Giornale #1 - Santa Maria Sopra Minerva

Our trip to Santa Maria Sopra Minerva seemed to me to be a classic exploration of Rome
as a city, happening upon a mix of modern history alongside ancient building casually
along the way. We began wandering from the Porticus of Octavia towards the church,
making a pit stop in the Harry Potter store because we couldn’t refrain, and continuing
onwards towards the church.

A few blocks after that, we passed the Fontana delle Tartarughe, or the Turtle Fountain,
which I later learned was built in the Italian renaissance, around 1580-1588, by the
architect Giacomo della Porta and the sculptor Taddeo Landini, with the bronze turtles
added by either Gian Lorenzo Bernini or Andrea Sacchi around 1658 during restorations
of the fountain. Some historians believe that the turtles are representative of the myth of
Jupiter and Ganymede, as the turtle became a symbol of Jupiter, and the upraised arms
towards the turtle could represent Ganymede being abducted by Jupiter as an eagle, as
that pose is often how he is portrayed in classical art. The fountain really caught my eye,
as it was so artfully created, but so hidden away in a tiny square, and if we hadn’t
accidentally happened upon it, I would’ve never known it existed.

Our next stop, in the Largo di Argentina, was the cat sanctuary. Though they were only
open for another 20 minutes, they allowed us to come in and meet some of the cats. I
learned that not only are they a sanctuary, but an adoption agency as well. Hosting
about 130 cats at the moment, the cats are spayed and neutered, and free to roam
around the ruins and the center itself, and nearly all of them are available for adoption.
Some of the cats, as they are either very old, blind, or have other medical problems,
are not up for adoption, but remain under the care of the facility. I met a cat named
Disturbia who was asleep by the register as Maisie paid for a tote bag, and as I pet
her for the first time I began to miss home a little bit, missing my animals back in
New York. But that homesickness would soon be cured by the beauty of Rome, as
we progressed from the shelter to the church.

Once inside, I had to double check the requirements for this assignment. The church
of Santa Maria Sopra Minerva was definitely not what I expected under the category
of “small church” compared to the small churches of the United States- at home, I’m
sure this would be classified as a massive basilica. Between the many statues,
magnificent portraits of holy figures, and the breathtaking stained glass windows,
I was speechless.

The art on the ceiling caught my eye for quite a while as I stared into the heavenly
portraits of saints in the sky, surrounded by a midnight blue with golden stars. I sat
down on a pew and stared at the ceiling for a while, taking it in. For some reason-
perhaps the stars- it reminded me of the ceiling at Grand Central Station in Manhattan
with its constellations and stars. I think for this reason it confused me, as I had seen it
as a more pagan depiction of the sky, as I saw it closer with astrology than the typical
Catholic portrayal of heaven. Perhaps it was the deeper blue that caught me, as many
of the paintings around the sides of the church and the others that I’ve seen often
represent a heavenly glow unlike the night sky, with baby blues and golden lights shining
down on believers, but the darkness brought me to the night sky, watching the saints float
through like constellations.

Voyeur #1

An unknown figure with an unknown purpose walks across Piazza San Pietro: a spy.
Head tucked down, hidden away from the sun by a large, patterned scarf, as if to hide
in plain sight- however, her bold look and desperate fast walk made her stand out to me.

The spy walked with fervor towards a the colonnade, desperate to remain unseen, but
she failed. I saw her, but I do not think that she saw me. However, the question remains:
why was she there? What business did she have in the Vatican? With the Pope? With
the people of Rome?

Perhaps she was on a mission to steal the keys to the kingdom of Heaven, or perhaps
Saint Peter’s remains? Perhaps an assassination attempt, or perhaps simply on a search
for lost faith?

Whatever her business there was, she was undercover, attempting desperately to blend
in with the crowd of tourists. Immediately, though the look was bold, I could tell they
weren’t your stereotypical American tourist; no brand-name tee shirts, no “jorts”, no
swinging selfie sticks. Instead, she immediately caught my eye with a pair of black &
white intricately patterned leggings, paired with a red sweatshirt, as well as the blue
and red floral headscarf, paired with black socks and navy athletic sandals.

As I watched her, I could tell that though I may never know what exactly she came
to the Vatican for, her business here was done. Scattering a crowd of pigeons with
her steps, before briskly speed-walking through a crowd of tourists towards the exit,
and, without exposing her identity, out of sight.

Momentary Blindness #1

Water from the Fontana del Nettuno rushes in my ear, just a few feet away.
As if out of a movie, I can hear an accordion playing Italian music faintly in the
distance. Just like any tourist destination, a world’s worth of languages flow in
and out of my ears as melodically as the accordion and rushed as the water.

I continue to keep my head down as men, hands jingling with jewelry or selfie
sticks approach me. I can hear them heckling tourists as they pass, their footsteps
shuffling by me along the cobblestones.

A pigeon walks by me, its nails clicking and clacking as it wanders in search of food,
likely smelling the same food from the restaurants around us that I do.

Any other thoughts I have are cut off by a familiar tune- the accordion player gave
up on traditional Italian music, now aiming for a rendition of Hava Nagila; suddenly
I’m 13 years old and at a Bar Mitzvah again. I can feel the melody flowing through
me, nostalgic as ever.

Eventually, I get lost in my thoughts again, and all the noises around me blend
together. The water blends into the background, even the accordion is less noticeable
than before. People’s feet shuffle quieter than before, and even the children laughing
and screaming seem to fade away.

My feet ache as I sit. I don’t realize how much I walk until I’ve already done it, but
fully immersing myself in the sensory experience that is Rome is already worth it
in every way.

Giornale: Empire State Plaza

            When you’re standing in the middle of the Empire State Plaza in Albany, no matter why you’re there, your future looks bleak. The outdated architecture, established in only shades of tan, brown, and brick, does not make you feel welcome. Seeing buildings for Agenc One, Agency Two, Agency Three, et cetera, made me feel like I was rereading “1984” by George Orwell. The brightest colors I could see were in the sky.

            The architecture continues the dystopian fantasy of the plaza in such a way that if someone had described it to me, I wouldn’t believe that this was supposed to be a place for the people. The buildings make me feel the same way that I imagine I would in Tomorrowland would if Disney World had been abandoned for 50 years, like an old episode of The Jetsons. Each building is built on internal supports, giving it a floating effect, meant to induce a feeling of being in the future of America. In theory, this makes sense. Albany is the capital of New York, and thus where decisions that will strongly impact our futures are made. However, years later, these buildings don’t invoke a feeling of the future, but of a burnt out American dream. It’s frozen in time, surrounded by a world in which it no longer fits.

            Though the space is built as a public space, like I said before, it doesn’t feel welcoming. While it seems to be representative of democracy- a place for the people- it reads more like a beaurocratic reinforcement of power. There are no commodities for people to enjoy, they just have to make do with the open brick space that they were given.

While walking around the plaza I was confronted by way more “No Entry” signs than I would have expected from a supposed public space. Due to the fact that the plaza is essentially surrounded by government buildings, it makes sense, especially when you consider New York in a post-9/11 world, that they would be shut off from the public. However, it just reinforced the feeling that you are not welcome here. While it’s mean to be an open, public space, you can still feel the hierarchy between citizen and government worker. Every Agency building is identical, thus giving you no clue what is going on in each one. You are forced to blindly trust that they will do what’s right for you without the ability to approach and question it. The buildings feel overpowering in their stature, built to justify and remind you just how small you are in the grand scheme of things going on. Even the steps of the Capitol Building are blocked off to the public, with large metal police gates and 6 separate red “do not enter” signs to ward off any visitors, no matter the intent. The beautiful buliding imposes regality and power over the very people that democracy claims to represent.

As a whole, Empire State Plaza feels like its namesake- an empire. The subjects of that empire are not given the key to know what their government is doing, and expected to take any open space they can spare as a gift. It is unwelcoming and imperialistic in nature, reminding you by the sheer size of the buildings who is above you in society. They say “do not enter”, but at this point I wonder why I would really want to.

Ekphrasis

A streak of white, a gentle shine contrasts with the pink icing, dripped perfectly over the dough of the donut. 

From afar, the dounts, one balanced upright, that same donut balancing a second donut in its center, appear a perfect picture. Two perfectly fried treats gleaming in the light, tempting you like a secret. “Eat me,” they appear to scream, like a treat from Alice in Wonderland, more pristine than any Dunkin Donuts ad the company could throw at me. The frosting looks so good I feel as if I can taste it by looking. The dough looks fluffy but crisp, the ideal donut, a perfect creation; a feast for the eyes in the sweetest way.

Close up, however, the illusion is broken. White streaks of paint, strewn on a canvas tell me where the sun shines. The pink icing, a myriad of streaks and strokes of a paintbrush, shows me the strategy of planning, where the artist placed her shadows, what the pinkest pink she believed would pass for a real treat could be, exactly what shade ought to be where in the perfect icing creation. The dough, once flaky and fluffy and crisp is now oranges, shades of orange in dots and lines, creating the perfect picture. The lines across the donuts where a fryer couldn’t reach are strategically drawn in in shades of white and cream. The shadows cascade in planned out gradients, mixed by the hand of an artist, not a baker. The oranges fade from beige to brown, flowing together in splotches of shadow and light to find the perfect mix for the sugary confection of the two donuts, on canvas, painted gently, painted sweetly.

Tang Museum, March 23^rd. Big Pink by Emily Eveleth, 2016.

x

Voyeur

I sit in my car and watch the family in the lot next to me. A woman- young, probably in her mid-20s- is standing outside her Toyota Rav-4 in the parking lot. The door to the left back seat is open as she tries to buckle a flailing toddler into her car seat, but the kid doesn’t want to sit. She wants to run.

A man with two dogs on leashes walks by, causing the child to scream with joy. This makes everything harder for the mom, as she wrestles her restless child back into the car seat. Finally one buckle clips, and the child resigns herself to the car seat, to having to go home. The second buckle in the cross clips shut, and she shuts the back seat door.

A mother’s day never ends; holding onto the cart with one hand, she tries to open the trunk with the other, but it doesn’t work. She moves the cart to the bit of space between her car and the next, opens the trunk, and unloads groceries one bag at a time. 

Once she’s done, she pulls the cart away back towards the storefront. Exhausted by her day already, at 11:30 in the morning, she trudges back to the car and gets in the drivers seat. She takes a sip of the iced latte in the cup-holder and shifts into reverse.

I don’t think she saw the woman rushing through the parking lot behind her. She reversed fast, whipping out of her parking space, coming dangerously close to hitting a pedestrian on the way out. But she doesn’t, the car turns, and she’s gone.

The parking lot is ravaged with pedestrians and irate errand-runners; rush in and rush out, that’s all there is to it. 

(Target Parking Lot in Wilton, 2/23/19)

Momentary Blindness

The dining hall is not as loud as usual. On weekends it never is.

“You know-“ I heard. I didn’t hear the rest.

            My phone buzzed, I could feel it.

            Someone is coughing at a table nearby me; she stopped soon after. I hear someone chewing a cookie, someone else sniffle, someone putting a fork on a plate. Someone else is sipping coffee rapidly. The mugs hitting the table sound different than the cups do.

The girl coughed again.

I can smell pancakes- or, I think they’re pancakes. I hope they are. I can smell hot chocolate on the table next to my laptop, the smell of the breakfast of each passerby, the pizza being made, omelets and fruit and dough.  

People continue to come in and out of the dining hall. I’m seated by the entrance, I can hear every footstep. Each conversation in snippets- “I’ll meet you guys right here”, “where’s the restroom?”, “so what do you want to do?”, “and then she…”. The crowds are picking up, I hear a lot of feet shuffling, and a single cane clanking against the floor. The zipping of coats surrounds me as people get up to leave, their brunch coming to a close. The clack of flip-flops against the floor leads me to question the weather, but it’s the weekend, so I don’t question anything. C’est la vie. Someone’s sneakers are squeaking. Perhaps he stepped in syrup.

Over all of this I can hear my laptop keys clack and feel the bumps on the F and J keys as I type, and now I can see again.

(Murry Aikins Dining Hall, 2/2/19)