make that sound. Seahorse. Say, seahorse."

"Oh, sì sì (yes). Sìsìhorse!"

I decided to let that one go. It was too cute to be corrected.

Sessa Saturday: Dome

2009-11-07T08:01:00.001+01:00

The dome of Santissima Annunziata from Piazza Ercole

This is a photo I've been saving for a post on Sessa's tiled domes, but given the seemingly unending inclement weather we've been experiencing here, I felt the need to post something with blue sky in it.

Sessa Saturday: Closed-up Arch

2009-10-31T16:12:00.003+01:00

Arch, Via Taddeo de Matricio

I had hoped to post something else today but I didn't get a chance to go to the cathedral this week to get a photo of it. This arch is located near our house, and I've been told that the wall that it once opened was part of a (now ruined) convent garden. It carries a date of 1595, with each five carved as an ess.

Pink

2009-10-29T15:34:00.001+01:00

Pata showing off her new wrap jacket and matching trousers

Pata's newest mama-made outfit was inspired by the "Make it Pink" contest, which I think is a fun way to raise money for breast cancer research. It's open only to residents of the United States and Canada, so I couldn't participate, but I thought it might be nice to make some pink clothes for Pata and post photos of them here in honor of Breast Cancer Awareness Month.

While I had a few projects planned, I managed to complete only one, as this October has proved to be a particularly trying month for me and I just didn't have the time or energy to do more. But I think this outfit turned out very well. I made it in memory of Pata's namesake, my mother, who died of breast cancer thirty years ago, at the age of thirty-seven.

October, Campo di Pere

2009-10-28T16:35:00.002+01:00

Some photos I took at Campo di Pere earlier in the month, when we went up there to check on our olives:

Olive trees

Olives

Pata

View towards Gaeta (the promontory at left on the far side of the bay)

View of Sessa Aurunca

Sessa Saturday: Pulpit

2009-10-24T10:31:00.003+02:00

View of Pulpit (and Paschal Candelabrum,) ca. 1224-59, cathedral of Sessa Aurunca

The pulpit in the cathedral of Sessa Aurunca is the largest and most ornate of the works created there by the thirteenth-century masters Pellegrino and Taddeo. Its basic form, an enclosed rectangular platform supported by columns, was fairly common during that century, but its elaborate decoration, carried out in sculpted and inlaid marble, sets it apart from the several pulpits to which it is related stylistically.

South side of the pulpit, with polygonal projection for lectern

The reader's platform (Sessa's pulpit is actually an ambo, which is dedicated to the reading of the gospels rather than to the preaching of sermons) is decorated with intricate mosaics depicting geometrical and animal motifs. The most delicate of these appear on the pulpit's south side, where the location of the lectern is marked by a polygonal projection into the nave.

View of east face of pulpit

A sculpture of an eagle clutching a human figure entwined in a serpent's tale appears on the pulpit's east side, which faces the choir. The motif is not an unusual one for a Campanian pulpit, and it represents the triumph of the gospels over sin.

Detail of mosaics of the north side of the pulpit

The mosaics of the northern panels differ somewhat from those on the other three sides of the pulpit. Here the geometric decoration is largely confined to interlacing bands that frame small figural compositions. These are dominated by images of birds, which appear singly, like the pelican (a symbol of Christ) at the center of panel pictured above, or in groups of two or more, perched within orderly tangles of vines spiraling outward from fountains, symbols of paradise.

Prophet

The reader's platform is supported by an arcade, and in the spandrels of its eastern and western arches are sculptural depictions of classical sybils and biblical prophets. They symbolize the time before the New Covenant of the Christian era, and their placement beneath the platform from which the Gospel is read is a visual statement that they have been supplanted as sources of authority on things divine.

Capital with human figures

The capitals of the columns are ornately carved, with dynamic human figures who threaten to break free of their leafy habitat. Some of them are accompanied by animals, both real and imaginary. The classicizing treatment of these tiny people and beasts provides a contrast with the decorative style of the pulpit mosaics, which instead are influenced by Byzantine and Islamic art.

Column-bearing lion

The columns of the arcade rest upon the backs of six lions, who turn their expressive faces toward the nave. The upper parts of their bodies have been worn smooth, but the legs in particular reveal a detailed and vigorous treatment of their anatomy. It is the presence of these lions that most distinguishes the Sessa pulpit from others of its type, in which the shafts of the columns customarily rest upon simple bases.

For more sculptural details, see the following bestiary posts: cat, dragon, owl, whale, and wolf.

(I apologize for the poor quality of some of the images in this post. It's usually rather dark in the cathedral.)

La Dolce Attesa

2009-10-22T16:23:00.001+02:00

I didn't write very much about the medical care I received while pregnant here, other than a couple of posts about my condescending and inflexible doctor and a particularly absurd episode in obtaining and paying for a ticket (something like a referral.) I kept the more negative aspects of it to myself because they were so upsetting that the experience was enough for me; I didn't want to write about it too. I've written nothing about Pata's birth except to mention that it happened, and I doubt that I'll ever expand on that. I spent the first few months of her life doing the mental work of separating her from her birth so that I'd never have to look at her and remember it, and now I prefer to leave it undisturbed in the dark place where I've stored it away.

Michelle of Michellanea, whose son was born just a couple of weeks after Pata, found a much more beneficial (and, I suspect, empowering) way of dealing with her negative pregnancy and birth experience: she wrote a book about it. I think that what she has done is immeasurably important because so many aspects of what she experienced (and I and countless other woman experience in Italy) are simply unacceptable, and even shameful. Michelle is currently looking for a publisher for her manuscript, but part of it has been excerpted at the online magazine Guernica with the title "Under the Milanese Bureaucracy," It makes for compelling reading. If you haven't already read it, please do, and please spread the word about it. It's a book that needs to be published.

Sessa Saturday: Monte Massico

2009-10-17T07:21:00.000+02:00

View of Monte Massico from Sessa Aurunca

I think that Monte Massico looks like a giant sea seamonster that came ashore at Mondragone and, slithering inland until its head reached Sessa, grew tired, fell into a deep and heavy sleep, and turned to stone.

The Right Word

2009-10-15T18:09:00.007+02:00

A couple of days ago, Pata played in the kitchen with her little toy bat as I cooked dinner. Holding him by his wings, she shook him up and down. "Vola!" she said, "Vola Vola!"

"Oh," I asked her, "is Bruno flying?"

"Bruno!"

"Bruno is a bat," I told her, "say bat."

"Vola!" she said.

The next morning she found Bruno on the bedroom floor. "Pipistrello," she said, carefully pronouncing the four-syllable word.

"That's right!" I told her. A word that big coming from a toddler's mouth deserves recognition, whether in the right language or not.

Later, she played with her bath toys beside the tub as I showered. She arranged them on the floor, saying their names in Italian: pesce (fish,) popilo (polipo, octopus,) pinguino (penguin.) Then she put one on the edge of the tub.

"Oh, what is that? I asked, pointing to the grinning, hot pink sea creature she had placed there.

"Crab," she said.

"That's right," I said, smiling."Crab."

Recent sewing projects

2009-10-13T16:56:00.005+02:00

I've been busy working on several projects lately, most of them involving decluttering and redecorating the house, but a few of them have been sewing autumn clothes for Pata.

Bell-sleeved embroidered peasant blouse

Bell sleeves are not the wisest choice for toddler shirts, but they are pretty. I bought this fabric at a market in Naples and payed more than I think it was worth (10 Euro for one meter,) but I liked the embroidery and figured that even if I only made a couple of things from it, it was still a bargain.

Peasant blouse and corduroy dress

I bought the fabric for this peasant blouse while I was in New York over the summer. The corduroy for the dress came from a pair of N's old trousers. I drew the pattern myself. It has a zipper in the back, but it's unlined because, well, I'm completely self-taught and haven't yet learned how to do a lining and a zipper together. I'm very pleased with this outfit because it reminds me of the sort of clothes I used to wear as a girl.

Sessa Saturday: Torre "di Transo"

2009-10-10T08:20:00.001+02:00

Torre "di Transo," ca. 1200, Sessa Aurunca

The Torre "di Transo" is the shorter of Sessa Aurunca's two medieval towers, but despite its low proportions, it is the more elegant of the two, in large part because of its fine triforate* window. It overlooks Piazza Tiberio Massimo, believed to be the site of the forum during Sessa's Roman incarnation.

Triforate window, Torre "di Transo"

For the other tower, the Torre di San Biagio, see this post.

*having three openings

Sessa Saturday: Dragon Riders

2009-10-03T07:26:00.000+02:00

Two human figures astride a pair of dragons, thirteenth century,
detail of the central portal of the cathedral of Sessa Aurunca

Ask the Art Historian: Your Questions Answered, Part 2

2009-10-02T10:22:00.010+02:00

I hope that today's answers will prove as satisfying as yesterday's was. I'll begin with Gil's question. He wrote, "I always wondered how they moved the gigantic marble statues without breaking them??"

Very slowly! It took days to move Michelangelo's David from his workshop to the Piazza della Signoria. To be honest, I don't know much about how finished statues were moved, but I do know that the marble blocks they were carved from were transported overland on oxcarts. (Obviously, if the distance was great, boats would be used to whatever extent possible. Inside the quarry, the blocks were moved on a sled-like contraption called a lizza.) I think it likely that completed statues were transported on oxcarts much like the marble blocks were. If a statue were destined for an elevated location (remember that the David was originally commissioned to decorate the north tribune of Florence's cathedral,) it would have been hoisted into place by a crane, which was basic building technology even in the middle ages.

Kataroma asked, What is the difference between the babies with wings in all the Renaissance paintings (putti I think?) and the baby heads with wings (which have a different name)? What are they? Baby angels?

Kataroma is right that those chubby, nude, babies are called putti (sing., putto.) Putti may be winged or not, and may appear in both secular and religious imagery. They derive from classical art and are related to images of Eros and of genii, spirits associated with places.

In fact, this classical association (putti are a Renaissance revival) complicates their iconography, because a putto true to his origins would be a rather cheeky little imp, not the sort of being a saint would want to share a canvas with. But in practice, the attributes of putti were not fixed and it is often impossible to distinguish between putti and cherubs (small angels) even when looking at images with a religious subject matter.

The question of the winged heads is complicated by the same issues. They may be putti heads, or they may be cherubs. (When I say cherubs, I mean the sort of pudgy little angel that appears in Renaissance art, but not cherubim, which traditionally do not resemble putti at all.) It wouldn't really be a mistake to call them by either of those terms.

And now for Peter of italyMondo!, whose curiosity was piqued by my suggestion of "Why are the naughty bits on Greek sculptures always so small?" as a potential question, (and for those of you who weren't brave enough to ask:)

Because otherwise they would have been grotesque or barbaric, and perhaps even comical.

I think a short answer suffices for this one.

***

Some of you may remember that at the end of my first Ask the Art Historian post, I explained why the Virgin Mary traditionally appears in blue. (Click here if you need to refresh your memory.) My good friend RMH of Postcards from Istanbul, who happens to be a medievalist, adds that in Byzantine art, Mary was typically dressed in a Byzantine nun's habit, hence the color and style of her garments. Thanks, Reb!

Do you have any questions about the history of art? Post them in a comment and I may answer them in my next Ask the Art Historian feature!

Ask the Art Historian: Your Questions Answered, Part 1

2009-10-01T08:10:00.006+02:00

I've decided to divide my answers to your questions into two posts, because one of them is quite long (probably much more so than the person who asked it hoped it would be!) and I remember from my teaching days that there is an art history saturation point, and that most people reach it long before I do. So I'll be answering one question today, and the remaining three tomorrow.

Today's question came from Kelly, who asked, Could you address the plethora of skull and cross bone symbols in the art and mosaics of the churches all over southern Italy?

I have little experience of southern Italy art outside of Naples, so I haven't seen very much of the imagery that Kelly has noticed. However, I can give some background on the various meanings that skulls and bones have in Christian art and ritual, which might provide some context for the motif as it appears in churches.

I'll start at the very beginning. Early Christians believed their saints' physical remains to be especially holy, and a link between heaven and earth. These remains, or relics, as they are called, were kept in special containers, or reliquaries, the earliest of which were boxes, often covered in ivory or gilt. Over time they became increasingly elaborate. They sometimes took on the shape of the bones within them, like this one, or even aimed to suggest the likeness of the saint, such as that of St. Foy at Conques. Later reliquaries were often made of glass, which has the benefit of making their relics visible to the believer.

In churches, these relics were conserved at altars, and beneath them, in crypts. In 787, Council of Nicea decreed that relics were necessary for the consecration of altars, but of course the practice existed in some places long before that. Throughout Italy, it's not unusual to see glass reliquaries, or even glass coffins, containing skeletal remains of saints, at the altars of churches. The arrangement of the relics within them depends on the size and shape of the container and the bones in question, and sometimes they appear in a skull and cross bones formation. There is a glass reliquary like that on the main altar of Sessa's cathedral.

Human bones have also been used to decorate the walls of chapels and crypts in some Catholic churches, as at Sta. Maria della Concezione in Rome. I think it likely that this practice originally grew out of the need to inter as many bodies as possible in a limited space. That's not to say that aesthetics or the desire to move the spectator or teach him a lesson do not play a significant role. The bones, artfully arranged and appearing in such great quantities, draw the viewer's attention, remind him of the inevitability of death, and invite him to repent. (It's a particularly efficient solution because it responds to the need to conserve space, and in doing so, creates a powerful imagery in which medium and message are one and the same.)

As reminders of death, bones, and skulls in particular, were often used to express the idea of memento mori (Latin, remember that you must die) in the visual arts. To this end, skulls sometimes appear in images of saints, in particular, the penitent ones, like Jerome and Mary Magdalen, and are sometimes combined with other symbols of mortality, like candles and hour-glasses. Skeletons and decomposing corpses often appear in funerary art: transi tomb scultpures and the frescoed skeleton beneath Masaccio's Trinity in Sta Maria Novella are just two examples. Here too they are meant to express the concept memento mori. I am wondering whether some of images of the skull and cross bones that Kelly has seen appear on tombs. If so, they are related to this type of imagery.

Bones may also appear in narrative images, where their meaning depends on the story that's being told. One example is the Crucifixion, in which a skull, sometimes with cross bones, occasionally appears at the foot of Christ's cross. It refers to the name of the site where he was believed to be crucified, Golgotha, which means the "place of the skull." Golgotha was thought to be the place where Adam, the Biblical first man, was buried.

This is by no means an exhaustive discussion of the contexts in which skulls and cross bones may appear in Christian art. But I think it safe to say that where the motif does appear, it is informed by one or more of the traditions outlined above. Kelly, I hope that this answers your question, at least in part.

Memory

2009-09-28T09:26:00.003+02:00

My mother died thirty years ago today. She was thirty-seven years old. That's how old I am now. If I remember correctly, it was a Friday. My father told us as he drove us home from school. The image of the intersection we waited to cross as he said the words is burned in my memory. Later he sent me to a friend's house to play. When I told her what had happened she said she already knew, and I had the uneasy sensation that she had known even before I did.

I remember the wake: the crowded room, my mother's gold-embroidered gown, her cold face. I saw my father sitting on the edge of a table swinging his legs beneath him, the way children do. "My father is like a little boy," I thought. I wore a green dress to her funeral, a source of shame until adulthood, when a therapist kindly pointed out that a seven-year-old could not have been expected to have funeral-appropriate clothes in her wardrobe. "Yes," I said, "but she had been sick for a long time--" "No," he interrupted, shaking his head.

I was old enough to understand the finality of death but not to accept it. One day after it was all over, I don't remember exactly when, I told my father, "I want Mommy back." At school, the third-grade teacher badgered me for weeks for an absence note. Finally, her patience exhausted, she asked me why I never brought it. I told her we didn't have paper. Incredulous, she announced it to the class. When everyone laughed, I screamed, "You're all idiots!" and ran from the room, the beginning of my life as an outsider. Was it really that difficult for an adult woman to imagine chaos in the aftermath of a mother's death? Perhaps a couple of sentences scribbled on a piece of paper torn from a steno pad would have sufficed for her, but to me, a letter written on anything other than proper stationery would have constituted a public admission that my life had changed irrevocably, and not for the better.

(I often wonder whether the darker aspects of my personality depend on my having grown up without a mother or on having learned so young that the world is such a nasty and brutish place.)

My greatest fear is that I will die young, like my mother, and leave Pata with the heavy, inescapable sorrow of a child who knows that after a nightmare or a scraped knee, or a bad day at school, there is no comforting mother's embrace. I imagine my mother's anguish as she confronted that reality and my heart breaks for her.

Mommy, the decades that pass without you will never cancel out the seven years we were together, whether my memory of them fades or not, nor can they ever make me doubt how much you loved me.

Sessa Saturday: Mini-Disputà

2009-09-26T14:30:00.007+02:00

The Doctors of the Church with Sts. Stephen, Lawrence, and Dominic,
Chapel of the Holy Sacrament, Cathedral of Sessa Aurunca (click to enlarge)

I first noticed this painting in the cathedral a few weeks ago, and since then I've only been able to do the most cursory research, which has turned up nothing about it. I was drawn to it by the presence of St. Dominic, the tonsured figure in black and white who appears just to the left of the center. (Those of you who follow this blog may remember that I specialized in Dominican art.) Seated with Dominic are the four (Latin) doctors of the Church: Ambrose of Milan, who wears a gold bishop's mitre; Gregory the Great at the lower left, identifiable by his papal tiara; a swarthy Augustine of Hippo at the lower right; and finally, Jerome, appearing in his usual cardinal's robes. At the head of the table is a saint I cannot identify, but his mitre reveals that he is a bishop. Standing to the left and right of the seated group are Sts. Stephen and Lawrence, who are identified by their robes and by the instruments of their martyrdoms, the stone in Stephen's case, and in Lawrence's, the grill.

The hand gestures made by Dominic and Gregory the Great suggest that this group of learned saints has gathered to converse, and as far as I can tell, the only clue to the subject of their discussion is the monstrance on the table. Its placement at the center of a group that includes the Doctors of the Church reminds me of Raphael's Disputà in the Stanza della Segnatura of the Vatican Palace, the subject of which is a theological debate on the presence of Christ in the Eucharist. The Sessa painting is humbler in scale and execution (and that is an understatement,) but I wonder if its subject was inspired by Raphael's fresco. It may be impossible to know, but I do think it's plausible. If the painting were originally intended for the cathedral's chapel of the Holy Sacrament, where it is currently located, such a theme would have been particularly appropriate.

O Foods for Ovarian Cancer Awareness

2009-09-23T15:47:00.006+02:00

September is National Ovarian Cancer Awareness Month, and once again Sara of Ms. Adventures in Italy and Michelle of Bleeding Espresso are hosting the O Foods Contest, which aims to draw attention to ovarian cancer through challenging bloggers to post recipes featuring "o" foods (i.e. with names beginning or ending with "o.")

This is my extremely humble submission:

Oatmeal Banana Bread

Ingredients:
1 cup uncooked oats (not quick-cooking)
1 cup whole milk or buttermilk
1 cup flour
1 tsp. salt
1 tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. baking powder
4 very ripe bananas
1/2 cup firmly packed brown sugar
1 large egg
1 tsp. vanilla extract
4 tbsp. (2 oz.) melted butter

Combine the oats with the milk or buttermilk and let them soak for one hour. In a small bowl, whisk together the flour, salt, baking soda, and baking powder. In a larger bowl, mash the bananas with a fork, then add the sugar, egg, vanilla extract, and melted butter; mix until well blended. Stir in the oat mixture with a few quick strokes. Add the dry ingredients, mixing them in only until moistened. Pour the batter into a greased loaf pan and bake at 350°F for one hour, or until a tester inserted into the center comes out clean.

O Foods Contest for Ovarian Cancer Awareness Month

September is Ovarian Cancer Awareness Month, and for the second year in a row, Sara of Ms Adventures in Italy and Michelle of Bleeding Espresso are hosting the O Foods Contest to raise awareness of this important health issue.

There are TWO WAYS to take part in the O Foods Contest:

ONE: Post a recipe to your blog using a food that starts or ends with the letter O (e.g., oatmeal, orange, okra, octopus, olive, onion, potato, tomato); include this entire text box in the post; and send your post url along with a photo (100 x 100) to ofoods[at]gmail[dot]com by 11:59 pm (Italy time) on Monday, September 28, 2009.

PRIZES for recipe posts:

1st: Signed copy of Dolce Italiano: Desserts from the Babbo Kitchen by Gina DePalma, Executive Pastry Chef of Babbo Ristorante in NYC, who is currently battling ovarian cancer, inspired this event, and will be choosing her favorite recipe for this prize;

2nd: Signed copy of Molto Italiano: 327 Simple Italian Recipes to Cook at Home by Mario Batali (winner chosen by Sara);

3rd: Signed copy of Vino Italiano: The Regional Italian Wines of Italy by Joseph Bastianich (winner chosen by Michelle).

OR

TWO: If you’re not into the recipe thing, simply post this entire text box in a post on your blog to help spread the word and send your post url to ofoods[at]gmail[dot]com by 11:59 pm (Italy time) on Monday, September 28, 2009.

Awareness posts PRIZE:

One winner chosen at random will receive a Teal Toes tote bag filled with ovarian cancer awareness goodies that you can spread around amongst your friends and family.
———
From the Ovarian Cancer Research Fund:

Ovarian cancer is the leading cause of death from gynecologic cancers in the United States and is the fifth leading cause of cancer death among U.S. women; a woman’s lifetime risk of ovarian cancer is 1 in 67.

The symptoms of ovarian cancer are often vague and subtle, making it difficult to diagnose, but include bloating, pelvic and/or abdominal pain, difficulty eating or feeling full quickly; and urinary symptoms (urgency or frequency).

There is no effective screening test for ovarian cancer but there are tests which can detect ovarian cancer when patients are at high risk or have early symptoms.

In spite of this, patients are usually diagnosed in advanced stages and only 45% survive longer than five years. Only 19% of cases are caught before the cancer has spread beyond the ovary to the pelvic region.

When ovarian cancer is detected and treated early on, the five-year survival rate is greater than 92%.

And remember, you can also always donate to the Ovarian Cancer Research Fund at our page through FirstGiving!

Please help spread the word about ovarian cancer.

Together we can make enough noise to kill this silent killer.

Sessa Saturday: Portal, San Francesco

2009-09-19T15:58:00.007+02:00

Entrance portal, San Francesco, ca. 1433, Sessa Aurunca

This elaborately carved stone portal adorns the otherwise austere façade of the church of San Francesco, built beginning in 1433 as part of a monastic complex intended to house and instruct Franciscan novices. The stemma of Giovanni Antonio Marzano, who funded construction of the complex, appears on the lintel, carried by a pair of angels. The portal is sculpted from volcanic stone, and is in a rather poor state of conservation. The pointed arch above it once framed a fresco of the Madonna and Child with Sts. Francis and Claire.

Lintel with angels bearing the Marzano stemma

Medieval Bestiary: Peacock

2009-09-17T11:23:00.012+02:00

Peacocks drinking from an urn, ca. 1224-59, panel from the pulpit of the cathedral of Sessa Aurunca

The peacock has a small, crested head, a blue breast, and a great tail full of eyes, which he opens and spreads like a circle around him in wonderment of his own beauty. But if he looks down and catches sight of his feet, which are exceedingly horrible, he becomes ashamed of their ugliness and he lets his tail feathers droop, dragging them behind him. The peacock has flesh so hard that it is almost incorruptible; once cooked it will not decay even if left for many days, and after a year it will only appear somewhat shriveled.

***

The panel with Peacocks drinking from an urn was once, like the Jonah and the Whale discussed here, part of the original staircase to the pulpit in the Cathedral of Sessa Aurunca. From antiquity, peacocks were symbolic of immortality because of the belief in the incorruptibility of their flesh, and this lead Christians to associate them with Christ and his Resurrection. It is likely that the Sessa panel also has a Eucharistic significance, as the birds are shown drinking from a vase.

Ask the Art Historian

2009-09-16T08:28:00.000+02:00

This is my two-hundredth post, and to celebrate I'm inaugurating a new feature. I don't know how frequently I'll run it, that will depend on how popular it is. I first had the idea several months ago, when one of my readers asked why Mary (the mother of Jesus) usually appears in art wearing blue. Since then, I've noticed that readers often leave questions about art and architecture in their comments to my posts. I enjoy answering them very much, and I thought it might be interesting and helpful to provide you with an opportunity to ask questions on any topic pertinent to the history of art.

So, if anyone out there has a burning question (or even just a lukewarm one) about art and/or its history, ask me in a comment to this post. If there are just a few questions, I'll try to answer them all. If there are more, I'll choose a few of the most interesting ones. If you ask a question that doesn't get answered, you can ask it again the next time I do the feature. Make sure to leave your question(s) by midnight CET September 21, 2009. I'll take a few days to write the answers and then I'll post them by the end of that week.

By the way, if you're wondering why it is that Mary usually appears in blue, I believe it has something to do with her being the Queen of Heaven. I should add that in Renaissance panel paintings, she often appears wearing garments painted in ultramarine, a blue pigment derived from lapis lazuli, which was very expensive, and customarily reserved for only the most important figures in a painting. The choice of that specific blue tint was a way of signaling her importance, and honoring her, (and pointing out how rich the patron was, of course.)

Thanks

2009-09-15T09:24:00.006+02:00

A big thank you to my fellow art historian, Laura at Ciao Amalfi !, who recently featured The Shock of the Old in a Sunday Shout-Out. You can have a look at what she had to say about me and the blog here, and while you're over there, make sure to read some of her posts on the beautiful Amalfi coast (her current Tempting Tuesday post on the cloister of Amalfi's Cathedral is an excellent place to start), and check out her other Sunday Shout-Outs as well.

Thanks Laura!

Sessa Saturday: Door handle

2009-09-12T10:30:00.005+02:00

Tail door handle, Corso Lucilio

I spotted this door handle while walking along the Corso earlier in the week. I'm not sure which animal's tail it represents; the curl at the tip makes me think of pigs, but I find the surface treatment to be rather rat-like. (Click on the image for a larger view.)

Macchina! Macchina!*

2009-09-10T10:29:00.004+02:00

That was Pata's response when we asked her if she wanted to see a classic car show in Sessa (really nothing more than a bunch of old cars driving up the Corso and parking in Piazza Mercato) last Sunday morning.

Classic car traffic jam in Piazza Mercato

Parade of classic cars

Unidentified racing car (anyone who knows what it is, please let me know.)

My favorite, a Citröen 15 CV (I'm embarrassed to say I don't know the year:)

Citröen 15 CV

Grill

Headlamp

Motor

Oil cap

Steering wheel and dashboard

Pata and papà watching the show

*Car! Car!

Sessa Saturday: Restoration

2009-09-05T10:09:00.004+02:00

Conservator at work on the cathedral's thirteenth-century pavement

Medieval Bestiary: Cat

2009-09-03T16:25:00.004+02:00

Cat, ca. 1224-59, pulpit, cathedral of Sessa Aurunca

Some say that the cat (cattus) is named for the prey (captura) that he hunts; others believe he is called cat because he seeks (captat.) Indeed, he is observant, and sees so keenly that he overcomes the darkness of night. If thrown down from a great height, a cat will hardly be injured. In youth, he is swift, lithe and merry, pouncing on whatever he finds before him, and given to playing with his prey before eating it. In old age, he grows heavy and lazy, and lies slyly in wait for mice.

***

The pudgy cat pictured above appears on the pulpit of Sessa's cathedral, where he he forms part of a rather unusual composition. Perched atop a leafy plant, he supports the figure of a lanky man dressed in a loincloth on his back. (See the image at left, click on it to enlarge it.) The group is carved on a thin, vertical slab positioned between the figures of a prophet and a sibyl, located on the west face of the pulpit. The meaning of the composition is unclear.

The Wrong Word

2009-09-02T16:55:00.006+02:00

As I've written before, N and I are using the OPOL (one parent, one language) method to teach Pata Italian and English. In the beginning, any misgivings were on the part of Italians, who worried that she wouldn't learn Italian if I didn't speak it to her (seriously, I'm not making that up), that she wouldn't be able to speak to her Italian relatives before going to school, or that she would speak Italian poorly because her brain would be hard-wired for English. I spent months reassuring people that if one of the two languages were in danger of not being learned, it was not Italian. I never imagined how quickly I'd be proven right. Despite two weeks in the United States last month, Pata now speaks more Italian than English. Now I'm the one left wondering if OPOL is really going to work.

Pata spends most of her time with me, so she tends to learn the English word for something first, then the Italian one. Until a short while ago, she tended to use them both, either together, saying one right after the other, or (more typically) choosing the proper word while speaking to me or N. Just before we left for our trip, I noticed that she had begun replacing English words with Italian ones. As I listened to her using Italian words no one had ever taught her, I wondered where they came from. My reasoning was that there were certain words she should have known only in English, because I'm the only one who talked to her about them. Some of these were food words, others were things we've encountered on our walks around town, and some were the names of games and toys we play with during the day. So where were these Italian words coming from, and why did she favor them over the English words that she heard much more often?

I figured out what was happening while we were visiting Mystic Seaport in Connecticut, where Pata encountered hermit crabs for the first time. My sister's fiancé had fished one out of the water and held it in his hand for Pata to see.

"Pata, look!" I told her, "that's a crab. Say crab."

She giggled and tried to poke at the tiny crab, but didn't repeat the new word.

"What is that?" N asked.

"Haven't you ever seen one before? É un granchio." (It's a crab.)

"Granchio," Pata repeated carefully.

Then I realized that she had already figured out what I knew she one day would: that while mommy insists on using words that are different from papà's, she seems to know all of his too, and it's so much easier to learn only the words that they both know. She had probably learned all the Italian words that replaced their English counterparts from me, as she listened to me recount the day's events every evening, in Italian, to N.

I realize the time is coming that I'll have to be stricter about OPOL, not just always speaking English to her (which I already do), but also not responding to what she says in Italian. OPOL works best when each parent ignores the child's speech in the other language. I've been holding off on that for obvious reasons: Pata is still very young and has a limited vocabulary, and when she first started talking I didn't want to discourage her speech impulse. It also seems disrespectful to me to ignore her. For now, I've started to remind her, whenever she speaks Italian to me, that she must use her English words, and that seems to be working. I can only hope that I'll be ready to take the more drastic measure of ignoring her Italian speech when my current solution no longer works.

Sessa Saturday: Bells

2009-08-29T10:21:00.004+02:00

The bells of San Giovanni in Piazza, Sessa Aurunca

Chiuso per ferie - Closed for vacation

2009-08-07T17:10:00.001+02:00

I'm taking a break from blogging for the next few weeks. I'll be back at the end of the month. In the meantime, I leave you with a nice summertime photo to look at:

Near Isola Rossa, Sardinia, August 2005

(In case you're wondering, no, I'm not going to Sardinia.)

Little translator

2009-08-06T15:44:00.001+02:00

N and I are raising Pata bilingual, and we use the OPOL (one parent, one language) method. I'm the only one who speaks English to her, though sometimes she hears it on the television. For a long time, she knew many more English words than Italian ones, but I've noticed that in the last couple of weeks, that has started to change, and I think Italian may overtake English even sooner than I expected it would. I find that disheartening, but it's inevitable. We live in Italy, and English will be the second language.

About a month ago, she began translating. One evening, as I put dinner on the table, I told her to tell papà that it was time to eat. She ran off in search of N, and when she found him, she yelled, "Mangia, mangia!" I was surprised, though I shouldn't have been; she had known for months that eat and mangia were the same thing, and of course she would have noticed that I always use the former word, and N the latter. Now she translates other words as well. "Tell papà it's time to go," I say. "Damo!" (andiamo, let's go!) she shouts, looking for N.

Shortly before she began doing this, we went to a party where a few people were very curious about her speech development. They wanted to know whether she had difficulty understanding both languages. I told them that she had figured out that N and I use different words to express the same things by the time she began following commands. At eleven months, she knew that when papà asked for baci he wanted the same thing that mommy asked for by saying kisses. And, I told them, just a few months after that, she began responding to our questions in the correct language. If I held her teddy bear in front of her and asked her what it was, she would say "bear," and if N did the same thing, she would say, "orso."

They seemed unconvinced, and continued to suggest that it might too confusing for her young mind. They told me about a French and American couple they knew living in Naples, who had two children. The first son learned French and English through the OPOL method, and then Italian at nursery school. The second son hardly spoke at the age of two, and comparing him to the first, they began to worry that there was something wrong. They took him to a pediatrician, who told them that the first child was obviously a genius, and that their attempts to teach two languages to the second child, who was merely ordinary, were just confusing him, and that they had better choose just one for him.

When I heard this, I felt sad for that boy, now deprived of a great gift, and angry at the ignorant pediatrician, whose lack of knowledge about childhood speech acquisition did not keep him from spouting off about it. The people at the party, however, were sure that he was right because, after all, he was a doctor, and they hoped that Pata was a genius, like their friends' first son, because in that case, being bilingual wouldn't be too taxing for her. I decided that if the evidence before them, i.e., an actual bilingual 17-month-old, wasn't enough to persuade them that toddlers acquire second languages easily and naturally, then there was no point in arguing about it. Later I wondered whether they would have changed their minds or pronounced Pata a genius had she performed her translating trick for them.

Sessa Saturday: Sign

2009-08-01T11:04:00.004+02:00

Old street sign (End of no parking zone)

Medieval Bestiary: Whale

2009-07-31T09:29:00.003+02:00

Jonah and the Whale, ca. 1224-59, panel from the pulpit of the cathedral of Sessa Aurunca

The whale is a fish of immense size, equal to a mountain. When whales float in the sea, sailors mistake them for islands and disembark upon them, only to drown when the great fish submerge again. Whales, with their huge mouths agape, emit a sweet odor to draw smaller fish near. These fish, attracted by the sweet scent, swim into the mouths of the whales, who then close their jaws, swallowing all the fish at once into their cavernous bellies.

***

The sculpted panel Jonah and the Whale was likely part of the original staircase to the cathedral's pulpit, which was replaced at the end of the nineteenth century with one made in iron. Here the leviathan appears as a large fish (this is typical in medieval art,) with a dog-like snout and a mouth full of razor-sharp teeth. Note how Jonah's right foot strikes the frame in such a way to suggest that it's a ground line, and that other than the whale, there's no visual reference to the sea.

Medieval Bestiary

2009-07-31T08:54:00.004+02:00

I first learned of medieval bestiaries in my first year of high school. The nun who ran the school library offered me a couple of journals that she didn't need, and having already developed a mania for any kind of printed material, I snatched them up without even looking them over. Later, as I rode the subway home, I pulled them from my knapsack and saw that they were recent publications from the Metropolitan Museum of Art, one of which was a bulletin titled A Medieval Bestiary.

Medieval bestiaries were manuscripts devoted to animal lore. They included real and fantastic animals alike, and they were sometimes illustrated. The information provided on each animal was usually based on classical or earlier medieval sources, like Pliny the Elder's Natural History or Isidore of Seville's Etymologies. In the Middle Ages, the world was considered a book of signs; each thing within it had a meaning to be discerned. Bestiaries, therefore, weren't merely descriptive, they were also allegorical and moralizing. Many animals became religious symbols because certain of their characteristics were reminiscent of Christian figures or stories. The pelican, for example, was a symbol of Christ because it was believed that a mother pelican would pierce her breast to feed her chicks if she were unable to find food for them. This self-sacrifice was seen as analogous to Christ's sacrifice at the Crucifixion.

Sessa Aurunca's cathedral is particularly rich in images of animals, most of them sculpted, and a few in mosaic. On one of my first visits there, I thought of photographing them all and posting the images here. Then, as my idea developed, I thought it might be interesting to present them in the form of entries in a bestiary, with a short description of the animal based on medieval sources, and adding a brief discussion of the work in question.

Pear Butter Cake

2009-07-28T07:28:00.002+02:00

If you use pear butter made with brown sugar, then you can call it a Caramel Pear Butter Cake.

Ingredients:
3/4 cup (6 oz.) unsalted butter
1 1/2 cups sugar
3 eggs
1 tsp. almond extract
1 cup whole milk yogurt
1 cup pear butter (see note below)
2 cups flour
1 tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. salt
optional (see note:) 1/2 tsp. ground cinnamon and 1/4 tsp. ground cloves

Preheat the oven to 350°F (175°C.) Grease and flour a 12 cup bundt pan or ciambella ring. In a large bowl, cream the butter with the sugar. Blend in the eggs, then add the extract and the yogurt, mix well. Add the pear butter and mix until well blended. In another bowl, whisk together the dry ingredients, then add them to the pear butter mixture. Blend until smooth. Pour into prepared pan and bake for 45-50 minutes, or until a tester inserted into the cake comes out clean.

Notes:
I didn't use the spices listed among the ingredients because my pear butter was already spiced.

I used a modified version of this recipe for the pear butter. I halved the recipe, substituted pineapple juice for the apple juice, and used one cup of dark brown sugar and one half of granulated sugar. I also substituted 1 tsp. cinnamon for the nutmeg, and added a half teaspoon of ground cloves. Obviously, I didn't use Bartlett pears. Our pears are so tiny (the largest weigh only a couple of ounces) that I didn't peel them before cooking them because it would have taken all day.

I think the cake is perfect as is, but then I don't really like cakes with frosting or icing, except for special occasions. I think that a honey glaze might complement it well, or one made with pear juice.

Parking Lot Garden

2009-07-27T10:03:00.004+02:00

Because it's not enough that there are already too few parking spots.

Parallel parking for cars, motorcycles and plants

Note that the way in which the terracotta pots on the right have been placed (in an attempt to claim as much space as possible) has caused two exasperated drivers to park directly in front of this person's entrance gate, completely ignoring the sosta vietata (No Parking) sign. Is it just me, or are there few things more satisfying than seeing furbizia* backfire?

Two silver Fiats and a couple of unidentifiable plants

*Furbizia is the highly-prized (presumed) cleverness that often results in cheating and other sorts of underhanded behavior in order to achieve success.

Sessa Saturday: Roman Theater

2009-07-25T07:52:00.003+02:00

View of the Roman theater, first century B.C., Sessa Aurunca

(click on the image to enlarge)

Part of the scaenae frons

Sessa's Roman theater first came to light in the 1920s, but wasn't excavated extensively until fairly recently. I am neither an archaeologist nor a historian of ancient art, so I will not attempt even the most basic analysis.

Stylin, and some sewing links

2009-07-21T16:45:00.000+02:00

Pata showing off some of her new homemade clothes

Despite my misgivings about the bias tape on the halter top, I'm very pleased with how this outfit turned out. Pata likes it too; the first time she saw it, she said, "Oooh, bella!"

A few links I found helpful while working on Pata's summer wardrobe:

Toddler halter top tutorial at The Green Wife
Peasant blouse and tiered skirt tutorials at Blueprints
List of children's clothing tutorials at Craftster

Sessa Saturday: Paschal Candelabrum

2009-07-18T08:46:00.003+02:00

Masters Taddeo and Pellegrino, Paschal Candelabrum, ca. 1224-50, cathedral of Sessa Aurunca

Paschal candelabra are so named because they hold the large candle that is blessed and lit during the chanting of the Exultet on Holy Saturday, (the day before Easter.) In the Middle Ages, these candelabra became very large and elaborate, with some reaching a height of over thirty feet. Sessa's Cathedral possesses a fine thirteenth-century example, about fourteen feet tall and executed in marble and mosaics. It consists of spiraling column of alternating bands of marble and inlaid mosaic, broken into three segments by two horizontal rings of sculpted figures, and a sculpted marble base decorated with a frieze of figures, a mosaic band and an inscription.

Christ and an Angel, detail of one of two horizontal bands

The two horizontal bands that divide the shaft into segments are sculpted in low relief and follow the same scheme: seated and standing figures of Christ, angels, and saints appear above a curved row of bells and are flanked by pairs of columns.

Female figure flanked by vegetal motifs, detail of the base

The sculpture of the base is more deeply carved and and differs in both style and theme from the bands on the shaft. Vigorous, classicizing male and female figures appear in alternation, separated by plant-like forms. While some of the figures carry flowers or fruit, others raise their arms to press their hands against the inscribed border above them, imitating telamones. The solidity of the figures, and their poses, infuse a secular quality into the base that may seem at first glance incongruent with the religious character of the candelabrum. But it is worthwhile to remember that this sort of intermingling of sacred and profane was fairly typical of artwork created in the thirteenth century under the Angevin rulers of Naples.

Medieval Bestiary: Ram

2009-07-16T08:25:00.001+02:00

Capital with rams, thirteenth century, entrance portico, cathedral of Sessa Aurunca

The ram (aries) is named either for the altar (aris) upon which it was the first beast to be sacrificed, or for Ares, the god of war, because of the great force with which two rams combat, butting their heads together. The fiercest rams may be tamed by drilling a hole in their horns. If a string is tied around a ram's right testicle, it will sire male offspring; tied around the left, a female will be produced.

***

This is one of two ram capitals at Sessa's cathedral and it is by far the more elegant. Here two rams perch daintily (perhaps more daintily than their etymological link with the god of war should allow) on a frieze-like band of acanthus leaves. The form of the their bodies has been made subordinate to the shape of the capital, but their unnatural pose in no way detracts from the grace of the overall composition.

Sciopero dei Blogger

2009-07-14T09:53:00.003+02:00

Adesione all’appello di Diritto alle Rete contro il DDl Alfano che imbavaglia la Internet italiana.