Man, Myth, Mosaic

What two recent events taught me about the real Italy

Il Mosaico di Santa Elisabetta, Perugia. Photo mine.

Cari amici,

I’ve been spending far too many hours at my desk for the last few months. Much as I want and need to write, when I do little else except walk my dog, clean the house, and run errands, I get into a dreary state of mind. As an antidote, I’ve been trying to take better advantage of the torrent of events that Perugia has to offer, from concerts to festivals to lectures. Last weekend I went to a lecture about the Perugia-born Renaissance painter Pinturicchio, and two days ago to an event that paired discussions about the origins of a book about Orfeo (Orpheus) and the discovery and restoration of an Orfeo mosaic with a “field trip” to see the mosaic itself.

Why should this interest you? Maybe it won’t, but along with telling you what I heard and saw and learned, I hope to illustrate a facet of Italian life that I love—namely, a remarkable tendency to blend art and education, revealing a broad knowledge base, a love of and respect for Italian culture and history, and an impressive amount of curiosity.

Pinturicchio, who dat?

If you know anything about Italian art beyond the rock stars like Michelangelo, Leonardo, Botticelli, Donatello, and Raffaello, you might have heard of Perugino, the most famous of the early-Renaissance Umbrian painters. And there’s a chance you maaaaaay have heard of Bernardino di Betto, aka Pinturicchio, who for the most part has been banished, seemingly forever, into the dark shadows of his teacher, Perugino. My knowledge of Pinturicchio was limited, and so was my ability to appreciate his art—but that changed recently due to an event in my neighborhood, part of the Cultura al Centro series held at the Oratorio di Sant’Antonio Abate, itself a work of trompe-l’oeil art.

A slice of the Oratorio di Sant’Antonio Abate. Photo mine.

I love this about life in Italy—on a random Saturday afternoon, about 40 people showed up for an art lecture and agreed to stay when the talk went overtime. Probably most of them were perugini—certainly most of them live here—which means they know about Pinturicchio and his works and the places that house them. Yet there they were, along with ignorant me, prepared to learn even more. No explanations were given about the people and places that provide the context for Pinturicchio’s artistic career, and that’s because most Italians seem to have a baseline of cultural, historical, and literary knowledge, which I very much envy.

Pinturicchio, whose name is a diminutive meaning “little painter,” was so dubbed because of his height, which wasn’t much. (He must not have hated the name, though, because he signed some of his works that way.) Born in Perugia in 1454, he became known for his decorative-style frescoes filled with ornamentation, bright colors, and gold. Certain elements found in his works, such as particular trees, rock formations, and his frequent use of grotesques, are so recognizable as his that experts now believe he had a hand in many works not previously known to be his (or partly his).

Lest you think Pinturicchio was a backwater artist whose works are limited to the small towns of Umbria, be advised that he spent a good chunk of his career in Rome and Siena. He assisted Perugino on three of the Sistine Chapel frescoes, two of which remain to this day; the other one disappeared beneath the brushstrokes of Michelangelo’s Last Judgment. Pinturicchio left his mark elsewhere in the Vatican as well, having painted the frescoes that adorn the six rooms of the Borgia Apartments.

A peek at Pinturicchio's frescoes in the Borgia Apartments at the Vatican. Photos from https://en.wikipedia.org/

Pinturicchio died in 1513, in Siena, the site of his brilliant frescoes depicting the life of Pope Pius II, which fill the walls of the Piccolomini Library. I dare you to look at any of his frescoes and think them the work of a “lesser” artist. While I can appreciate Perugino’s subdued form of genius—his delicate brushwork and dramatic use of black, for example—Pinturicchio’s flashier form of showmanship, visible in his colors and the incredible detail in his complex scenes, brings me joy.

Orfeo everywhere

Multifaceted presentations are common in my corner of Italy, and that’s what I encountered at “Orfeo, il canto e l’incanto” (Orpheus, song and enchantment), held at Università per Stranieri (University for Foreigners, a language school), a short walk from my house. The focal point of the event, a joint effort by  Università per Stranieri and the Università degli Studi di Perugia, was a Roman mosaic of Orfeo (see top photo), which, as most such artworks do, depicts him playing his lyre to a gang of avid animal listeners, in this case, 40 of them. Fittingly, live music was part of the presentation, piano renditions of Orfeo-themed music (some by Claudio Monteverdi, I think) played by Stefano Ragni.

View of the controlled environment created for the mosaic. Photo mine.

Now, I don’t know about you, but other than a vague recollection that Orfeo descended into Hades to rescue his new bride, Euridice—which, btw, didn’t end well—I knew pretty much zilch or had forgotten most of what I knew about this possible god/possible real person from antiquity, including that he traveled with Jason and the Argonauts and saved the ship from capsizing by playing music to drown out the sirens’ songs. He died a gruesome death, which I’ll let you look up yourself if you don’t know the deets.

Again, no time was wasted on explanations; it was assumed that everyone was well grounded in Orfeo facts. Fortunately, I had done some reading beforehand to fill in the gaps in my knowledge/feeble memory. Someone give me another lifetime, please!

After giving welcoming remarks, the Università per Stranieri’s rector, Valerio di Cesaris, introduced a fine little book, Orfeo, il canto e l’incanto, written by the Grimm Twins, the pen name of co-authors and illustrators Barbara Lachi and Ayumi Makita. As Barbara explained, the book developed from a theatrical presentation done at the mosaic some years ago, and its black-and-white design mimics that of the mosaic.

One spread from the book. Sorry about the bits of table showing.

Here’s what I consider to be an exquisite little example of an Italian mindset, found in the book’s dedication: “a chi sogna l’impossibile, a chi ci prova nonostante tutto, a chi non si arrende a chi fallisce ma continua ad andare avanti.” What does that mean? This: “to those who dream the impossible, to those who strive despite everything, to those who don’t surrender to those who fail but continue to move forward.” Che bello!

Among the speakers from both universities was Carla Emiliani, associate director of the Department of Chemistry, Biology, and Biotechnology, who spoke at length about the mosaic’s origins, discovery, restoration, and conservation. Here are a few tidbits:

• The 110-square-meter Mosaico di Santa Elisabetta was discovered in 1875 during renovations at a church, called Santa Elisabetta (thus the mosaic’s name).

• It was part of what had once been thermal baths, and for a while a plan was floated to build a complex of baths around the restored mosaic. (Mosaics of Orfeo typically adorned baths, fountain rooms, and rooms for gatherings and relaxation.)

• Instead, in 1964, part of Perugia’s huge university was built on the site, and it’s now possible to just stroll in and see the mosaic whenever classes are in session.

• The mosaic was fully uncovered in 1925, and further restorations, some with the participation of Florence’s Opificio delle Pietre Dure, were done in 1943, 1970, 1996, and 2004. (If you’re ever in Florence, the museum attached to the OPD is well worth a visit, btw.)

After the talks and a final musical interlude, we set off to see the ancient artwork itself, tucked away in the Department of Chemistry, Biology, and Biotechnology and protected with climate control and non-damaging lighting.

All in all, the event was a perfectly Italian blend of science, fine art, music, and literature, all centered on a myth that’s millennia old.

Mosaic details. Photos mine.

On another note

Today marks two years of “Italicus” writings, and I’d like to thank you all, subscribers and pledgers and followers, for joining me on this venture and sharing in my personal take on life in Italy. Your support gives me courage and motivation to continue when so much of a writer’s life consists of silence and rejection. Every like, comment, and share makes me think, okay, unraveling my thoughts and my heart on the page is worth doing. Grazie del cuore and a big virtual abbraccio to all of you.

In response to this post about language, a friend sent me this article, which I hope you can open, but I don’t know because it was a gift link. If you can’t, just google it—it’s a piece in the New York Times called “Can You Lose Your Native Tongue?” by Madeleine Schwartz, dated May 14, 2024. If you’re a language lover and/or learner, you might find it as fascinating as I did. Thanks again, Mary Ann!

Tante belle cose. Alla prossima—

Cheryl

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Books of the Week

What I’m reading now:

• She Votes: How U.S. Women Won Suffrage, and What Happened Next  by Bridget Quinn

• Feeling Italian: The Art of Ethnicity in America by Thomas J. Ferraro (yes, previously mentioned; I got temporarily sidetracked, but this book is excellent)

Next up on my TBR stack:

• Thunderclap: A Memoir of Art and Life and Sudden Death by Laura Cumming

• The Fortunate Pilgrim by Mario Puzo

• La Vita S’Impara by Corrado Augias

P.S. My book! Which you can buy here or on the usual sites, or, better yet, order it from your local bookstore. Another fab option is to ask your library to stock it. If you read it and like it, please tell your friends and/or leave a few lines of praise on any bookish site. You’d be surprised how much a rating or review helps authors. Baci!