RELIGIOUS ROME

“The world, and whatever that be which we call the heavens, by the vault of which all things are enclosed, we must conceive to be a deity, to be eternal, without bounds.”

— PLINY THE ELDER - BOOK II

The very fabric of Rome is woven with religion. For, it was Romulus who, in c. 753 BC, consulted the gods for the divine approval of a new foundation, carefully laying out the pomerium - the sacred boundary of the new city. 

And ever since its sacred creation, Rome has stood at the epicenter of the religious western world. As time has passed, columned temples have given way to Christian duomos; and a plethora of gods and priestesses have been replaced by the Lord and his clergy. Yet, Rome still remains the epicenter. 

And it was religion that brought me to Rome in the first place. It was a worship of old paintings in obscure churches. But religion keeps pulling me back. Back to stay in a convent at the behest of my father-in-law, and to hear the Pope speak about faith and love. Back to sketch paintings of prophets and virgins. Back to walk between the ruins and tap into the pagan energies that waft among the tumbled white stones. 

Although I do not belong to any one religion, I am forever immersed in the divinity of the world and her histories.

ROMA

ON AN EVENING IN ROMA

The summer-heat slowed walking paces to a stroll, and we took any opportunity to stop by a fountain and dip our scarves in, to wipe away sweat and then wrap the cooling fabric around our necks. The only respite for those mid-day-scorchers was a nap on shaded grass, or a gelato (or five). Then, as the evening began to cool the pavements, a special thing would happen... A large pizza-moon would rise over the city, urged on by a slight breeze, and vendors would appear on the ancient bridges selling grilled corn and butter. Memories of the clamorous art dealers, and of an impromptu fight in one small side street drifted through my mind, but in the evening everything seemed calm. All that existed was the hand of my partner in my own, my two feet walking, and each moment unfurling. Sometimes, during that week-long dream, I would hum the song that was on everybody's minds:

“Como e’ bella ce’ la luna brille e’ strette
Strette como e’ tutta bella a passegiare
Sotto il cielo di Roma

How beautiful is the moonlight
Close together, embraced
Going around, take a walk
Under the sky of Roma”

— DEAN MARTIN

A WEEK-LONG DREAM

Waking at five in the morning in a small convent on the edge of the city, then walking through the pre-dawn streets between the small delivery vans and the fruit sellers who open their doors so early.

The smell of sunscreen, and the knowledge that it is going get very, very hot!

Navigating the dusty suburbs using the flow of the river Tiber.

Cool wind between my toes, shoes off, legs swinging, sitting on a stone fence and watching the children of Trastevere kick around a deflated soccer ball.

Lines of laundry strung between windows in cramped alleyways..

Pink petals that fluttered down from vines above, and landed in my gelato.

Prickly pears and burnt sienna walls.

A storm of sorts brewing at lunch, with a bump against a table leading to a full blown fighting match in Italian swear-words. 

Lights drawn over the water from the dome of St Peters.

Riding that rattling, jangling bus every morning and every evening, and sometimes falling asleep before the suspension would snap us awake again.

A view over the umbrella trees.

The scooter drivers that live by their own rule-book.

Napping in an orange grove, the occasional thud of an orange falling to the ground.

Hilarious tan lines caused by socks. 

A vendor selling roasted chestnuts, his small paper cones piled into in an impossibly tall tower.

The disparity of the rich and the poor - a woman in heels talks on her phone while beside her a beggar-lady prostrates herself to the mercy of the public.

Offerings of flowers and hand-written notes in each tiny chapel.

Three men yelling as they try to heave a refrigerator into a truck without a ramp.

A quiet moment in the Piazza Navona, ringed by terraces that will later be filled with merry-wine-toasts. 

FONTAINEBLEAU

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THIS ENCHANTED REALM

“The light at certain points illuminating the outskirts of the wood. left the interior in deep shadow, or else, attenuated in the foreground by a sort of twilight, it exhibited in the background violet vapours, a white radiance.”

— GUSTAVE FLAUBERT - SENTIMENTAL EDUCATION, 1869.

It was here, in the forests of Fontainebleau, that French artists found inspiration. Around the outskirts a palace was built, inhabited over the years by Kings, Queens, and an unlikely Emperor. The halls were decked in Renaissance glory and gold, with many stately visitors coming to see the beauty of the palace in the forest. But deep in those woods, old as France herself, the true artists ventured to find their muse... 

These paintings were of a style nobody had seen before - executed in the changing atmospheres of the outdoors, with quick brushstrokes, capturing the beauty and colours of the shadows between the trees. They spoke not of radical feature-scapes but of quiet solitude and of nature's secrets. Scenes of nearby villages on the borders of the forest too: a small bridge over calm waters, a mill, a snow-blanketed dirt road through bare trees. 

Not much has changed since the time of the Impressionists, and one can still wander through the golden hallways of the Renaissance palace. Everything seems quiet here when compared to the hustle and bustle of nearby Paris or Versailles. It is almost as if the woods have formed an enchanted wall, encircling time and space; while the palace remains the abode of some princess, who remains sleeping in her medieval garb.

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SMALL WONDERS IN THE ENCHANTED REALM

Deserted hallways in the palace, a glitter of old gold, and a hint of tales long since passed behind the veil of time.

Mirrors flecked with spots, and drawer-topped writing desks.

A cone of strawberry gelato melting in heat of the afternoon.

The cool shade emanating from the edge of the forest.

Shifting cloud colours above Moret Sur Loing, where one can still see a true Impressionistic landscape.

Small tables slowly being occupied under lamp-light in the tiny village square.

Memories of the evening: sitting riverside watching the ducks and the scudding clouds, the grass prickly under my legs. That day ended in a whirl of purple.

Walking to our first campsite - over the railway tracks and under a canopy of greenery to find sleep.

Waking in the middle of the night to a leaking tent, and to lightning that crackled and lit the sky like it was daytime. Only five heart beats between each flash... 

Deciding to heck with it all, and undertaking a midnight-skinny-dipping adventure in the camp pool, under the raging storm.

Feasts of bread and Nutella at 3am.