All in the Family

Posted on June 24, 2007 by robhunt510

“The thing you need to understand about Cremona is that it is having a little war with Piacenza, that’s where we are from. You find the same thing everywhere in Italy: rivalries. Maybe it starts with football, but it’s not really that. It’s about a style, a lifestyle, a way of doing things, how to live the life. It goes back forever.” Donatella is an architect, she works with her father in a practice in Piacenza. Her great friend is Milena, a teacher in a secondary school. “History, art, Palladio, Michelangelo…the greats…” she laughs. “Italy has the longest history, it goes back a very long time – it’s important to us, to me…the tradition we have.”

“Piacenza is a beautiful city too, but the Duomo here [we are sitting in a side street looking at the floodlit façade of Cremona’s huge cathedral] is magnificent, no?” Milena says.

It’s like every town and city is in competition with each other? “Yes, that’s what I mean it’s not just football,” Donatella says. “Travel 20 kilometres from here and the dialect really changes; travel eighty and we can’t understand what’s being said. Go the south, past Naples and it’s impossible…”

“We are a very closed country,” Milena says. “We keep to our traditions, especially the idea of ‘family’.

Family is really the subject of the evening.

These are young working women from northern Italy. One has a Spanish boyfriend from Gallicia, the other lives with a local Italian. “I work in a catholic school, they don’t approve of this,” Milena says, pointing at a ring on the “incorrect” finger. “It should be on the third, we should be married.”

“Everything revolves around Il Papa,” Donatella says. “Even now. The big Papa in Rome and the small Papas everywhere. They still have the power.

“Our generation is different, is changing, but emotionally and culturally we still don’t get away from family. It is such a part of our history, and our daily lives.” Milena says. What about technology, in Lodi I see families talking by videophone. “It’s not the same; maybe we are a claustrophobic race, but it’s about touching.” Donatella says.

“We can do what we want, of course,” Milena says. “But we do worry: what will my family think? What will their friends think? And what will that mean for my family? I don’t want to go on about family but it is the foundation of my life, my “stone”” she says pointing at the cobblestones. “I have to be near my family – I am a provincial, I suppose you would say.”

The pair, and boyfriends, go to “avant garde” theatre in Parma, to cinema, concerts in Piacenza. “And we come for the night to Cremona, just for a change,” Donatella says.
Both women studied in Milan, but didn’t greatly enjoy the experience. “There everything is work, work, work. Too much work. There is a big disparity between the rich and the poor in Milan, you see it. When I was in London I didn’t see poverty. But then, I know, I was being a tourist, just seeing the obvious things.”

“In Milan family life is harder,” Milena says. “It is a question of time and of rhythm. In Piacenza my boyfriend and I can have a life.”

But people marry so young; how can they know it is right at 19 or 20? “Wait until you are 24, “Donatella says. “It’s true,” Milena says. “Divorce now follows five out of every ten weddings, things are changing fast. And this is very bad for the children.”

“The old idea that we marry the first person we sleep with, that’s gone away, is an old idea. I had many boyfriends before this one,” Donatella says. She thinks she will move to Gallicia, “It is a good life there, a good way of living.” But it isn’t easy. “For everything I say about ways of life I too am also for the family – ”
“ – you’re lucky, you have a sister, you are two, I am the only child,” Milena says.
“Family is just part of being Italian. I think in the end it’s a good thing. My sister, she works in Milan for a big international firm, has a child now, the family is happy. If I move away, I move from family, my profession, ‘home’. It is hard.”

“The Catholic church shows us a vindictive God, it’s true,” Donatella says; both women “believe”. “There is a lot of punishment in the vision of the catholic church, and of the family. I know you see crowded churches, but they are the old people. Church, Sunday, social times. Really it is very hypocritical.”

“Italian men behave as if they own ‘all’ Italian women,” Donatella says. “It’s true, they are very protective. Look at someone’s wife the wrong way in many places and there is trouble. But in a way I like it, knowing your man is a ‘man’. It’s old fashioned, sure. An Italian thing; a Latin thing.”

“But there is a God,” Milena says. “There is a God because it is too frightening to think that for all our troubles and problems on earth there is nothing afterwards.”

But that’s not a reason for god; that’s a fear of death. “Look, in my school we teach religion and we teach astrophysics. And the children ask me: ‘how can the two go together?’ I say: ‘the astrophysicists have many answers, but they don’t have them all. Not everything…”

“Your family and your friends – who you grew up with – this is the foundation,” Milena says. “In America or Britain there are many, many single people, they are working all the time, they move for a better job, they lose themselves, their identity. Then they are just working all the time, the pace is wrong. There’s a separation between people who should be connected. It’s not good, is it?”

But families have problems, don’t they? Marry the wrong person and then what; you say divorce is high in Italy now. “I don’t think that this pressure is as bad as being single in Milan or London or New York. Why do they drink so much in Britain? Even the women – and in Ireland it was insane. Why drink if you are happy? If you are happy you want to be with the people you love,” Milena says, “not to drink all night and have a fight.”

“My sister,” says Donatella, “says that it was much easier being single at her profession in Milan. Work is so hard it’s easier to be fluid, have less responsibilities at home. But that just means you work all the hours.”

“Single women: work; married women: no work, just babies. That’s the Italian way,” Milena says. “It’s one of our kinds of racism. Really, it is racist.”

Sexist? “That’s another thing,” Donatella says. “We don’t bother with languages. English is obligatory at school, and college, but it isn’t taught so well. We – Italians – just think we don’t need it.”

It is two thirty; we are the last in the café. “That’s your English influence,” says Donatella. “But we are having an unusual conversation: architecture, god, existence, family; the way to live your life. We’ve had three drinks; that’s a lot for us.”

They leave for their hotel; we see empty squares. I thought this was a party town, everyone comes from Lodi and Crema for the big nights. “No, they are all in the disco now: work, work, work, if you want that family,” Milena says.

Thus much of family today.

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Not for the rain: that has gone, the heat, the heat

Posted on June 24, 2007 by robhunt510

Pizzighettone is a lunchtime stop with lunch. Only the vagaries of Italian transport mean it is a white-heat afternoon tea stop, without tea. Walled and towered, Tom’s kind of place. He spots fans, and something more:

“I rode from Lodi about four of the clocke in the morning, the seventeenth day of June being Friday, and came to a town called Pizighiton seated by the river Abdua about one of the clocke in the afternoone. Over this river we were ferried….

…I went from Pizighiton about foure of the clocke in the afternoone that day, and came to Cremona a very faire city of Lombardy about seven of the clocke in the evening…

…Here I will mention a thing, that although perhaps it will seeme but frivolus to divers readers that have already travelled in Italy; yet because unto many that neither have beene there, nor ever intend to go thither while they live, it will be a meere novelty, I will not let it passé unmentioned. The first Italian fannes that I saw in Italy I did observe in this space betwixt Pizighiton and Cremona. But afterward I observed them common in most places of Italy where I travelled. These fannes both men and women of the country doe carry to coole themselves withal in the time of heate, by the often fanning of their faces. Most of them are very elegant and pretty things. For whereas the fanne consisteth of a painted peece of paper and a little wooden handle; the paper which is fastened into the top is on both sides most curiously adorned with excellent pictures, either of amorous things tending to dalliance, having some witty Italian verses or fine emblems written under them; or of some notable Italian city with a brief description thereof added thereunto. These fannes are of a meane price. For a man may buy one of the fairest of them for so much money as countervaileth our English groate. Also many of them doe carry other fine things of a far greater price, that will cost at the least a duckat, which they commonly call in the Italian tongue umbrellas, that is, things that minister shadow unto them for shelter against the scorching heate of the Sunne. These are made of leather something answerable to the forme of a little canopy, & hoped n the inside with divers little wooden hoopes that extend the umbrella in a pretty large compasse. They are used especially by horsemen, who carry them in their hands when they ride, fastening the end of the handle upon one of their thighs, and they impart so long a shadow unto them, that it keepeth the heate of the sunne from the upper parts of their bodies.”

As Godard – or was it Trauffaut? – says, you can’t go wrong with umbrellas. Tom took the idea home, but as usual he was ahead of his time. Bill Gates says never over-estimate what will happen in two years; never underestimate in ten. Well, it took the umbrella 200 years to catch on with the Brits. And by that time Thomas Cook was offering holidays in the “hell” of the Paris commune.

They advertise an opera here in Pizzi soon. I am glad something is happening. Onwards to Cremona.

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Stories from Lodi

Posted on June 24, 2007 by robhunt510

In the connecting study area of Lodi’s library, there is almost calm, a few Paris Hilton sunglasses, the odd I-pod, but mostly this is serious nose-down time, dress code: studious. Shoes: vaguely glamourous. Large oils hang on two walls, on the third the remains of a fresco. The poster outside, Shakespeare with a construction helmet, tells that works are going on here; inside all is work also.

I imagine this is in preparation for the school exams, though the kids look older; there’s a middle-aged pony-tail with laptop: he’s probably writing about me. I assumed I’d be able to ask about life in Lodi here, but it would be like disturbing someone in Humanities One at the British Library and saying: “So: London?”

I haven’t known such calm since the BL, thinking about it; the BL and a few churches and cathedrals along the way without either tourists, or congregations. Milan was a heavy metal town, in every sense, even the massive cathedral. The only difference from the BL here is that people sip from bottles of water, and there is only one blonde, that’s me.

I guess it will have to be the smokers outside, narrowing the demographic, but not so much: despite the ban on smoking inside, everyone puffs away, either standing in the street or sitting at the terrace.

“We live out our lives,” Alastair MacIntyre writes in “After Virtue”, “both individually and in our relationships to each other, in the light of certain conceptions of a possible shared future, a future in which certain possibilities beckon us forward and others repel us, some seem already foreclosed and others perhaps inevitable.”

In the time of Thomas Coryate that ultimate future – the telos – was death and some kind of deal with God; for many now there is just death, and thus the journey, and the consumption of these futures, has taken on a more pressing urgency. As MacIntyre writes: “like characters in a fictional narrative we do not know what will happen next…the narratives which we live out have both an unpredictable and a partially teleological character…it is always the case that there are constraints on how the story can continue and that within those constraints there are indefinitely many ways that it can continue.”

As I look around this room I wonder about these students’ lives: how “betwixt” will they become? Do they study in order to travel, to get away from little Lodi, or for the pleasures of scholarship? Do they believe God, the Catholic church, the muslim faith? Or something in between?

A Tourist Observes: the only things that the Italians do un-stylishly are ring-tones and tattoos. They are world leaders in: jailbait, testosterone, arguing publicly and giving very bad directions; pushing the Hungarians on smoking I couldn’t say where they stand on infidelity – traditionally the Magyar Gold Medal Event.

MacIntyre continues: “…man is in his actions and practice, as well as in his fictions, essentially a story-telling animal. He is not essentially, but becomes through his history, a teller of stories that aspire to truth. But the key question for men is not about their own authorship; I can only answer the question ‘What am I to do?’ if I can answer the prior question ‘Of what story or stories do I find myself a part?’”


Doing the quiz in “Psychologies” magazine

Lorenzo is a lawyer in Lodi, but he dreams of being a professional photographer. He and some more experienced friends are having an exhibition next week, this morning is was going to begin tonight: he’s handing out promotional cards, the second of the day. He’s not interested in photographic work about here: the show is about Paris, “pictures of Parissians and tourists,” he says. “Next September, we’re going to Belfast. This is a farming town, there’s not enough here for photography.”

Carla and Livi are missing their mother; there has been a divorce. They are staying with their father in Lodi for a while: they use video chat via the internet to keep up with life in Turin. Their older sister links them to a “Picassa” file of family photographs, a new set of the babies in the swimming pool. Livi is animated, catching up with the news; Carla is upset. When it is her turn for the headphones and microphone she cries, she’s missing her home. Angry with her mother for letting her be here, “what happened?” she says, “what happened?”. Livi plays patience online whilst she waits her second turn. The Dutch family on the other terminal are on holiday, also no dad, he’s working back in Rotterdam. The kids talk to him live from his office; mum doesn’t need much of a chat.

Antonio studies in Pavia, but lives in Lodi. He’s home revising for his university exams. “There’s not much to do in Lodi, it’s a ghost town. There is a faculty for vets, and for agriculture, of course, because this is farming country.” When he graduates he wants to work as a psychologist in Milan. “They need it more there,” he says. Sometimes he goes over the bridge and has some beers in the pub, otherwise he’s revising. “When we want to go out, we go somewhere else. In Pavia, where I study it’s good. From Lodi we have to go…somewhere.”

Olivia and Francesca work in an employment agency, for fun they get to Crema and Cremona as often as they can. “The people here are too old,” they laugh. The jobs they have on offer aren’t based around here often, unless it is shop work. Mostly it is in Milan or Cremona. “You have to drive, or take a chance for the trains or buses. Never take the buses,” they say.

My Italian is getting better, this from the Roxy café, by the bleak bus station. Fat man with Hungarian Hussar moustache as non-descript middle-aged woman leaves the café [it is hot and Hussar and Elderly Friend are knocking back a bottle of chilled white wine.]. “She’s a lovely woman.”
Elderly man: “No! Sophia Loren is beautiful, she is a lovely woman, This…?”
Hussar: “She is a lovely, lucky woman.”
Elderly man: “Why?”
Hussar: “She has a magical cunt.”
Elderly man: “Oh, god, god god! It’s too much. [Exit to take a leak]

Returns, engages a woman who is now sitting outside with an espresso.

Elderly man: “What is the capital of Italy?”
New woman, wearily: “Rome?”
Elderly man holds up hands, makes elderly squealing noises. “Rome? No!”
New woman: “Yes it is, it is Rome.”
Elderly man squeals again. “Palermo, madam, Palermo, the Mafia. Boom, boom! Capitale…”
New woman leaves.
Elderly man shouting: “You are beautiful.”
New woman: “Yes, I am from Rome.”
Elderly man: “See you tomorrow then?”
New woman, winking at me, “Sure. What time?”
Exit New woman.
Exit old man on bike with three plastic shopping bags.

Everyone is complaining about the heat and I’m thinking how did Tom move in this kind of weather? On foot or by horse it is punishing: 33 at midday. The workers, in natty Kate Moss shorts, take long beer and limoncella lunchbreaks and watch the world: “Nice arse.”
“There is home…”

In London this non-working lunch would be three business meetings. But in London it cannot be so hot. [By Cremona it is all-day siesta time, the heat “closes” the internet points, and the town is ghostly between one and six.]

“Johnny” is a Moldavian. He’s travelled all over Eastern Europe, lived in Romania and Ukraine as well as Moldavia. He’s seen Frankfurt, and Dusseldorf and much of Italy. What is he doing? “I am a ‘tourist’” he says with a grin. He has two mobiles and, like me, he’s been waiting three hours for a bus. “And afterwards I have to walk eight kilometres to my village.” What do you do there? “I see my friends, find out about things I can do. Moldovia is beautiful, but the life here is better…more money.” He offers me a cigarette lighter holder made of metal. “From Naples, genuine: 30 Euros…Naples is a bad place, too many with money, too many without. They steal from your pocket, for drugs. I didn’t like it, too big. I like the north of Italy, quiet. You can be quiet here.” Johnny holds up a packet of Marlboro. “Here they are four euros, in London I hear they are seven or eight. In Moldavia, four packs for a Euro. It’s a great place, Moldavia.” Do you miss it? “Every day.” One of the two mobiles rings, Johnny walks away in a flurry of Italian.


The trial in Milan of the CIA agents who renditioned or something is delayed until October

He’s come from Milan, where there was business to do; last night he slept by the railway station; this morning there’s some kind of rail strike. So it must be the bus. Which is three hours late. He is wiry thin with a light stubble of hair; frequently angered by the wait, he fiddles with his phones and smokes.

Paul works in one of the main cafes in Lodi, he likes sparkly tops, and has a small tattoo on the inside of his arm; larger men with forests of arm-ink make fun of it, but it seems good-natured. “It’s a common story, Lodi. Small town breeds small minds, it gets bigger but the minds stay the same. This is no place for young people, they stay they get married to the first person they have sex with. So we escape, go to Crema or Cremona. I live outside, a small village about eight kilometres away, so that’s why I stay late here: there there is nothing. In the other places there is life at night, pubs, clubs, a scene.”

But there is a of culture here? “But it isn’t very, you know, interesting. Farmers fighting in costumes. Discos in the square with a “Queen” theme.” Perhaps it is a measure of age that it all seems quite lovely, and lively to me. And hidden in Lodi’s nooks and crannies are internet cafes run by Africans and Romanians, where the phones are more used than the web. All is neither as small minded, nor as obvious as it seems

It is all about scale and finding a personal balance, I suppose: nobody has much good to say of Milan, but perhaps (as for me) it seems too big to the inhabitants of Lodi, industrially and financially atomised. But they rave about Cremona and Crema, to the disparagement of Lodi. It wouldn’t take much to make Lodi another perfect destination. It seems “mindset” isn’t ready for that.

“I love my job, I get to tell people the stories of Lodi: the cathedral, the civic temple, the castle,” says Maria, who works in the tourist office. She lives in the centre of town and seems an archetypical Lodi-ite, born and bred. “I came from Sicily, four years ago, I was looking for work – there isn’t much in Sicily – so I came here. I love it. I swim, I bike, I like nature. This is a great town.”

Michael was born in Benin, but has worked in Libya and Nigeria as well as Italy, “Italy is my first European country,” he says. He is helping to build a new high-speed rail network across Northern Italy for a British construction firm: he wears the logo’d shirt and bag proudly. “They pay me 1200 Euros a month, but I live in Milan, and after rent and bills and getting to Lodi, not Lodi, but outside, that’s where our workshop is, I have 300 Euros left to save so I can move on.” He’s off to visit his girlfriend in Piacenza for a few hours; the train strike and the bad bus timings, means he’ll only have a short time. “In Milan I have no friends, friends are dangerous. I watch wrestling and car racing, and I talk to my girlfriend on the phone.” He buys a beer at the Roxy, but doesn’t want to sit with the workers and me. He moves to the curb and drinks quietly; later a fellow African, from Nigeria, comes past. They stop and speak for a while in French, explaining their stories. They exchange emails; the Nigerian is going on to Verona, where he has classes.

Michael likes moving on; he’s the only one in his family not in Benin. His brother has gone home after running travel businesses in Germany; his grandfather runs safaris in Benin. “We have many tourists in August, Christians coming to see the leg of Mary Magdalene,” Michael says. “It’s good, moving. If you don’t move you mind goes soft. You get complacent: don’t think properly. I study computer sciences, I can build satellite networks, rework the computers. I couldn’t afford last term so I just read, read, read. It’s easy to learn if you want to. You shouldn’t write about Europe, that’s easy. You should write about Benin. It’s like a ‘warehouse’ for slavery. You would get better stories there.”

Michael’s girlfriend rings, and he explains the delay. “I know, I know, I have a fish brain,” he says [in English]. “So where from the station, which way?” A pause.

“Run? What run like Ben Jonson?”
Ben Jonson, Tommy’s friend. Even if it is a reference to the disgraced Canadian sprinter it feels like an omen.

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The Dream in Lodi

Posted on June 24, 2007 by robhunt510

“The poet’s eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;
And as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen
Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name.”

My Midsummer Nights starts slowly: Titania is 14 and Oberon is over-charging on iced-teas at the next-door bar. Lysander and Puck are comparing tattoes over beers, and somewhere in the forest, over the Lodi bridge where Napoleon fought a winning battle, the revising students and resting actors are retired at the “Wellington” pub. Lodi’s little joke, I suppose.

“I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,
Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,
Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,
With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine.”

The star-crossed lovers are either texting someone else, or hanging around the Piazza Castello, a Visconti construction – both the castle and the neo-realism of the punks. The “Dream’s” Bottomy style street theatre punctuates Lodi’s summer, though I’ve managed to miss the jousting and the archery; and the tin-horse pallio isn’t until September, almost a Winter’s Tale: the heats were last week. I should be in Padua, where Shakespeare set Kiss Me Kate, or Verona or Messina or Venice. But Lodi will do, it is Shakespeare country, even if he never came near the place.

“What hempen home-spuns have we swaggering here,
So near the cradle of the fairy queen?”

In “Europe” Norman Davies notes that Shakespeare played his “overseas” very cleverly, set only ten plays at home; the rest in not-too controversial places. He avoids anything to do with Spain, and the Spanish Netherlands, and Ireland – where there was much dissent, the blarney stone being invented, Essex going double…Censorship didn’t help, perhaps that’s why Shakespeare didn’t print his plays for such a long time, and he had a few years before being given a coat of Arms. He wasn’t just a player, he was a “player” as well.

“What revels are in hand? Is there no play,
To ease the anguish of a torturing hour?”

Thomas Nash, a jobbing journalist and bar-room wit, writes in his “Unfortunate Traveller,” of 1594, (fourteen years before Tom’s journey) about “christendome” with as much overseas experience as Shakespeare, his sources the commonplace books of the “Sanger-google” school (explanation on its way). He asks: “Italy, the Paradise of the earth and the Epicure’s Heaven, how doth it form our young master?” Without much delay comes the answer: “From thence he brings the art of epicuracy, the art of whoring, the art of poisoning, the art of sodomy – it maketh a man an excellent courtier – which is by interpretation, a fine closer lecher, a glorious hypocrite.”

“Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind”.

Shakespeare makes a more persuasive case for Italy, at least in “All’s Well,” and “The Taming of the Shrew”, though – of courtier-training – there is the curious matter of Tony Blair’s holidays with Silvio Berlusconi: didn’t Blair break Berlusconi’s foot?

“The lunatic, the lover, and the poet
Are of imagination all compact.”

Somewhere in the recent past I’ve read of a new take on Shakespeare: an Italian academic, or conspiracy theorist, believes the Bard was Italian. Thank goodness for Google. During a clear-out of damp photocopies this morning I discover that Larry Sanger, one of the founders of Wikipedia has cautioned the British Education Secretary, Alan Johnson, for suggesting that the internet was good for children’s learning.

“Swift as a shadow, short as any dream;
Brief as the lightning in the collied night.”

“I’m astonished that Alan Johnson does not realize the many problems affecting Wikipedia” These include management issues, an often dysfunctional community, frequently unrealiable content – and “scandal”.

“While wikipedia is still a quite useful and an amazing phenomenon, I have come to the view that it is also broken beyond repair.” And so: www.citizendium.org has been founded with more “reliable” editors and sources.

“The true beginning of our end”

Unstable as Wiki or the Lovers in Midsummer night’s Dream might be, Lodi is a kind of lodestone for me as Tom feels very present. He was locked out here, and hurried ontowards Cremona, but I like to imagine him in the central square watching the world for a while. On Midsummer’s Night. Did he see the civic temple, a church built on what had been a brothel – and funded by a man who had a “vision” after coming off worse in a stabbing incident over a member of the brothel’s entourage.

I like to think so.

As the night in Lodi moves on, with no great action or sense of ritual, the suits and slinkies and sling-backs come out for camparis and jokes. The man in the perfect light blue suit with the blue shirt, white collar, shades “look” does not speak all evening, just guards his animated “prey” from the other men at the table. But from another square: music. I feel a Shakespearian hey nonny no moment about to happen. In the small square by the cathedral a crowd is sitting over drinks. In front of them: a karaoke machine, and quite simply the flattest Celine Dion the Titanic’s going Down, I’ve ever heard.

By midnight, well met, I am home and watching a Kevin Costner, Anthony Quinn movie about infidelity, machismo and revenge. I dream of nothing much at all.


Curtain down

“If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended,
That you have but slumbered here
While these visions did appear.”

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Unlikely, but an omen

Posted on June 22, 2007 by robhunt510

Saw this late last night, and said: Thomas Coryat. He “named” the umbrella. Story tomorrow…actually: when Cremona stops siesta, which is two days

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Lodi is lovely – official

Posted on June 21, 2007 by robhunt510

Afternoon in the Lodi Cathedral

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Double or Quits

Posted on June 21, 2007 by robhunt510

“We know more than we can use. Look at all this stuff I’ve got in my head: rockets and Venetian churches, David Bowie and Diderot, nuoc mam and Big Macs, sunglasses and orgasms. How many newspapers and magazines do you read? For me, they’re what candy of Quããludes or scream therapy are for my neighbours. I get my daily ration from the bilious Lincoln Brigade veteran who runs a tobacco shop on 110th street, not from the blind newsagent in the wooden pillbox on Broadway, who’s nearer my apartment.

And we don’t know nearly enough.”

Susan Sontag. “A Trip to China.”

The avant garde composer, John Cage, received a 25 year retrospective at the town hall in New York in 1958, the same year he was invited to Milan. He spent four months over the summer here, working on a piece called “Fontana Mix” and doing something really quite strange, even for the “Betwixt” panoply.

Reunited here with a once-estranged Peggy Guggenheim (who is coming shortly, of course) he also became a contestant on a television quiz show called “Lascia O Raddoppia” – that’s “Double or Nothing” to you and me. His topic was mushrooms. And for five weeks he was undefeated: earning a tidy $6000. Not bad for 1958.

“There was only one channel for TV so the whole country enjoyed it. I became very famous. When I would go for a walk with Peggy and all her dogs, people would point to me and her and she said, “I recognize you’re even more famous than I.”

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A driver would be nice: Milan

Posted on June 21, 2007 by robhunt510

Milan is big, the second city of Italy. The area around the station – a large area, all the way through half-developed Dante-hell close to Garibaldi to the so-so Corso Como, one of those hot spots, that’s not – is an Ektachrome vision of neo-realism. I see: theft, a bottle fight (nasty), street people everywhere, police at both of, hundred yards apart, McDonalds. Lesson: pay more, stay in the centre. But Milan is about global finance and fashion – that means expensive.

It is in Milan that Tom gets really going, squeezing more sights into a single day than Kate Moss could squeeze cat-walk shows. Tim Moore was going to leave pretty quick, but got fogged in (he travelled in November). Instead of leaving: “I bought a bus ticket from a man selling pornographic comic books at a roadside booth.” He describes sight-seeing quite well in his Milan pages…I took the metro.

The first English words I hear in Milano:
“I can’t decide, I think we should hire a driver for tomorrow.” The voice belongs to a six foot plus boy, about 18 or 19, with the Rupert Everett when “Another Country” public schoolboy. This boy is about 100lbs and has a military haircut. His two companions are similarly good-looking with Paolo Maldini long hair, and soft American accents.

“I don’t know, we can get to the castings by metro.”
“It’s not reliable enough.”
“Taxis?”
“Let’s get a driver.”
“We haven’t been cast yet…”

The English boy’s accent is betwixt Harrow, Heroin-chic, and Amy Winhouse: thus perfect for his career. All three are young male models, hustling for work in Milan. A short thunderstorm would wash all three away. I close in on my interview, but they vanish into the crowds. This is the Duomo station stop, leading out to a hugely impressive cathedral – it is big – and hugely impressive prices. This is where tourists and fashionistas can sink eight euros on a bottle of beer, or anything from twelve for a real drink. I go to the cathedral instead.

The next night the entire square is given over to a free concert, hundreds of thousands of people go to watch music, of some kind. Macy Gray and the woman from the Cranberries were there as well. I was fi-fishing: watched it on the television.

“The Cathedral Church is dedicated to our lady, which John Galeatius Duke of Milan caused to be built, anno 1386. This is an exceeding glorious and beautifull Church, as faire if not fairer then the Cathedral Church of Amiens, which I have before so much magnified. All this Church seemeth to be built with marble: herein are many notable things to be seene: in the Quire the bodies of many of the Vicounts of Milan….I ascended almost to the toppe of the Tower; wherehence I surveyed the whole citie round about, which yielded a most beautifull and delectable shew. There I observed the huge suburbs, which are as bigge a many a faire towne, and compassed about with ditches of water: there also I beheld a great part of Italy, together with the lofty Apennines; and they shewed me which way Rome, Venice, Naples, Florence, Genua, Ravenna, &c. lay. The territory of Lombardy, which I contemplated round about from this Tower, was so pleasant an object to mine eyes, being replenished with such unspeakable variety of all things, both for profite and pleasure, that is seemeth to me to be the very Elysian fields, so much decanted and celebrated by the verses of Poets, or the Tempe [general name for rural beauty] or Paradise of the World. For it is the fairest plaine, extended about some two hundred miles in length that ever I saw, or ever shall if I should travel over the whole habitable world: insomuch that I said to myselfe that his country was fitter to be an habitation for the immortall Gods than for mortall men…I saw the auncient Palace of the Viscounts of Milan…I went to the Library of Cardinall Borromaeus, which is an exceeding faire peece of workmanship, but it is not fully finished, so that there is not one booke in it, but it is said that it shall be shortly furnished….

…A certain merchant of Genua hath a very beautifull house in this City…There is a very magnificent Hospitall in this City, wherein there are an hundred and twelve chambers, and foure thousand poore people are relieved in the same. The yearlie revenues of it are said to be at least fifty thousand crownes.

…No City of Italy is furnished with more manuary arts then this, which it yeeldeth with as much excellency as any City of all Chrstendome, especially two, embroidering and making of hilts for swords and daggers. Their embroiders are very singular workemen, who worke much in gold and silver. Their cutlers [knife makers] that make hilts are more exquisite in that art then any that I ever saw…Also silkmen do abound here, which are esteemed so good that they are not inferior to any of the Christian world.

The Citadell is the fairest without any comparison that ever I saw, farre surpassing any one Citadell whatsoever in Europe….it seemeth rather a towne then a Citadell, being distinguished by many spacious and goodly greene courts…also in these courts as it were certaine market places, there are usually markets kept…The munition of the Citadell is so much…For a great part of Lombardy Westward belongeth to the Citadel, for the sustenation of the Presidiary souldiers, who are all Spaniards, being in number five hundred. …When I came forth of the Citadel, after I had surveyed all the principal places, a certain Spaniard imagining that I had beene a Flemming expressed many tokens of anger towards me, and lastly railed so extremely at me, that if I had not made haste out with my company, I was afread he would have flung a stone at my head, or otherwise offered some violence to me. There is such an extreme hatred betwixt the Milanois and the Spaniards, that neither the Milanois doe at any time come into the Citadel, nor the Spaniards into the City, but only in the evening.

….”it is thought there are not so few as three hundred thousand soules in this city. Thus much of Milan.

When Tom was here Milan, those Szfozas and Viscontis, was under the rule of the Spanish, who were not too popular. They kept themselves to the Citadell, but pointed their guns at the city; nowadays it is the fashion-conscious who point the finger, bereft of this year’s male look I retreat to Shakespeare. Cities like this, despite Tom’s engagement here, don’t bring me closer to him. I’ll write more on court and country soon.

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Death in Milan (and Rome)

Posted on June 21, 2007 by robhunt510

Luchino Visconti, auteur and film-maker, could have entered “Betwixt” in Paris, where, travelling, he met and worked with Jean Renoir on “Une partie de campagne” in 1936. His position as assistant helped by his boyfriend of the time, the German photographer, Horst, and Coco Chanel, another mate…

In 1941 Visconti began work on the production of his first film, Obsession. The film was based on “The Postman Always Rings Twice” by James M. Cain. The idea for the adaptation came from Renoir, and was aimed at righting a perceived romanticizing of the Italian people in domestic cinema up to that time.

“No men, not even Italian men, are plaster saints. Nor are women flowers of virtue. Yet go and find it in our films, if you can, a man who is a bastard or a woman who is a bit of a whore. In Italian films they’re all nice fellows, all honest, all above board.”

Scaramouche: “Cinema” 1941.

Cain’s novel was banned in Mussolini’s Italy, which added to the appeal of adapting it. Pavese, who we’ve met briefly in Turin, was one of many anti-fascists who saw American literature of the time as embodiment of the whole human condition. He had translated Faulkner, Steinbeck, Melville and Dos Passos. Pavese writes:

“America is not another country, a new beginning to History, but the gigantic stage, the giant screen on which, more frankly than anywhere else, our common tragedy is being played out.”

Visconti’s Obsession added a “Spaniard” – a not too oblique anti-fascist symbol (reminding audiences of the struggle in Spain against Franco).

Visoconti enters here because for centuries his family ruled Milan, in Tom’s time they had been replaced by the Szofsas. Luchino was a genuinely betwixt character, the aristocratic homosexual communist who is friends with Puccini, most of Europe’s nobility, and much of its cultural community. When, in the middle of planning Obsession Visconti’s father, the duke, died, Puccini was troubled. How could he, as a communist atheist composer, attend the funeral of such a symbol of old Italy?

De Santis writes:

“He [Puccini] returned from it with amazingly bizarre and luxurious tales, of people in medieval costumes, dwarfs swathed in red [hmm Don’t Look Now] music…”

This was 1941.

Of “Obsession” Visconti writes: “I am interested in the extreme situation, those instants when abnormal tension reveals the truth about human beings; I like to confront the characters and the story harshly, aggressively.”

That summer Visconti’s younger brother was killed fighting in El alamein. His older brother arrested for insulting Germans. He kept working. Obsession is a tough film, aggressively so. One critic writes:

“love and life are seen as curses, death omnipresent…[Obsession is] a slow carnal return to the sources of life, which are also the sources of death.”

“Obsession” was not screened until liberation in 1945. When it was Visconti was still “betwixt”, but he was established as not a dilettante film maker, but as potentially one of the great names in cinema. We will return to him in Venice, naturally; and in Germany too…

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Midsummer Day – is it?

Posted on June 21, 2007 by robhunt510

From that Italian mistranslation: Shakespeare in Lodi

Solstitial celebrations still centre upon 24 June, which is no longer the longest day of the year. The difference between the Julian calendar year (365.2500 days) and the tropical year (365.2422 days) moved the day associated with the actual astronomical solstice forward approximately three days every four centuries until Pope Gregory XIII changed the calendar bringing the solstice to around 21 June.

Whatever: Shakespeare is Coming Soon

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