by Sara Downing
‘So, what’s it to be today, Lydia?’ Sophia asks. ‘Statues, paintings, what do you fancy? Or a quick tour round the whole gallery so that you can get a feel for it? I expect you will be spending hours in there over the next few months so maybe a bit of an introduction would be good?’ she says, pretty much answering the question for me. I’d decided on a whistle-stop tour for today; get my bearings, see where the artists are that I’m going to focus on, that sort of thing. And Sophia will have a bit of insider knowledge; she knows which routes the tour parties take and how to dodge the worst of the crowds.
An hour or so later and Sophia and I are fighting our way through the hordes of people across the Piazza della Signoria. It has a totally different feel to last night, somehow more frenetic, even though today is a Sunday and in theory a day of rest. No chance of any rest here; tourist trails are in full swing, with armies of all nationalities battling it out for the right to join the queue to the Palazzo Vecchio, pushing and jostling to have their photos taken with David whilst they wait. Hercules regards them severely as they assault his statuesque companions in the Loggia dei Lanzi with their cameras, phones and camcorders. A couple of passing poliziotti move in on a young Scandinavian-looking family who have just settled down on the steps of the Loggia to devour their paninis, pointing to the ‘Non mangiare, non bere’ sign over their heads. I spot a woman discreetly trying to breast-feed her baby, tucked up just behind Perseus, and I hope for the sake of her child that they don’t spy her too and ask her to relocate.
The sky is a strong azure blue; I can’t believe what a perfect day it is. If you glance upwards and away from the crowds, the magnificence of the place is astounding. Wonders of architectural brilliance jostle for the skyline, and the campanile reaches high above us like a spear, away from the crowded foot of the Palazzo to the spacious heavens above, as if pleading to be plucked from the onslaught of visitors below.
We turn the corner towards the Uffizi, squeezing past the semi-circular patches of crowds which have formed around the mime artists on the steps of the gallery, as effective and captivating as the real statues in the alcoves. Here a white-painted, powdered man, as motionless as David himself, until an eyelash flutter gives him away as a mortal soul. There a gold-leafed, ivy-clad female, still as a corpse, unaffected by the small child desperately tugging at her sleeve in an attempt to illicit a reaction of some sort. Their collection boxes bear testimony to their brilliance; you just can’t help yourself from stopping and staring, willing them to move, giggle, sneeze. And when they don’t, you can’t help but reach into your pocket.
Further along are the inevitable sellers of cheap copies of the ‘masterpieces’ within. ‘Looky-looky, buy-buy! Cheaper than museum prices! Signorina, Miss, Fraulein, Mademoiselle,’ they urge, guessing wildly at nationalities, as the vast majority swarm past, clutching precious gallery tickets and searching for door numbers.
Sophia has pre-booked and we sweep through a practically queue-less door and into the gallery. She drags me up what feels like endless stairs – not really what I need on the back of a hangover and a late night – and then we are high inside this huge edifice, and remarkably, away from the worst of the crowds.
‘Time for coffee,’ Sophia announces, I suspect in an attempt to speed up our progress through the gallery. We’ve been here almost two hours already and have barely seen a third of the museum. I can’t help but tarry awhile, I’m an art lover, what do you expect? She’s a mathematician, with a healthy appreciation for the culture of the city in which she has chosen to study, but you can’t blame her for not wanting to linger to the degree that I do. Maybe I should thank her for bringing me here and send her on her way, perhaps to do a little Sunday morning browsing round the shops, but I don’t want to appear rude, so I accept her offer of coffee and decide to play it by ear.
‘The café on the terrazzo is brilliant,’ Sophia enthuses. ‘It’s over the top of the Loggia, so you get all that lovely view to look at whilst you sip your espresso. That’s if we can get a seat of course. If not we’ll just stand and watch the world go by. Andiamo?’
‘Si, andiamo,’ I acquiesce. Poor girl, she’s clearly had enough of culture for one day, and needs a bit more excitement; some real-live people to look at instead of wall-to-wall long-dead ones.
Sophia was right. It is busy and there are no seats, in this very bright, modern space which seems totally at odds with the antiquity of the museum. We buy our coffees and stand at the perimeter of the outdoor seating area, as close as we are allowed to get to the edge, and peer through the balustrades at the swarming masses below. A wedding party appears from the far corner of the Piazza, the bride with her veil streaming out behind her, clasping the hand of the darkly handsome groom as they float on air across the square, the crowds parting for them, and followed more sedately by family and friends in their colourful Sunday Best. They make for Rivoire, the chic café-bar on the square, which apparently sells mind-blowing chocolates at wallet-blowing prices, presumably for their wedding breakfast, which I can imagine will be very caffeine- and chocolate-orientated.
I decide to brave it with Sophia; I don’t want her feeling she has to give up her entire Sunday to me. She barely knows me yet, and I really appreciate her bringing me here, but I’m sure there must be other things she’d rather be doing today. I put that proposal to her and she looks visibly relieved. It’s one thing showing a regular tourist the sights, but another thing entirely when you have a serious art-lover in tow, and I don’t think she had anticipated just how riveting I would find it. So I gently and gratefully release her from her obligations and after coffees have been drunk she scoots off in pursuit of a little retail therapy to perk up her Sunday.
I haul my gallery guide out of my pocket and contemplate which room to visit next, a warm feeling of relaxation and enjoyment spreading through me as I now realise I can take my time and not rush through the rest of the gallery. I stroll back along the corridor, following the path of a thousand daily footfalls on terracotta floors worn smooth over the centuries. Fewer people seem to be heading through into room twenty-five, so I follow Sophia’s advice of not observing the regular, prescribed trail and duck in quickly as a Japanese tour party heads into the room next door. This leads me through to a network of smaller rooms, quieter for the moment, so much so that I can hear the click-clack of my own shoes on the polished tiles.
Through into room twenty-eight, the home of some of Titian’s work. I’ve already singled out Tiziano Vecellio as one of the artists I want to focus on whilst I’m here, so I’m thrilled to see so many of his paintings in the one room. Even though he was a Venetian artist, there’s enough of his stuff here in Florence for me to put him on my list and have plenty of material to work with. Just as well I sent Sophia on her way; I plan to spend ages in here, and the welcomed coffee break has left me refreshed and ready to do just that.
This room feels quieter and more serene than the rest of the gallery, although maybe it’s only due to the current lull in the volume of passers by. But then the comparable calm of the room is shattered instantly as the Japanese tour party I’d done so well in evading enters from the opposite doorway. I sit down on a green padded bench to wait as I cannot now get close enough to the paintings I so want to see.
They are a motley crew, this party; some listening earnestly to the guide and clearly genuinely interested in the art, others simply along for the ride, so that they can tick off the Uffizi as done on their grand tour of Europe. They fiddle and twitch at the back of the group, texting, or adjusting their photographic equipment, whose prohibited use in the gallery must be hard to bear for a race reared on recording their entire lives and adventures in 2D.
Suddenly the crowd disperses again, spirited away by their guide to the next room, and the works of art are revealed to me once more. Now I can see the beautiful Flora, fresh-faced in her youthful gracefulness, and the wonderful Madonna of the Roses.
Opposite there is Eleanora Gonzaga, a formidable-lookin
g woman whose harsh countenance is only softened slightly by the small dog at her side; the far from aesthetically pleasing Francesco Maria della Rovere, Duke of Urbino, her husband; and between them, the beautiful and unsurpassable Venus of Urbino. Wow. A true masterpiece, even though I don’t like that term very much. I try to avoid using it whenever I can, as these days it seems to be bandied about as loosely as that fickle term celebrity is used back home to describe someone whose claim to fame is a mere five minutes in the spotlight. But masterpiece this is, quite undeniably. And not just because of the familiarity of it. I know it has a reputation as one of those paintings which are instantly recognisable to a good majority of ordinary people who otherwise know nothing about art, a bit like the Mona Lisa or Botticelli’s Primavera. But Venus is in a league of her own, and seeing her in the flesh, as it were, I am totally captivated. Such is her popularity that she is behind glass; a real shame we cannot touch such a great work of art, but her value is too high and there are always those few who want to spoil it for the rest of us.
Just as I regret the presence of the glass, a man’s hand goes out towards the Eleanora painting next to her, not for malicious means I’m sure, but because he is an enthusiast and is clearly longing just to touch the painting. An alarm beeps loudly, alerting the guard, who leaps in quickly with a ‘Signore, per favore non toccare.’ His words are not harsh but his expression takes no prisoners. As they move off I sit down again in front of Venus to contemplate her more fully.
Now the room is still once more, I can properly take in my surroundings. A room that seemed a perfect cube to start with is actually slightly off-kilter, as though a small child has picked up this block-shaped room and squashed it into vague imperfection, like a chunk of plasticine. I imagine it probably hasn’t changed for centuries; the only concessions to modernity are the invasive, bright red fire extinguishers, alarm buttons and wiring. All the high-tech things a historical building can’t function without in the twenty-first century, particularly when it’s crammed from floor to ceiling with priceless works of art. The smell is of true museum, a mix of oil on canvas and all things old, the stuffiness of a room never opened to the fresh air for fear of the damage it may do to the art within. I breathe deeply and wallow in the aroma of times past.
Venus reclines in her opulence in front of me. I know popular belief has it that the models for Flora and Venus are one and the same, but as I glance over my shoulder at Flora again, despite the similarities of facial expression and incline of the head, she has none of the wanton sensuality of Venus. Maybe it’s just because Flora, in her innocence, is looking meekly to one side, away from the gaze of the onlooker, whereas Venus seems to be regarding you directly, as if challenging you not to find her beautiful. I suppose she could be the same woman; certainly the style in which they are painted is so very Titian in its appreciation of the voluptuousness of women.
So who was she, this Venus? The books all say that no one really knows who commissioned this painting, even though it eventually came into the hands of the Della Rovere family, and that link seems to be reaffirmed here by the placing of Venus between Francesco Maria and his wife Eleanora. It must have been a pretty racy painting in its day, and I wonder how the austere Eleanora feels about her portrait hanging next to the wantonly nude Venus in perpetuity, forced for ever to stare at Venus’ beauty, when she herself had not had the fortune to be blessed with such charms.
I imagine Eleanora’s spirit, wherever it may now reside, being totally shocked. Maybe her ghost haunts the gallery at night, trying to wreak havoc on the painting, and that is why Venus is behind glass? That random thought makes me giggle out loud, and as I raise my hand to my mouth to stifle it the guard gives me an odd look. Even more amusing if the model who sat for the Venus painting had had an affair with Francesco Maria. Imagine if this girl from the sixteenth century had come between them in life and now here she is, hanging between them for eternity! But who would ever know that sort of detail about their lives? I resolve to find out a lot more about them all.
I am surprised to find myself so intrigued with Venus, and I know I will be coming back here a lot; there’s something about this room, and in particular, that painting, that I love. It seems to draw me in, compelling me to sit here and look at it. Each time I look I discover details I’d not noticed before, from the folds of the curtains to the drape of her hair. Women of that era were certainly appreciated for their curves; there’s no way the skinny Kate Moss’s and Victoria Beckhams of our day would have appealed to those Renaissance artists. No, in those days, they liked them a little plumper, more womanly. Not a size zero body in sight on the walls of this gallery….
He runs his fingers lightly around my jaw line, grips my chin in his thumb and forefinger and gently turns my head to one side, raising my face to what remains of the light. He glances angrily towards the window; the rapidly darkening day is frustrating his attempts to capture the hues of my skin on canvas. I recognise the feel of these caresses as entirely artistic and not in the least romantic. Not for the time being, for I know that presently I am model, not lover, as he tries to focus on his work, but the effect of his touch is to cause me to shake with mirth and also to quiver with desire. He is tickling me, I cannot help it! He scowls at me, but I know it is only from creative frustration and the knowledge that this light will give him at most another half-hour of work, before the darkness claims his brush strokes until dawn. He cannot paint satisfactorily by candlelight. He says my beauty merits reproduction only in full daylight. Dusky hues do me no justice, he insists. He is the one who knows, after all. He is the artist, I am merely his muse, his inspiration.
‘Come here, my love,’ I urge, as he paces the room, desperately seeking out the lighter corners that might permit him to paint for a little longer. ‘Come to me,’ I say again, and this time he cannot resist. He places the tools of his trade respectfully on the chest at the end of the room and with a languorous sigh, steps up onto the platform beside my lettuccio, the vast oak daybed which serves as my stage, and as the altar on which he pays homage with his brushes to my beauty. He unfastens the small buttons at the neck of his linen shirt and lifts it over his head in a deft movement, and then he is beside me, his strong chest warm against my bare shoulders. His lips seek out mine and I close my eyes as the passion engulfs me and I lose myself in his embrace.
I wake up with a small jolt – surely I can’t have been asleep? No, that’s not possible; I’ve only been sitting here for a few minutes, haven’t I? Not time enough for a nap. Glancing quickly at my watch for reassurance I see that barely any time has passed at all and yet I feel like I am waking from a long sleep, as refreshed as if I had slept for hours. This tiredness is starting to get to me, and I know I haven’t given myself proper time to recover from the journey yesterday, fool that I am. My mother would have something to say about that if she were here, which thankfully she isn’t. Which reminds me, I must call them all later and let them know I’m still alive. I’d sent a quick text on my arrival but that was the only newsflash so far. Was it really only yesterday that I arrived? Somehow I find that hard to believe. Must be all this napping, giving me the illusion of having spent more nights here than just the one that I actually have.
Rubbing my eyes I glance across in the direction of the guard’s seat. The male guard from earlier has now morphed into a woman, so I suppose I must have slept for long enough to miss that changeover. This one is a stout lady in her late fifties who looks more National Trust volunteer than scary security staff, so I don’t think my oddness will result in her having me carried off to the madhouse just yet. This strange English woman who sits and giggles in front of the Venus painting and then decides to follow that moment of madness with a little nap on the bench. I am sure they get all sorts in here, not just art nutters like me, overcome with tiredness and the excitement of it all.
As my mind re-engages I have the vague recollection of a dream of some sort. Amazing how the brain can pack what feels like a fully-f
ledged action-packed movie into the space of a few minutes’ doze. At home I used to have my best dreams in the morning, in those few precious moments before waking up properly, almost as though the subconscious which has stirred slightly from the deeper slumber of the night is more capable of producing dreams than the unconscious, dead-to-the-world state that most of us occupy for the majority of our sleeping hours. Or maybe it’s just that we remember these ones more easily, as they take place so close to us waking up?
Fascinating subject, dreams, and something I want to explore whilst I’m here. After all, so many paintings are depictions of dreams, or stories of divine inspiration. It has to be a possible topic for my dissertation, as there’s so much material I could use. I haven’t really decided yet, but I certainly should give it some serious thought, given my own predisposition to dreaming.
I’ve always been a bit of a daydreamer too, which has been a constant source of irritation to parents, teachers and the like over the years. But I always counter it with the argument that you can’t have a proper artistic temperament without the ability to dream. That only ever got me out of trouble in more recent years, I have to say, when my artistic skills did start to look like they might be half decent, but it was always worth a try.
I can’t really get my head around what the dream just now was all about. I have a strong recollection of touch, sensuousness and a deep feeling of love between two people. I felt exposed, almost naked even, and when I came to I half expected to have to cover myself up, here in the gallery. It must have something to do with gazing at all these romantic images, I suppose, and I shrug it off for the moment as no more than the wanderings of a very tired mind. Early night tonight, I resolve. No partying in the piazza for me, just a sensible, quiet night in before I head off to my first day at the uni tomorrow.
