Native Americans at the Vatican

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Remember the ditty, “In fourteen hundred and ninety-two, Columbus sailed the ocean blue?” Two years after Christopher Columbus’s voyage, in the year 1494, the Renaissance artist Pinturicchio apparently added images of the Native Americans described by Columbus to a fresco in the Vatican.

Detail of fresco showing Native Americans

News reports vary. Either the images were more or less overlooked for the past 500 years, or they were uncovered in a recent cleaning of the fresco. The images are difficult to see. They appear at the top of the open tomb.

Pinturicchio “Resurrection of Christ”

The fresco, titled “Resurrection of Christ,” was commissioned for the rooms to be occupied by the newly-elected Pope Alexander VI. This Pope was the former Spanish cardinal Rodrigo Borgia, so his rooms came to be called the “Borgia Apartments.” All the great powers in Europe at the time were much interested in the so-called “New World.” Of course, we now know that a big part of the interest in “the New World” was in exploiting the people and the riches to be found there. But seeing this fresco gives us a little insight into the excitement in Europe over the new discoveries.

I first read about this discovery in The New York Times, http://artsbeat.blogs.nytimes.com/2013/05/06/early-images-of-american-indians-found-in-a-vatican-fresco/. I have to thank Kathy Schiffer, in her blog “Seasons of Grace,” for coming up with the full image of the fresco. Her article is at http://www.patheos.com/blogs/kathyschiffer/2013/04/first-ever-painting-of-native-americans-discovered-in-the-vatican/.

The year before last, I was lucky enough to be in Rome just when the Vatican Museums were first open on Friday evenings from 7 to 11 pm. All the daytime tourists leave, another long line forms, and at 7pm the doors open again. The museums do fill up, of course, but things are much less crowded than during the day. This program has been expanded; it now runs from May 3 to July 26, and again from September 6 to October 25. I hope to be there again on a Friday night before too long!

Join me next time for more explorations in the art and history of Europe!

“Nice Fish” at Guthrie Theater

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One of the best things about travel is making connections between things that seem unrelated. For instance, last night I saw the play “Nice Fish” at the Guthrie Theater in Minneapolis and found myself thinking about Ludwig II of Bavaria. I’ll explain!

First, about the play: the wonderful actor Mark Rylance introduced large television audiences to the work of Duluth poet Louis Jenkins (who has been featured reading his prose poems on Garrison Keillor’s Prairie Home Companion, among other places). In 2008, while accepting his Tony award, Mr. Rylance did a hilarious deadpan recitation of a poem about the wearing of uniforms. You can watch the speech at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TU9iCgGDjRI.

Louis Jenkins emailed him, and soon the two men were collaborating on what eventually became the play “Nice Fish.”

In the play, two men share an afternoon on a frozen Minnesota lake–a time-honored pastime in these parts. The actors are Mark Rylance himself, on the right, and Jim Lichtscheidl on the left. Besides co-writing the play, Mr. Rylance also directed, along with his wife, Claire Van Kampen.

In the course of a long freezing afternoon, they encounter an insanely officious game warden. Then things turn surreal with the appearance of three figures from Germanic myth–sort of. There’s an alluring young girl who pops out of a fishhouse in a bikini. She later changes into a festive prom-like party dress and teaches the lovestruck Ron to waltz.

Mark Rylance’s character can hardly believe his good fortune when she seems to fall in love with him, but she confides that Wayne, the owner of the fishhouse, is her sort-of boyfriend who’s gone off to fetch supplies. When Wayne returns, roaring onto the ice on a vintage snowmobile, he summons his brother, Wainwright, who acts as his wingman. Complications ensue.

Mr. Rylance writes in the play’s program that he got the idea of introducing these characters while watching the opera Das Rheingold, by Richard Wagner. Probably none of us would be watching Wagner operas if Ludwig II of Bavaria had not decided to be Richard Wagner’s patron. I’ve written about Ludwig’s awe-inspiring grotto at Linderhof Castle, constructed as his personal theater for private performances of Wagner’s operas.

Ludwig’s Grotto

Having arrived just before curtain time, I watched the entire play without reading the program notes. So I didn’t know that Flo was a stand-in for Freya, the Norse goddess of eternal youth. I didn’t know that Wayne and Wainwright were stand-ins for the giants who kidnapped Freya. (The plot of Das Rheingold, involving a magical ring, also provided some of the inspiration for J. R. R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings). I doubt most of the audience around me cared much about the underlying myths, either. The show was laugh-out-loud funny and thought-provoking to those of us who thought we were just watching Midwest eccentrics on a frozen lake. (Yes, the supposedly staid Midwest has plenty of eccentrics–we all have relatives, don’t we?)

The play ends with a hilarious yet touching enactment of aging, death and the afterlife. It has had mixed reviews, including complaints that it is too long. Personally, I would cheerfully watch Mark Rylance read blizzard school closings for the entire state of Minnesota. Seeing what he can do as playwright and director is well worth my time any day. I just might go see the show again before it closes!

Join me next time for more explorations into the art and history of Europe–with connections to modern life.

Moonwalk with Ludwig

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“King Ludwig II of Bavaria,” Ferdinand Piloty, 1865, Public Domain

Ludwig II of Bavaria identified with Louis XIV, the Sun King of France. (In German, Ludwig is the same name as Louis). The trouble was, the French King Louis XIV actually was an absolute monarch who expanded and presided over quite a large and powerful empire.

Louis XIV by Rigaud, Public Domain

Louis XIV was also a warrior. He actually led his own forces in the battlefield. Ludwig? Not so much. And he had little interest in the day-to-day work of government. Ludwig was a monarch of the kingdom of Bavaria, which was much smaller and less powerful than France. Through no real fault of Ludwig’s, Bavaria was more or less eaten up by Germany, under Kaiser Wilhelm I of Prussia, during his reign. But while Bavarian independence lasted, Ludwig was a much-loved monarch of a proud independent kingdom.

He visited Versailles early in his reign. When he came home, he decided to build a dream home–or maybe two or three or four dream homes. Linderhof Palace, where he actually spent a lot of time, was designed as a mini-Versailles-for-one. It is in French Rococo style and has any number of references to the Sun King, including this ceiling medallion in the main entry.

But Ludwig called himself the Moon King. He often stayed up all night and slept all day. He was fond of moonlit sleighrides. Pulled by four white horses, he rode in solitary splendor, enjoying the spectacular Bavarian landscape of mountains, foothills and farms.

During these forays into the countryside, he would often stop and visit with the locals, who adored him. His life was lonely, but by all accounts at least some of his servants and a few of his peers became loyal and trusted friends. The movie Ludwig, directed by Luchino Visconti, touchingly describes some of these friendships, which lasted to the untimely end of Ludwig’s life.

Michael Jackson in Vienna, Austria, 1988, Zoran Veselinovic, Creative Commons Attribution Share Alike

If I had to make a modern comparison, I would compare Ludwig IV to Michael Jackson. I would not want to offend fans of either man by carrying the comparison too far. But both of them were romantic, idealistic, talented, misunderstood, and wildly famous but still lonely. Both of them died far too early in mysterious circumstances. And both died accompanied only by their physicians. Sometimes the past can help us understand the present.

Join me next time for more explorations in the art and history of Europe!

Lunch with Ludwig II

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In his dining room at Linderhof Palace, King Ludwig II did not want servants bothering him. Maybe he wanted to avoid the inefficiencies of dining at his childhood home, Hohenschwangau Castle, a few miles away from Linderhof. In Hohenschwangau, the kitchen was in a separate building. When the family sat down to eat, someone had to stand next to the window. This servant would wave at another servant stationed at the kitchen window when it was time to bring in the next course. Then the food had to be carried up a couple of flights of stairs in insulated containers.

Hohenschwangau Castle

When he built his own personal dream home at Linderhof, Ludwig did away with all that nonsense. He designed a dining table that disappeared through the floor into the kitchen directly below. I had seen this table, but I couldn’t imagine how it actually worked until I watched Luchino Visconti’s film Ludwig, made in 1972. There is a scene where Ludwig leans back from finishing one course, and a couple of servants down below crank the table down to restock it. Sliding panels automatically fill in the space, relieving my worry that poor Ludwig would accidentally fall into his kitchen. It’s a sad scene. The liveried servants down below are making coarse jokes about their employer and guzzling his leftover wine.

No doubt it was always hard to find good help. Ludwig was probably not the most considerate employer, either. Today, it is possible to peer in through the ground-level kitchen window and see the mechanism that lifts and lowers the table.

The dining room is French Rococo, like the rest of the very small palace. That translates into a lot of carved gilded woodwork, framed mirrors and exquisite porcelain.

With tourists traipsing through the place, the windows are covered with heavy shades to protect the interior. But Ludwig would have looked out at a very pretty French-styled garden complete with fleur-de-lis flower beds.

Ludwig’s disappearing table is not large. Today, there is only one throne-like chair. Ludwig almost always ate all alone. In fact, there were no guest quarters in the small palace because there were no guests. But according to the guides, Ludwig often had the table set for at least one other person, sometimes two or three. He liked to chat with some of his imaginary friends, whose portraits appear in the room: Marie Antoinette, Madame de Pompadour, and Louis IV.

When the Bavarian government finally got fed up with Ludwig’s spending and failure to sit in boring Cabinet meetings, much was made of his unusual habits. Was having imaginary friends evidence of insanity? Personally, I don’t think so. I think Ludwig was a man who wanted to create the illusion of being with his favorite people in a perfect world. For about 22 years of his life, from 1864 to 1886, he had the means to do just that.

Join me next time for more insight into some of the quirky byways in the art and history of Europe!

Ludwig’s Local Starbucks at Linderhof

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After the Siege of Vienna by the Ottomans was broken in 1683, the conquering army of Austrians found sacks of Turkish coffee left behind. Immediately coffee became a popular drink, and coffeehouses sprang up. Of course, Ludwig was not a sociable man, and he had no use for internet access. So instead of heading to his local watering hole, he savored his morning coffee in his very own Moorish Kiosk on the grounds of Linderhof Palace.

Moroccan House at Linderhof

The structure was built for the International Exhibition in Vienna in Paris in 1867. Ludwig wanted to buy it, but a railroad mogul beat him to the punch. He had to wait until a little later, when the railroad went bankrupt. The interior is otherworldly, lit mostly by sunlight streaming through stained glass.

Moroccan House Interior

The most distinctive feature is the Peacock Throne. Unfortunately, tourists are only allowed to peer into the doorway, so it’s hard to say whether the throne was built for comfort.

Ludwig was always dressed impeccably for any occasion. History does not record what he wore for his jaunts to his favorite morning coffee spot, but I can use my imagination.

Join me next time for further exploration into quirky corners in the art and history of Europe!

Linderhof: “Mad” King Ludwig’s Real Home

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Last fall I was finally able to visit Linderhof Palace, King Ludwig II’s favorite home, at a time when the grotto was open. I was anxious to see it, especially after watching Luchino Visconti’s very fine film Ludwig, about the life and mysterious death of the notorious Bavarian king.

Ludwig built Linderhof as his own personal getaway. In fact, it was the ultimate bachelor pad. But he enjoyed the place in solitary splendor; he rarely if ever had visitors. He built a special music room for his favorite composer, Richard Wagner, but Wagner never saw it. The grounds are breathtaking, and because the palace is quite small, each room looks out onto a beautiful manicured view with pristine mountains in the background.

Linderhof Palace

In Visconti’s 1972 film Ludwig, the king is played by Visconti’s real-life romantic partner and muse, Helmut Berger.

It is hard to say how accurate the life story is. But it is certain that Ludwig was an eccentric and dreamy romantic. His people loved him, but he was not much of a king when it was time to hang the ermine in the closet and get some work done.

One of Ludwig’s very few friends was his cousin, the Austrian Empress Elisabeth, nicknamed Sisi. She was famously married to the Emperor when she was only 15, and spent the rest of her life wanting out. She is played by Romy Schneider (who also played Sisi in the very silly but entertaining semi-fictional series of Sissi movies).

The grotto was built up the hill behind the castle. The entrance looks like a fort a very ambitious child might build.

But the grotto itself is as jaw-droppingly weird and beautiful as it was in Ludwig’s day. He had Wagner’s operas performed inside for his own personal pleasure. The water was heated, so that he could swim in it if he tired of being rowed around in his gilded shell boat. And the lighting could change colors depending on his mood, or the mood of the opera scene.

Ludwig’s Grotto

The grotto is still festooned with the floral swags that Visconti’s movie crew put up. The film has a fantastic scene where an Austrian actor is taken into the grotto to meet Ludwig, who wants him to recite dramatic speeches 24/7. Helmut Berger, as Ludwig, floats out of the gloom in his shell boat, wearing a dark overcoat and a black Homburg–with an enormous diamond brooch pinned to the side. He fixes the actor with an imperious, piercing stare. The actor tries hard to be Ludwig’s New Best Friend, but the friendship ends badly and Ludwig is alone again.

Nearby Neuschwanstein and Hohenschwangau Castles are justly famous, but they are overrun with tourists. Armed with a Bavarian Castles Pass, I actually went to Linderhof twice during my last trip. One day it was rainy, the next it was sunny. I can’t say I had the place to myself, but there was time and space enough to ponder the mysterious life of Ludwig.

Join me next time for more explorations in the art and history of Europe!

Bears in Berlin

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In the Rocky Mountains of northwest Colorado, where I live, spring means BEARS. We scurry out to the curb with our trash practically when we see the garbage truck coming, and haul in the empty garbage cans as soon as the truck is past. If we had birdfeeders out in the winter, we bring them in. Still, sometimes the bears get a little too close, like this yearling cub trying to open my back door last week.

Notice the cub’s claws!

His mother and brother (or sister) watched with great interest. Maybe they could all have a feast!

My door has a lever handle, and the cub knew how to push down on it. When that didn’t work, he tried his already-powerful jaws. All this was going on while I stood just inside the glass, hoping the deadbolt would hold. The note on the inside of my door says “Do not open this door!” I don’t want it left unlocked by accident.

My house seems to be located on an ancient game trail. Moose, elk, deer and bears parade past as if they owned the place–which, in a way, they do. Taking the wildlife officer’s advice, I have pots and pans ready to bang if bears come too close again. These animals need to be kept wild if they are to survive.

Last spring at this time, I visited Berlin for the first time. I saw bear statues everywhere, in bright colors and playful poses.

A bear appears on the city flag of Berlin, too.

Flag of Berlin

No one seems to know when or why the bear became the symbol of Berlin. There was an early ruler whose nickname was “The Bear.” Or, more likely, the origin was a pun on the name of the city. Sadly, though, there have been no bears in the entire country of Germany for almost 200 years. Historically, wherever they appeared in Europe, they were exploited and abused. Farmers hunted them to extinction. In 2006, one of the 30 bears known to live in Austria wandered across the border into Germany. He was tracked for two weeks, then killed as a danger to humans. Efforts were made to transplant bears into Austria in the 1990’s, but now they are extinct in that country too.

I feel blessed to live in a place where we try to coexist with the wildlife right outside our doors. I’ll do my part to help this magnificent creature live and thrive in the mountains!

Bad news: brown bears extinct in Austria

How Brunelleschi Gave Us Perspective

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Filippo Brunelleschi, the genius who figured out how to build the spectacular octagonal dome of the Florence Cathedral, is often credited with inventing linear perspective around 1420. Actually, his great rival Lorenzo Ghiberti would beg to differ. So would the Arab mathemetician known as Alhazen, who lived around 965-1040. A copy of Alhazen’s work on the subject, with notes by Ghiberti, is in the Vatican Library. The ancient Greeks and Romans had the knowledge too, but it was lost in the Middle Ages. So Brunelleschi’s work was really more of a rediscovery.

What exactly is linear perspective? It is the technique of making an image in two dimensions–a flat surface–appear to be in three dimensions, with depth. As a not-very-good, self-taught painter, I’m always looking for ways to make my paintings less bad. Awhile ago, I bought a kit that promised to help me:

Linear Perspective Kit

The kit consists of various frames and grids. If I had the patience to actually work with the kit, I could create more realistic paintings by establishing a vanishing point, a horizon line, and accurate diagonals. While writing about Filippo Brunelleschi, I realized that the illustration on the cover of my kit depicts the master’s famous demonstration of linear perspective. The building shown on the cover is the Baptistery of Florence.

Florence Baptistery

The hexagonal building stands directly across from the Florence Duomo. Brunelleschi stood in the doorway of the still-unfinished cathedral. Using the rediscovered calculations and techniques of perspective, he painted a very accurate picture of the Baptistery. (We could take a photo, but there were no cameras in his day). Then he poked a hole in the canvas and looked through the back of the canvas at a mirror. When he quickly moved the mirror away, the viewer could see how accurate the painting was. Very quickly, every Renaissance painter worth his salt began using the technique. It was part of the new realism that swept the art world after centuries of art that was much more symbolic than realistic.

The Baptistery was constructed sometime between 1059 and 1128. Right up into the 19th century, this was the place every Florentine Catholic was baptized. In about 1400, new doors were needed. The city fathers held a competition for the plum job of creating bronze doors for this very important building. Brunelleschi was 21 at the time; Ghiberti was barely 20. The younger pup won. Ghiberti ended up working on these doors, plus a subsequent set, for pretty much the rest of his life. It took him 20 years to finish the first set of doors and 25 more years for the next set.

Brunelleschi was disappointed; this may have been one reason he turned his talents to architecture and design. Personally, I think he was lucky he lost this competition. It enabled him to enter and win the one for the cathedral dome. Both men became famous and had illustrious, well-paid careers. But today, it is hard to fully appreciate Ghiberti’s work even when standing right in front of the doors. We’ve lost our taste for intricate bronze reliefs. Brunelleschi, on the other hand, got to spend 16 years on a complex project in the open air of Florence, while everyone in the city discussed and admired his work. Today, every visitor can admire the Duomo from countless vantage points in and around the city.

The most famous image of Brunelleschi is a large statue that shows him gazing up at the crowning achievement of his life, the dome of the cathedral.

Photo by Richardfabi, released to public domain

Leonardo da Vinci remarked, “Perspective is the rein and rudder of painting.” Now, maybe I had better get that kit off the shelf and get to work painting.

Join me next time for more explorations into the art and history of Europe!

“In Santa Croce with no Baedecker”

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I can’t leave A Room with a View without revisiting one of my favorite scenes from both the novel and the movie: “In Santa Croce with no Baedeker.” Lucy Honeychurch finds herself unaccompanied in the grand church of Santa Croce. Even worse, she has no guidebook. A Baedeker–the equivalent of a Rick Steves guide–would tell her what to see, and how to see it. From the novel A Room with a View by E.M. Forster:

She walked about disdainfully, unwilling to be enthusiastic over monuments of uncertain authorship or date. There was no one even to tell her which, of all the sepulchral slabs that paved the nave and transepts, was the one that was really beautiful, the one that had been most praised by Mr. Ruskin.

Then the pernicious charm of Italy worked on her, and, instead of acquiring information, she began to be happy.

But just when she’s beginning to enjoy herself, the dreaded Mr. Emerson and his handsome but impertinent son George appear. They were baffling enough at dinner the night before:

And Mr. Emerson insists on talking to her in a most alarming way:

I don’t require you to fall in love with my boy, but I do think you might try and understand him…. Make him realize that by the side of the everlasting Why there is a Yes!

Of course what Lucy needs is to learn to say “Yes!” herself.

Santa Croce is a Franciscan church, so it is no accident that E.M. Forster places his characters here. The author wants his stuffy Victorian English characters to unwind in the warmth and charm of Italy. St. Francis is the very warmest and friendliest of saints. Mr. Forster’s characters can well use the directness, humility and freshness of the beloved saint. So, of course, together they look at the glorious Giotto frescoes of the life and death of St. Francis:

In 2010, frescoes of Giotto were “rediscovered” under centuries of neglect and old paint. As far as I can tell, they’re been left alone so far. But there’s a BBC video showing them under ultraviolet light at http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/europe/8556930.stm.

Surely we’re all a little like Lucy in Santa Croce: instead of constantly acquiring information, we can just look around us and be happy. And surely great art can help make us happy.

Join me next time for more explorations of the art and history of Europe, with some sidetracks into literature too!

A Room with a View

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When the movie A Room with a View came out in 1985, I had never been to Italy. Within the first 20 minutes, I made up my mind to get there, especially to Florence and the countryside of Tuscany. That’s what movies can do for us. The story is from E.M. Forster’s 1908 novel of the same name; the chapter titles are charmingly used to name the chapters of the movie. In Britain, The Guardian named this movie one of the 10 best romantic films of all time, and it’s no wonder.

Helena Bonham Carter, playing a somewhat muddled girl named Lucy Honeychurch, has to choose between two equally handsome men: Julian Sands, passionate and unconventional, and Daniel Day Lewis, bookish, inhibited, and full of himself.

Maggie Smith, as her cousin and older chaperon Charlotte Bartlett, is deliciously dithery but finally comes down on the side of true love.

Judy Dench, as a not-very-good lady novelist, writes some immortal prose about a scandalous kiss that takes place in a very real Tuscan meadow.

Daniel Day Lewis, as Cecil Vyse, makes the mistake of mocking the passage at a crucial moment. (The very different movie My Beautiful Laundrette came out on the very same day as this one. It was hard to believe Daniel Day Lewis was the same actor in both of them. His incredible range as an actor put him well on the way to stardom). But I’ve given enough away already. Watch the movie! It’s available streaming on Netflix.

The screenwriter, Ruth Prawer Jhabvala, won an Oscar for her screenplay. She won another Oscar six years later for Howard’s End, from another E. M. Forster novel. She collaborated for many years with the directing-producing team of James Ivory and Ismail Merchant. She died on April 3 of this year, at age 85. Throughout her life, she also wrote wonderful fiction. Her most recent story, “The Judge’s Will,” was just published in the March 25 issue of The New Yorker.

Florence is not just a location, but a starring character in this movie. And the Tuscan countryside just outside the city is a place where dreams can come true. I did make it to Florence, and to the Tuscany countryside. Both destinations were everything I wished for, and more. Travel gives each of us a personal and lifelong “room with a view,” even after we return home. Movies can give us each a little boost in getting to those views.

Join me next time for more reflections on the art and history of Europe!