Giornale 3: Galleria Nazionale d'Arte Moderna

Free for the afternoon, a small group of us decided to knock off one of our required journals by visiting the National Museum of Modern Art, located close to the Villa Borghese. We hopped on the Metro and exited one stop over, in Flaminio, though we quickly realized that we weren't quite sure where to go. Sure, a few people had maps with them, but when we walked outside we found ourselves in a district far dirtier than the Piazza del Popolo, filled with seagulls and cheap markets and a large amount of people. Retracing our steps quickly, we reentered the subway station and took the long tunnel out into the Piazza del Popolo area, though we still  had no idea where the museum was. When we realized that the tunnel had spat us out on the opposite side of the square outside the Piazza, we decided to just brave the untrodden waters, too tired to take the Metro two more stops to the Piazza di Spagna. So we set out, following the map-leader, climbing stairs through a small archway that led to a sidewalk carved up a hill, a large park sitting on the left. The walk was fairly tiring after my 500-something-step trip to the dome of St. Peter's dome, but it wasn't long, and along the way we passed a fleet of tour buses parked against the sidewalk, waiting for their respective tourists to return. As we neared the museum, we passed a beautiful fountain, built out of an almost spongy-looking rock, waterfalls cascading from the top and a fountain sitting on the lower level. A white archway capped the top of the rock-face, an eagle statue sitting in repose beneath the canopy of trees. It was beautiful, and I wished I knew the name of it, or the reason for why it was there. Perhaps it was meant to serve as a beacon into the museum, since its overall appearance was quite modern and unique.

When finally we reached the many stairs that would descend to street level and the museum's crosswalk, we saw two stationary automobiles erected out front: one a subway or tram, the other a locomotive, no doubt symbolizing the mix of new and dated art found within the museum. And I admit, I had my reservations when we were entering the museum. I was hot from the walk, exhausted from our day at the Vatican, and rather uninterested in modern art; I was only really there to fulfill the journal requirement, and I was pretty unhappy with the supposed 12 euro entry fee. However, my feelings for the museum did change. For one, it turned out that it only cost us 4 euro to enter (already enough to gain some of my affection). And yes, the exhibit was rather weird upon first glance. Despite the size of the building, when I entered the exhibit I thought it would be a relatively small trip, filled with displays that looked like giant cotton-balls slapped against a white background and paintings that were just streaks of color against a canvas. And for several rooms, that was what I saw—though I did find some interesting displays that piqued my interest, such as Dominco Gnoli's, whose simple titles like "Newspaper and Shoe" and "Tie" state exactly what they are but do not fully encapsulate how fascinating the pieces are. 

However, even this modern art museum, with its expressionist and abstract pieces, displayed works that I could enjoy. There were rooms upon rooms boasting paintings and statues, and there simply wasn't enough time in our two hour visit to see or appreciate them all. Nonetheless, I found two statues among all the ones in all the rooms that intrigued me the most—for the expression in the statues' features to the emotions that lay behind their simple actions. I found, while viewing these pieces, that they evoked far more feeling than what I'm used to with ancient Rome's statues, and I appreciated that difference; I also very much enjoyed the influence of ancient Rome on modern art, as that will always be my soft spot no matter the exhibit. One such statue that I enjoyed, and that mixed the Classical influence with the modernist range of emotion, was Benedetto Civiletti's Giulo Cesare Giovinetto (Young Julius Caesar). The boy Caesar, likely in the sixteen to twenty age range, sits sprawled against a chair, his chest naked as the cloth of his toga spills out around his waist. On his left hand, dangling in the air as he leans his arm against the chair back, a ring is visible on his ring finger, perhaps indicating his new marriage to his first wife, Cornelia. His expression is troubled, brow creased and hair rumpled, as if the artist means to indicate that young Caesar, who has lost his father and is in uncomfortable position around Sulla at this age, already has too many burdens that weigh him down. It's beautiful, black stone so unlike the marble statues of antiquity, and dares to depict Caesar not as the wizened imperator of his final years but as an uncertain teenager, poised on the edge of some decision. It's really quite intriguing, and his puzzled expression feels so life-like: as though you're standing there, witnessing him work through some profound calculation.

Another art piece I loved, actually in the same room, was Emilio Franceschi's Fossor. It seemed less like an artistic sculpture and more like a sarcophagus, dug up from some excavated site or else erected in a cemetery, like those in the Protestant Cemetery. It's a companion piece to Franceschi's Eulalia Cristiana, the depiction of a woman crucified on a cross, and it is a sculpture of a sarcophagus as it is being engraved by a fossor, or gravedigger. The worlds carved into the front read hic resquiescit virgo sanctissima, have et vale—here rests a most pure/sanctified maiden, hail and farewell. On the sides, Christian imagery—the Chi-Ro with an alpha and omega on either side, a fish, a dove, a lamb, and a cross—mix with the words pax tecum (peace with you) and Eulalia ancilla dei in pace (the slave-girl Eulalia [is] in the peace of God). And on the lid of the sarcophagus, still carving the name Eulalia, the fossor sits and lets his right leg overhang the side, his eyelids drooping and his lower lip protruding in a pout, as though he is fighting off tears. It's a very unique and heartbreaking piece, revealing both the tensions of pagan vs. Christian Rome—a theme near and dear to our class's heart—and the kinds of people who go on even after the death of martyrs. It was incredibly thought-provoking, and I'm quite glad I didn't just walk by the little details in the stone.

The Galleria Nazionale d'Arte Moderna certainly had more than these two sculptures, all different from the last in size, color, expression, and genre. To be quite honest, the museum was exhausting—even the exhibit part—because there was just so much to pack into one trip. However, even though I felt no real love toward the more abstract paintings and sculptures, I truly enjoyed a great portion (maybe even the majority) of the displays we saw.

Voyeurism: It's Not Stalking if it's for a Grade

There's a cafe within viewing distance of the Asia-and-Africa side of the Fountain of the Four Rivers called the Cafe Domiziano, perhaps named for the remains of the Stadium of Domitian we passed on our way to the Piazza Navona. Red-and-white checkered tablecloths are everywhere, tables shaded by a white canopy, and through the street separating the cafe from the square clusters of tourists linger and crowd around for minutes at a time, juggling their cameras or staring up at the Fountain's tall obelisk. In this cafe, a man sits in the front row, the sole inhabitant of the establishment, while an eye-catching number of policemen (polizia) and soldiers mill about in the side street beside the cafe. This man sits sprawled in his chair, sunglasses on despite the shade and a cigarette dangling from his right hand as he leans against the back of his seat and crosses his leg. His pink polo shirt, complete with popped collar, stands out brightly in the shadowy exterior of the cafe, and beyond his table in the open space in front of the door a waiter stands looking out at all the tourists, lightly tapping a menu against his thigh as he waits to be necessary. 

To the left of the cafe (from my vantage point), two policemen wander the alleyway, their uniforms dark blue, medals on their chests, smart collars flanked by copper-colored rectangles. Their hats are white with a dark rim, and the slightly shorter one stands close to a middle-height, rather portly man, conversing with him as the taller detail wanders back and forth along the street. The conversation ends quickly as the portly man walks away and through the doors of the cafe: perhaps the owner of the establishment, though his dress isn't too elaborate. Maybe the man had been upset by the presence of the policemen—asking why they were standing there, attracting attention, when there were even more policemen in the middle of the square, doing a good job of ignoring the tourists who crossed over the fence surrounding the Fountain. Or maybe he's asking about the so-called workers' strike, wondering where his customers are if the transportation is apparently still running. 

Meanwhile, the pink-shirted cafe customer, still enjoying his solitary coffee, is joined suddenly by a short-haired woman, who seats herself familiarly in the chair across from him. They exchange a word or two, and then she leans over something, sunglasses hiked high on her head and periwinkle shirt wrinkling as she stairs at the table —a map, perhaps, or a guide book. The sight of them sitting alone in the cafe, as tourists mingle together in swirls of sneakers and shorts and camera lenses and awkward hats, seems odd; at some moments they seem Italian, completely at ease with the way the piazza slowly fills up, while at other moments the woman's dedicated perusal of her papers makes them seem like tourists. It is clear, though, that she is doing most of the work, as the man continues to lean back against his chair, yawning widely before turning his head to look out at the square and the merchant tents. His hands link together behind his head, his body language relaxed and disinterested, while his companion —a lover or wife —scribbles something down.

Maybe they're on their honeymoon. Or a renewal of their wedding vows. The man, content with his surroundings (and his coffee, from the way he takes a sip every so often and smacks his lips), busies himself with the sights of Rome just as we Romekids have, no concept of time on his mind as he sits in a cafe earlier than is decent. He lets his wife plan the trip, because she's kind of a control freak anyway, from the way she keeps her hair boyishly short to the way she exercises every day to maintain her slim physique, and he doesn't really know where to start. He's just here for a nice vacation, nothing too stressful, enjoying the more visceral pleasures of Rome while he can.

Giornale 2: Castel Sant'Angelo

Sunday, May 29.

After a morning filled with dead things—from the obsolete Aurelian wall to the haunting pyramid of Gaius Cestius to the graves of non-Catholic foreigners—we ended our group trip at Testaccio, amidst the more residential neighborhoods and the site of ancient Rome's mountain of pottery. From there, the itinerary was open-ended: we could go back to St. John's to sleep, go shopping in Piazza Navona or the Campo de Fiori, maybe eat lunch in some cozy and secluded restaurant. I, with a group of numerous others, decided to make my way back to St. John's, but it was only for a brief recuperation period: I needed to trade jeans for shorts (because it was 80 degrees out and hot as Hades), bandage my blisters, and get rid of my backpack, since the pickpockets had been out in full force this morning, nearly stealing from two Romekids on the train. Then it was off to the Castel Sant'Angelo, which many of us had been itching to see for days but always missed the chance to go. We met up at the bus stop at quarter to 1, got quick and cheap sandwiches from Mondo Arancina, and then crammed into the 280 when it finally came.

The Castel, as I wasn't truly prepared for, was teeming with people. The bridge nearly buckled under so many tourists making their way through the heat and merchants shouting out their wares from both sidewalks. Statue people, dressed as Egyptian sarcophagi or metal cowboys, sat in front of their donation buckets, and to the far right the markets filled up the entire sidewalk with tents and shoppers. Thankfully, the line into the Castel was short enough, and we only had to stand beneath the blazing sun for five to ten minutes before we were all able to move in through the wide gateway toward the ticket booth. The walls rose at our backs, the towers casting shadows into the courtyard as we followed the marked lines toward the ticket booth and into the fortress itself, and everything was complete brick. Far from being bland, however, the inside was an impressive serious of arches and tunnels. It marked the mausoleum part of the structure, and as I climbed each steep ramp I found myself recognizing the many small side rooms that seem standard in ancient Roman architecture: like the Colosseum, Hadrian's mausoleum had many nooks built into either side of the walls, and there were multiple layers to the structure. It was shadowy, a sallow yellow lighting illuminating the walls (as windows were not very large in ancient buildings), and it was cool, refreshing and calming compared to the hectic commotion going on right outside the building.

When we reached the second courtyard, up a few floors but not yet near the top of the fortress, we milled around to admire the stature of the angel with copper wings, placed in the center the area, and the wooden catapult to the right of it, with plastic-looking cannonballs piled up against the wall. Placed together, these two sections expressed the turn of an era: ancient Rome, represented in the levels of Hadrian's mausoleum, has given way to the Christian empire and the medieval warfare that came with it. From here, mainly Christian influence would reign within the walls of what was once a Roman emperor's tomb—and that is made quite obvious once you enter the museum attached to this courtyard, where the paintings of saints, the Virgin Mary, and Christ line nearly every wall in every room. Pope attire has been encased in glass, crosses too, and only one amphora from Attic Greece is present. Ancient Rome is far less prevalent now, as the Castel leads higher and higher up.

 

To go to the next level, we walked out of the museum back into the courtyard, passing the copper-winged angel and taking stairs up to a beautiful corridor that circled the entire castle. Half of it was exposed to the air, so the sun shined in over the walls and cast shadows onto the brick floor, while the other half was covered to create a roof for a cafe (because whether this building was the tomb of deceased men or the site of Christian warfare, people need to refresh themselves). We passed small doors marked for the popes, most likely the papal apartments the brochures noted, and through the open windows on the left-side wall we were granted a breathtaking view of the Tiber and all the land that lay beyond it. If ever anyone has an undying urge to see the best view of Rome, the Castel Sant'Angelo is a great place to relieve that itch (so long as said person has 8.50 euro on hand). 

There were more stairs to climb, and more museums to see, filled again with papal outfits and Christian imagery, followed again by more stairs passing another museum. Beyond that narrow and steep staircase, though, breaking out into the gleaming, painfully bright sunlight, rests the roof of the Castel Sant'Angelo, where the world of Rome stretches out toward the horizon, literally beneath your feet. It's difficult for me to choose my favorite spot in Rome, because the Palatine, the Ara Pacis, and the Colosseum are all incredible experiences that resonate with me for one reason or another: the gardens of the Palatine and the ancient palaces make me feel peaceful and show the side of Rome that isn't loud traffic or congested tourist areas; the Ara Pacis is an Augustan propagandist masterpiece, simple in size but elegant in its decoration; and the Colosseum is simply a must-see, for its view of Rome and its impressively preserved remains. As for the top of the Castel, for all that it hurts to keep your eyes open for two long, since the sun flashes off every bright surface and sears your eyes no matter what direction you turn, the climb turns into one of those this-is-it moments. The Castel Sant'Angelo, representing numerous eras of history and changes of empire, leads you up to a panoramic view of Rome that you just can't get anywhere else. The heat is scorching, the rare breeze is delightful as you lean against the railing, and up top you can experience the entirety of Rome's glory: counting the arches as they cluster together on the left, finding the Vittorio Emanuele (your Roman Waldo, since it's everywhere) in the distance, and seeing the Vatican as it stretches out on the right. The sky never seems so blue as it does from the roof of the Castel, the Tiber winding its way around the castle down below and Rome cradling the monument in a mosaic of multi-century buildings. The Castel Sant'Angelo really helps you gain a perspective in all ways.

Ekphrasis on the Fall of Troy

The frame is gilt, gleaming against the dark corners of the painting, and takes up the whole far wall of the gallery room. And while it is eye-catching for the luxurious way it hangs the artwork, you nonetheless forget about it when you take in the smoky grays and blacks of the painting's background. The scene takes place within a Trojan house —though the influence of the Renaissance is everywhere, from the thick banister flanking stairs at the bottom-left corner to the metal, almost knight-like helmet at the bottom right —where rubble lies scattered on the floor near the front and fallen bedsheets, a verdant green color, half-cover a spear and the forgotten metal helmet. Through the window on the left, next to the staircase, smoke and flames lick upwards into the crumbling villa, sparking against a column built into the wall. Pillars decorate the wall that leads further back into the house toward an archway opening up to the outside, beyond which you can see Troy burning: a man hangs over a parapet connected to the house, Greek soldiers slay Trojan citizens in the street, and on the steps of a domed temple Greeks chase out and overtake the people in flight. Farthest back, in the distant center of the painting, a palace-like building burns into the night.

It's easy to miss details like these, however, because of the main focus of the painting. In the center four figures flee into the night, running away from the destruction of the palace and temple through the crumbling and burning villa: Aeneas, Anchises, Ascanius, and Creusa. Their flight mirrors the classic scene of the Aeneid where the family realizes that they must leave behind their home or else be murdered by the Greek invasion, so Aeneas hoists his elderly and unwilling father over his shoulder, grabs his son Ascanius by the hand, and takes off towards a safe haven outside the city, Creusa a few fatal steps behind.

So this painting captures their struggles. Aeneas, looking less like a golden Trojan and more like a Frenchman because of his stylized mustache and trimmed beard, climbs over the rubble as he balances his father over his left shoulder, both arms hooked under the old man's knees. He can't run very fast, and he keeps his eyes on his feet to watch his next steps, his sandals balanced on the rocks as he goes. He's dressed as a soldier, chain-mail underneath a green tunic and a metal helmet covering his head. But any sword is not apparent, as he does his best to get out of the city as elusively as possible. Anchises, draped over his shoulder and only half-dressed in a golden tunic, stares ahead in distress as he clings tightly to the Penates; and Anchises, frightened and coming up only to Aeneas' hip, clings to his father's clothing as he presses his hand tightly to his right ear, looking frightened and confused as he struggles to keep up. Creusa is several feet behind the family, unable to keep up with the family even as her red and white tunic flutters behind her in her flight. Already the painting symbolizes her inevitable death, as she is sequestered to the background and not touching any member of her family.

Outsider Looking In

I've noticed, in the few days that I've been to Rome, that I'm a blatant tourist no matter what I do. I carry my wallet in my hand constantly and lug my backpack around everywhere; I take pictures of the smallest things, like the way the trees in Europe are different from those in Massachusetts; and I am hopelessly, completely lost in the city, oftentimes struggling with the language barrier when I try to experience "real" Italy by going to supermarkets or shopping for fresh fruit in the markets of the Campo di Fiore. So I've learned some things about Rome that have really opened my eyes to the fact that I'm experiencing a completely different culture (though you'd think the fact that signs are written in Italian would have driven that notion home by now).

1. Don't run anywhere. Seriously. Nobody runs for buses. Or runs to avoid passing cards. Or runs to catch a tram because that's your fastest way out of wherever-the-hell, Italy. If you're Italian, the traffic will part for you immediately as you casually stroll down the street. Or the motorcycles will not give a fuck and zoom in front of you while your crossing, because they like to squeeze themselves through the smallest places. Basically you just have to have the confidence to step into a busy street without looking both ways. Unless a bus comes. Because those are nasty mothers.

2. Always. Have. Change. God forbid you expect to break bills in a supermarket. I think the most terrifying experience of this trip so far has been my encounter with an extremely frustrated cashier women, dealing with four or five Americans who have no idea that we're supposed to pay with the smallest bills possible, and who can't even speak enough Italian to know how much change they owe. Hell hath no fury like an Italian breaking bills.

3. You will never be on time for anything. Even your best-laid plans will fall through, because the bus you want isn't appearing even after a string of seven buses have passed, or three trams have gone by in the time that you've been waiting for the one you need. You'll also get lost, because there's a lot to cover in Rome and a lot of side alleys that look alike, so you'll probably have to walk to the place you need. Because your bus broke down. Or the subway closes at nine.

4. Dining is strange. The cafes are fast-paced and crowded, and they charge you extra if you want to enjoy your meal outside, though the majority of Italians will take their pastries and cappuccinos leisurely at the counter. (Takeout is pretty nonexistent in the more formal Italian establishments.) Dinner doesn't really start here until around eight at night, and some of the restaurants stay relatively empty until even later. And the food is always delicious and always filling, no matter how strange it looks or how many miles you walk. Even the orange juice is fantastic. And I hate orange juice.

5. Be aggressive. If you want to get on the subway at rush hour so you don't get left behind by your entire group, you need to start elbowing people in the gut. It's basically the Italian hello in the more crowded sections of the city. No one will wait for you to get onto a bus, or order your food, or cross the street; you can't be demure about it, or really even polite, because they will shove right past you in order to get to where they're going.

Giornale 1: Church of Santa Maria in Aracoeli

Wednesday, May 25.

My feet hurt. Since we spent the good part of Tuesday walking everywhere—even dinner, after which we got locked out of a subway, missed any available bus nearby, and had to walk home—my body was aching as it never had before. It didn't help that I chose Wednesday then to wear my new flats, which were seemingly comfortable upon purchase but pretty much a pedestrian apocalypse if you walked more than fifteen minutes in them. Which was what I did even before we went to the Musei Capitolini. My feet are so covered in band-aids they look practically Zombified. But for all the walking I had to do on the stone floors of the museum, and for all the standing we did in the remains of the Tabularium, looking out onto the Roman Forum, it was a beautiful exhibit and an enjoyable half day. Of course, I should have gone home afterward, soaked my feet in as much ice as I could find, and slept, but I hadn't eaten yet, and I was starving. So as our group split into different sections, a majority of us stayed with Dan, in search of a place to exchange money and procure food. It turned out to be a long walk.

The banks in Italy are frustratingly fortified. To get into them, you have to pass through a small glass cubicle, where the door slides open to admit you, and then you have to wait a few seconds before entering the bank. For the first one we went to, the cubicle was also a metal detector and x-ray—before we went inside, we had to leave our bags behind, which meant a few of us sat around on the floor in exhaustion while we waited to see if the bank would exchange American dollars. It wouldn't. Not without a valid passport. So from there our group split up again, half going to search for lunch while the other half sought another bank. I went with the bank group, but when we happened upon the next bank the wait was so long that we had to set out again. Finally we found a place that would exchange money with only a driver's license ID, which meant we could finally eat (and that meant sitting, which I was praying for at that point). We had lunch at Insalata Ricca, a really cramped restaurant that made walking around people difficult, but it served massive salads. I'm pretty convinced at this point that anything Italian-made is simply superior, because I've never had such a delicious salad before ever. I mean, it's salad, a filling appetizer at best. But apparently in Italy even the salads are fine cuisine.

From there we set back out—walking, of course—to the Capitoline and the Church of Santa Maria in Aracoeli. It sits at the top of the left set of stairs, a rather nondescript and, to put it bluntly, ugly brick building with tiny windows and a cross over its center door. It's an extremely wide building, block-y and simple in its basic rectangular geometry. Its simple brick exterior looks much like the Curia Julia (which was converted into a church itself), and compared to the elaborate churches with impressive domes and looming towers Santa Maria's modest facade doesn't really seem worth the 124 (or 125) steps it takes to get to its doors.

Inside, though, is a different story entirely. The church is incredibly spacious. All along its central nave blue, crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, sharing space with the arches and columns that line the left and right. They're elegant and luxurious, though they hardly need to be lit for all the natural light that pours through the windows at the top, near the ceiling. The ceiling, too, is beautiful, ornate as all churches I've seen in Italy so far are, gold-colored with embossed carvings that you willingly crane your neck to look at.

All these details draw your attention to the main altar, which glows yellow and is richly decorated with candlesticks, flowers, and a painting (most likely of Mary) at the center. There are seats near the front of the aisle, where the devout go to pray, but many of the people gathered were tourists like me, taking pictures of the engravings marking the tombs of those buried beneath the floor and the ornate ceiling towering overhead. Nonetheless, the altar is a pretty magnificent sight, far more embellished than the rest of the church because of its significance. The chandeliers light the white altar, and on either side religious paintings flanked by carvings accent it. It's certainly far more beautiful than churches back home, with a quiet, serene atmosphere that causes you to stop and stare for a long time at it, just taking in every detail.

The Church of Santa Maria in Aracoeli is famous for the statue of baby Jesus, thought to have magical healing powers because it was carved from a tree in Gethsemane. Though lost now, stolen sometime in the nineties and replaced by a replica, people still send their prayers to it in letters and pray the rosary in its respective room, sitting to the sides and just taking in the baby statue encased in glass. Though not my favorite part of the church in all, the statue was still quite beautiful, and the sentiment behind it even more-so. Much like the exterior of the church, this replica statue is not what it seems, but all the same they both have a hidden power and beauty behind them, if only you take a closer look.

Q and A on the Palatine

The Palatine is a massive hill—far more spacious than the Capitoline, and far more connected to antiquity than most. It overlooks the Roman Forum and the Colosseum beyond, and all around its peak reside the dilapidated foundations of brick villas and shops. It's a lush and fertile hill, teeming with tall trees and vibrant flowers, so it's no wonder that many Romans, the emperors included, wished to make this hill their place of residence. From Augustus to the Flavians, the emperors have built up their palaces until they appropriated a large portion of the Palatine, and it's a shame that all we have left are walls and bases of the Domus Augustana.

The Domus Augustana is confusing, though—not only for its name (I had to consult to Blue Guide to remind myself that the Augustana was the house of the Flavians—Vespasian, Titus, Domitian—while the house of Augustus is completely different, annexed to the superstructure of the Flavian palace) but for what lies beneath it. Past the Domus Augustana, a huge drop—almost like a quarry, where you would expect excavated ruins to be—reveals an oval ring (much like where chariot races would be held) and a wide expanse of grassy space. I found myself asking: this can't be the Circus Maximus, can it? It's certainly located toward the exit of the Palatine, but why would it be so small? And why would Vespasian expand his palace next to the roar of the races? And where did the seats go? Someone guessed that it was perhaps the Stadium of Domitian, but even so it still seemed strange than an emperor would choose to place any athletic structure so close to his home. No matter how long I marveled at it, I couldn't understand what it was. It was certainly incredible, huge walls rising up on all three sides—the left, straight ahead, and the right—and the vertiginous drop to the bottom, but its purpose escaped me. I couldn't even see an entrance to the area, let alone understand how so many people would be able to pile into that space.

Turns out, though, that it's not a racetrack at all. The Blue Guide identifies it as the sunken garden of Domitian, often mistaken for his stadium because of its hippodrome-like appearance. The fallen columns on the opposite side of the garden probably belonged to the two-story portico that surrounded three sides of it, and there is no entrance into it from the ground level. The fact that I mistook it for a racetrack just as other scholars had done is comforting, at least, and makes me wonder about what Domitian had in mind when he constructed it in the shape of a racetrack—especially since he also erected a stadium in his name. Perhaps it is indicative of an aggressive and extravagant personality, since not only are the gardens unreachable from the bottom level but they were constructed in the shape of a sport greatly enjoyed by Roman citizens.

Ekphrasis and Emphasis: Palazzo Nuovo's Gladiator

A fallen gladiator—naked, in the dust, his name and fate unknown as he rests in distress atop a marble platform. He is an isolated figure, kneeling on a slab of ground, his body torqued and twisted away from some invisible adversary. I don't know what story Monnot intended for this young, (presumably) Roman warrior—if he is perhaps waiting for an emperor to decide his fate; if he means to take his own life; or if he is futilely attempting to ward off another blow. Whatever the case, the lines and details of his body emphasize his helplessness. He crouches close the ground, held up by his left hand planted in the dirt, indents in the ground from where his hand has been pressed: the implant defines splayed-out fingers and a hand stressed by prominent veins. His arm and shoulder lean against a shield shoved into the small base of a tree (out of the immediate line of sight), and the strap of his shield circles the muscles of his upper arm only—the one meant to circle his forearm has been severed, the strap lying impotently on the ground behind his hand. There is a nick in his left breast, perhaps intentional as a sword wound, perhaps the result of age, and his torso curves at the rib cage, the bones beneath the skin visible against the muscle definition of his abdomen. His right leg stretches forward in front of his genitals, knee resting on a patch of grass as his foot digs into the dirt on its side, while his left bends more acutely, arch of his heel in the air as he balances his weight on the balls of his feet. Even as he struggles in the dust, the gladiator comes across as modest and aesthetic, a healthy model of Roman youth.

His face, however, conjures up the most pathos from the audience. Even from far away, one can tell that he is in some unknown trouble: face tilted to the sky, eyes wide and trained on something out of sight, the youth gazes solemnly into the distance—perhaps even to the heavens, as if in entreaty to the gods. Upon closer inspection, however, one can see (beyond the nicks of old age on his neck, cheek, and earlobe) the deep furrow of his brow. Seemingly passive from a distance, his expression becomes all the more emotional for the creases carved into his forehead. The Alexandrian curls and clean-shaven jaw only serve to deepen that pathos, as the sculptor emphasizes the youth of the man struggling in the dust. He seems doomed to fail in whatever endeavor he is attempting, as his outstretched right hand clamps tightly around the hilt of his sword (now broken off just beyond his thumb, if ever it was whole in the first place) and his scabbard lies uselessly beneath him, nearly brushing against his left foot as it rests in the shadow of his body. Even if he could push himself up to his knees, he would not be able to protect himself from whatever danger so concerns him: he is preserved perpetually as a man preparing for the end of his life, the sword in his hand a symbolic remnant (even in its broken state) of how his death will come to be.