On Thursday, on the outer wall of Esquilino Mercato (the rubbish Asian market), I discover a lovely bit of art that I had overlooked the first time I visited it.
It consists of 56 monochrome self portraits, pasted onto the outside of the building, each of a different person’s face. Some of the faces are smiling, some are in deliberately contorted expressions or have their mouths open, some are looking directly at the camera and some are looking away. A couple of the faces are hiding behind sunglasses, one behind a hood, and there is a big mixture of ages and ethnicities –all set against the grimy backdrop of the market.
I walk around the outer wall twice to make sure I’ve counted the number of portraits correctly and to see if there is anything to explain them; the Chinese population of Esquilino now thinks I’m mental.
Later research tells me that it is part of The Inside Out Project, a global art movement that encourages individuals or groups to take their own portraits, send them off to the Inside Out HQ to be blown up, and paste them up in public once they have been posted back. The people that have pasted their faces all over the Esquilino Mercato have clearly gone for the group option, and it would be interesting to find out more about them. I email Jonathon, editor at online arts magazine Flaneur, about a possible article, and he gives me the go-ahead. Successful morning so far!
I then go across the square to check out Mas, a clothes shop that Lidia pointed out as being ‘full of ugly –but good if you want something like underwear’. She is right about the ugly; it is probably the worst shop I have ever encountered. Think TK Maxx but limitlessly more jumble sale like, set against a backdrop of Wilkinsons-style garish 3 for 2 offer signs. Attempt to make a quick exit but fail, because, just to make things worse, the uscita is hidden away at the other end of the shop, between cabinets of lovely fake Rolexes. Urgh. Mas, the shop you’ll never leave. Later, Alberto tells me he doesn’t go in, because of the ‘dirty clothes, dirty people’ –and that if he ever does he feels like he has ‘the little things in my ‘air -fleas’.
Head back to see if Mario the Handyman has fixed the plumbing in Alphabet House, thus allowing me to have a shower. Come on Mario, you little smiley plumbing genius –I’m relying on you.
***
I’m not hopeful, and when I return Mario tells me that no, there is no hot water – ‘but si, in twenty minutes?’ I believe that this is a blatant lie, and I feel let down by Mario.
Do a bit more research on the Inside Out Project while I’m waiting. A quick browse online doesn’t tell me much about the Rome group, but the URLs underneath their individual pictures hopefully will. The website describes it as a ‘large scale participatory art project that transforms messages of personal identity into pieces of artistic work’, which is a good basis for an article. Eventually, Mario appears and tells me that ‘the water is back’. Thanks Mario!
***
After my eventual shower I go and sit outside a cafe near the Santa Maria Maggiore, armed with a Lion Bar, a green tea and Lolita. I will finish it today! Determined.
***
Alberto is providing much comedy at the moment, completely unwittingly of course. He comes out with some classics this afternoon, the first as we are setting off to pick up B&B from school: ‘We come back from ‘oliday one month and I already ‘ate Rome,’ he says. ‘Too busy, too many Chinese, too much traffic, too much pollution.’ Pause. ‘I ‘ate to live!’
Bit extreme.
Second is provided at the orange garden: ‘Tonight you will go for Chinese or something with Beatrice and Benedetta,’ he says. ‘And Lidia and I will go and eat the intestine of baby sheep that still has the milk inside.’
Pardon?
Then: ‘I feel sorry for the sheep. But, mmmmmm.’
God lord.
I try to forget what I have just been told, and occupy myself with teaching Bene English vocab as she swings around on the climbing frame. I teach her how to say ‘I am an acrobat’, ‘I am swinging’, ‘climbing a tree’ and ‘my tiger’s name is Melody’. Melody the tiger gets thrown around a lot, and leaves the park in a much sorrier state than she arrived in. I’m not sure if Bene will remember any of the phrases, but at least I’ve been doing my job. In true English teacher manner, I may create a visual aid.
***
As it is, we dispense with the Chinese/ lamb intestine plan and instead ‘go to our friends’ house for pasta –they have a lovely house in the Monti area.’
The apartment is three floors up, above a side street that is lined with tiny restaurants. It is, to put it simply, the most beautiful apartment I have ever seen, filled with Italian books and antique paintings. It appears to be a fusion of wealth, alarming good taste, and thorough interest in Roman history. We are given a tour, which takes in the sliding kitchen doors (circa 1850), complete with original artwork, the ceiling beams (1800), and an original seventeenth century church door, decorated with cherubs, that has been mounted onto a larger piece of wood. The kids, Giulia and Rachele, have a quote on the philosophy of life (this is all I manage to translate) painted artistically on their wardrobe door.
Feel slightly in awe, and wonder for a second how I ended up here, in this beautiful apartment in the centre of Rome, listening to these people talk about architectural history in very fast Italian, with the odd bit of English translation thrown in for my benefit.
We sit down to eat pasta, and I listen to their conversation quite happily, picking up the odd phrase but understanding hardly anything. It’s fine with me.
That night I finally finish Lolita! Mind blown by this level of writing – picturesque.
***
Friday. It’s my day off! No kids!
There are many, many things that I could do. I catch the bus and get off at Piazza Della Republica. Browse the book stalls and buy hardback on Goya –it’s in Italian, but I expect I can get the gist by translating a few phrases online. I then go into the Basilica Santa Maria Degli Angeli e Dei Martiri, which is probably the nicest church I’ve found so far in Rome. There is an exhibition about Galilei, focusing on the conflict between his scientific/ religious beliefs. Have a skim of it, then get shouted at by a nun for trying to steal a leaflet that apparently costs a euro. Oops.
I leave, soul in eternal damnation, and have a glance at the art stands that are erected on the piazza. I find out that it’s a festival of local artists, running until the 9th. Get talking to one of the artists, an old man, Ugo Pergoli. He tells me that his English is terrible, then proceeds, in perfect English, to explain about his paintings –modern landscapes, which sell for 60 Euros, as well as some smaller sketches, which sell for less, plus a few watercolours. I tell him that I write for an arts website –another article for Flaneur! He gives me a leaflet with his email and website, and I go on my way.
Not sixty seconds later I am waylaid by an Iranian man holding a clipboard. Not a charity collector, though –I stop because he has a board with a picture of Sakineh Mohammadi Ashtiani, the woman almost executed for adultery in Iran. Mr Clipboard shows me a collection of photos of other people who are waiting on death row in Iran. I say I can’t sign his petition calling for democracy because I can’t read what it says, but I take his leaflet and website address and promise to look it up later. Aargh, too much to write about!
***
Next stop is Mel’s Bookstore (I miss my Mel! At home in Hudds!), which is huge. Piled up the stairs are books on Kandinsky, Pop Art, Japanese printing, Van Gogh, Surrealism – and basically every other major art form/ artist that can immediately be brought to mind. All the books are reduced to 9.99 Euros. Exercise huge restraint –but I will definitely come back after I’ve dipped into my Goya book. Feel like I have never had so much pressing to read/ write, even when it was essay time at Lancaster.
Stop at the George Byron cafe (love, love, love!) for lunch –panini and espresso. Outside afterwards, it has clearly been raining. The floor is slippery, and I get back on the bus, mainly because I have a day pass and a pathological need to use it. An overcrowded bus on such windy streets is not a pleasant experience. I get off at Palazzo Venezia, home of the Monumento a Vittorio Emanuele –the toilet seat of Rome! It’s fairly impressive close up. The rain immediately starts again though, heavily, so along with an assorted collection of Romans/ tourists I duck into the ancient entrance to the Biblioteca di Archeologia e Storica dell’ Arte, where I sit down and start this week’s book (my fave Angela’s The Magic Toyshop) and wait for the downpour to subside.
***
When it eventually does, I venture back outside, buy an umbrella from a street seller with good business sense, and find out the following things about the monument: its statues symbolise the arts –architecture and music on the left; painting and sculpture on the right. In order to build it, between 1895 and 1911, Palazzo Venezia had to be moved and medieval and renaissance villages including the home of Michelangelo were destroyed. It does indeed contain the grave of the Unknown Soldier. It is very, very slippery, especially in 200 rupee Indian pumps.
Amazingly I make it to the very bottom (there are a lot of steps) before the shoes give up, flying out from under me and causing me to sit down, very quickly, on the wet step. It isn’t a high profile fall. A Roman girl looks at me with mild confusion. I give her the same look right back.
Mild drama ensues. After making my way back across Palazzo Venezia, 5 euro umbrella blows inside out. I attempt to rectify this, and slit my finger open on one of the spokes. A minute later I realise that my wrapping paper/ Italy poster is no longer sticking out of the top of my bag. Venture back, only to find it in a forlorn state in the middle of the road. Many vespers/ tourist buses have clearly already whizzed/ trundled over it –I watch as the Ciao Roma bus becomes the next in a long line. I decide to brave the cars and retrieve it –I didn’t spend 2.50 Euros on wrapping paper for it to get trashed in the road an hour later! It is a good move, because when I take it out of the bag later I find that, apart from a soggy edge, it isn’t damaged at all.
After my death dodging between the traffic I decide to head to the Georgia O’Keeffe exhibition at the Fondazione Roma. I had planned to save it for next week or later, but I just want to get out of the rain –and it proves to be a good choice. It’s such an interesting exhibition, and teaches me a lot about O’Keeffe herself, as well as American, modernist and twentieth century art. It’s a much bigger collection than I had first thought; I spend two hours there and almost fill all the pages in my India notebook (the gift from Sushi – distinction club!) Buy another from the giftshop afterwards, then have a quick browse in Feltrinelli (Italian Waterstones) before heading back up Via Del Corso in the general direction of the bus.
Buy a miniature poster of Gregory Peck and Audrey in Roman Holiday, and am about to stop at a cafe for food (too hungry to wait until 8pm for dinner with the Bellomos) but get letched on by a man with a harpsichord (where is my wenchfaced wing woman when I need her ? Aircell Burnley, that’s where) so decide to skip this place. Find a less rapey cafe opposite the monument and order a pizza that, when it comes, is fully loaded with peppers and black olives. An Italian couple fail to find a table outside, deliberate for a few seconds, and then come to join me. ‘Hallo,’ the man says. ‘Hi,’ I say back. He smiles happily: ‘Hallo.’ And then harpsichord letch appears again! For goodness sake. I concentrate on my delish pizza and looking in the other direction, and eventually he wanders away.
***
After a nightmare bus journey (think London tube at rush hour, but moving at snail’s pace along one thousand year old cobbled streets) I head to reception with the dinosaur laptop. Silent German women are taking up all the seats, so I get a chair from the dining room. As I am untangling my wires, they watch me. In silence. I look up and am startled to find that I am being eyeballed by all three of them. There is no embarrassment when they see that they have been clocked. And then two of them stand up (in silence) and leave. The other remains seated, in silence. Staring.
And once again, the day ends on a very bizarre note.
