A Truly Exciting New Novel (Young Adult Division)

Welcome back.

Alwyn Hamilton

Except for the posts about Impressionism on January 1 and the Mahler 8 on February 26, I've been neglecting my personal blog. All for good reason: although not teaching this past semester, I chose to spend my time finishing up my next book. More information about that project when Knowledge Services: A Strategic Framework for the 21st Century Organization is published in mid-September.

Speaking of books, though, I want to alert all my friends to one of the most exciting books I've read in a long time. As it turns out, the book is one of a genre referred to as "young adult fiction" but I don't mention that designation to turn my adult friends and colleagues away. In fact, young adult fiction (thought of as fiction written for 15-to-18-year-olds, but depending on the definition you read, the term also refers to readers between the ages of 15 to early twenties) can be greatly pleasurable for anyone who likes to read. The timeframe for the target market doesn't matter. Some adults still enjoy reading young adult fiction (I'm one of them—one of my favorite books continues to be Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials, still a terrific read twenty years after the first volume was published).

And now I have a new favorite: Alwyn Hamilton's Rebel of the Sands. Just out in March, Hamilton's exciting book is set in a fictional time and place. The former is somewhere in the future (I think—but perhaps not) and the place is an exotic and mixed-landscape piece of the earth somewhere in Africa (or perhaps somewhere else—in any case it's a place where there's lots of sand). That little description gives you an idea of the enormous amount of energy, research, and creative thinking that has gone into the book, and even such notables as Jeff Giles, writing in The New York Times Book Review (April 10, 2016) recognize the quality of what Hamilton has done:

"'Rebel of the Sands' (Giles writes) is a winning bit of storytelling, as well as a homage to storytelling itself. It evokes such disparate influences—'1,001 Arabian Nights,' Hindu lore, and Navajo myth, as well as, inevitably, the triumvirate of Tolkien, Lucas, and Rowling—that at times you wonder whether Hamilton can pull it all off. She can. She has circled a spot on the map and claimed it for her own." And I want to be among Giles and the many others showering Hamilton with congratulations (and with full disclosure: I have known Hamilton and her brother since they were youngsters—their parents are good friends of mine).

My title for this blog post is intentional. Indeed, "exciting" might be a trifle too tame for what Hamilton has created. It's truly a classic page-turner and I hate to think of how many chores didn't get done at my house because Mr. Guy just wanted to keep reading. This book is just too much fun not to (keep reading, that is, not doing chores). It's the first volume in a trilogy, just like Pullman's Northern Lights (published as The Golden Compass in America), and I'm already looking forward to Hamilton's next volume.

The overall plot is good, and the story basically comes down to how smart and quick the heroine is. She's Amani Al'Hiza, and whether she is camouflaged as a boy (which seems to be most of the time) or being her real self, her skill with a gun is amazing to read about. In this land of immortal horses and mystical colleagues and magical djinn, Amani Al'Hiza finds herself in situations that I found simply thrilling to read about. Of course there's romance. Why wouldn't there be? And when our sharpshooter heroine and the guy she finds herself taking up with start to get together, the news is (most of the time) good. There are a few little guy/girl skirmishes but they get resolved in pretty short order, especially when the two of them (our leading man is Jin who is—not to put too fine a point on it—also a true hero) find themselves caught up between two groups of warring princes.

Get the drift? This one is really fun, and if you have young adult children and grandchildren (or if you're like me and like to read this kind of literature just for the fun of it), this is a book I recommend. Will it replace Pullman for me? Ask me in a year. Right about now, I'm leaning toward Hamilton's new book.

Mahler's Symphony No. 8 — What a Treat!

Gustav Mahler 1860-1911

I've been a Mahler fan for most of my life. Don't know when it started but I'm well aware of the effect a Mahler symphony (and many of the songs) have on me. While the Second has been the one most often to bring me to tears (and to my feet when the applause starts, if I'm hearing a live presentation), it was the Eighth I could never get to hear in a live performance.

I love the Second, and I never tire of hearing it, either live or recorded, and I've attended many performances, both here in New York and in many cities I've traveled to. And I've never been disappointed; the music of the Second does not—in my opinion—lend itself to disappointment.

And the Second has a singular very special memory, too, for the most disrupting—in a positive sense of the word—performance of the Second I ever heard took place back on September 11, 2011. The New York Philharmonic, as its gift of remembrance to the citizens of New York on the 10th anniversary of the attacks, packed Philharmonic Hall with a free concert. And for those who could not get tickets, they set up chairs for thousands of people so they could be outside on Lincoln Center Plaza and watch the performance on huge projection screens and hear the music through a massive speaker system.

I was lucky enough to get in, along with a visiting and great personal friend from Berlin (who to this day remembers to thank me for taking her to that concert). The only down-side was that the free tickets were handed out helter-skelter, in no order, and we didn't get to sit together. No matter! It was an evening to remember, for many reasons, and I've thought often back on what that evening meant to so many of us New Yorkers. The performance got a lot of attention, and critic Graham Parker described what we were all feeling better than I ever could:

"At the end of the performance," Parker wrote, "what stood out for me was not the immediate ovation from the crowd in the hall, but the looks on the faces on the musicians of the Philharmonic. These jaded New Yorkers suddenly realized what they had done. They had helped heal through notes and gesture. They had given the hundreds of victims’ families and first responders a new perspective on the tragedy through their artistry. They had, in the most dramatic of terms, played like the great orchestra that they are. You could see that they had been changed by Mahler's 90 minutes of drama."

So I always approach Mahler with a certain point of view. I don't know quite how to describe it (reverence? awe? just sheer happiness to be able to experience this composer's great output? who knows?). The one thing that had been missing, though, was the Eighth. I knew about it. I have had for a time a splendid old CD of Rafael Kubelik and the Symphonie-Orchester des Bayerischen Rundfunds (a re-mastered performance of about 1970 or so). And I've loved listening to it. But I had never attended a performance. It isn't performed that often (the logistics must be very forbidding except for the most well-organized and well-funded musical organizations) and, well, when it had been performed I had not been able to attend. I must have been traveling or something. 

And even though I had the recording, and occasionally listened on the radio when I knew in advance the Eighth was going to be performed, it wasn't the same. There's no way to get around it: any piece nicknamed "Symphonie der Tausend" is going to lose a little something in a recording. The piece wasn't called that for a joke. As James M. Keller wrote in a program notes for the New York Philharmonic several years ago—for a performance that I missed because that was a performance when was traveling and I remember clearly how disappointed I was to miss it—"The symphony's personnel requirements are indeed extraordinary. Its premiere included the participation of 858 singers and 171 instrumentalists (plus one conductor—Mahler himself)." Just reading the description of that first performance—on September 12, 1910—makes it clear that this is a symphony to be experienced in person, not in a recording.

On the other hand, YouTube has a very good video of the Eighth, something I had discovered some time back, a two-part video of the complete program. It's Dudamel conducting the Los Angeles Philharmonic in Caracas. It was the conclusion of the mighty LA Philharmonic and the Simón Bolívar Symphony Orchestra's Mahler Project in 2012, performing all of Mahler's symphonies first in Los Angeles and then in Caracas (if you want to try it, Part 1 is here and Part 2 is here). This is definitely worth listening to, if a live performance isn't available.

The Cathedral Church of Saint John the Divine in New York

So why all this lead-in? Because now I've heard it—live! And it was one of those once-in-a-lifetime experiences that gives true meaning to the old idea of being in the right place at the right time. I'm so happy I live where I live. In the January issue of Opera News there was a delightfully fulsome article about Kent Tritle, one of the most popular (and famous) musicians in New York. His "real" job—I suppose it would be called—is Director of Cathedral Music at The Cathedral Church of Saint John the Divine on Manhattan's Upper West Side but that's only the beginning. He is also the conductor of Musica Sacra, the Oratorio Society of New York, and all the choirs of the cathedral. He teaches at Manhattan School of Music and the Julliard School, he is the organist for the cathedral, and as well as organist for the New York Philharmonic and the American Symphony Orchestra. And he was (briefly, sadly) host of a weekly Sunday radio show on New York's WQXR, our classical station, on choral music. He widely recognized for his good work, and when the Opera News article described the up-coming Mahler Eighth, we all ran for tickets. 

The performance was in the great nave of the cathedral, which gives an idea of what the sound was like (complete with about a 5-second reverberation according to one of our group, which just emphasized how engrossing—I suppose that's the right word—)the sound was. We were seated a little less than half-way back, and the sound was excellent. We could hear everything being sung very clearly; and the Eighth—as Mahler himself described it—is a "vocal symphony (just like my beloved Second, the Third, and the Fourth) so it is clearly critical to the performance that the singing come through as clearly and as cleanly as possible. It worked in this performance—there was no "muddling" (at least as far as I could tell—and that sometimes happens with these big choral pieces). And while there was a big crowd (someone told me the nave seated 5,000 people for each of the two performances—I'll take their word for it—I wasn't about to count!), in that high-ceilinged stone space, certainly all those human bodies didn't contribute to muddling the sound either. It was all just as clear as it should be.

And it was big. While it wasn't the 1,000-plus performers of the premiere in 1910 (or the 1,200-plus performers in Caracas), the 360 or more performers in the Cathedral Church of St. John made quite an impression. And one of the most impressive moments? Why not? As we were taking our seats, we noticed staff setting up a music stand in the aisle right next to where we were to sit. OK. I've performed Dvořák's Stabat Mater at St. Bartholomew's Church back in the old days of the great choir, and, yes, we had brass all over the upper balconies and in the back so I sort of knew what to expect. And sure enough, as we got toward the conclusion of Part 1, an associate conductor carrying his score came out to use that music stand and I looked up. On either side of us—high above the church floor—each of the tall arched openings had a brass player with instrument in place. At the precise moment, following the associate conductor next to us and Tritle up front, we had what must have been one of the most spectacular sounds I've ever heard. And of course it all gets repeated at the finale of Part 2. What a show! 

So there really is no way to convey any of what we heard, other than to just say how grateful I feel we are to be living in a time when we have experiences like this available to us. We are so lucky—as we in our family talk about all the time—and it's moments like this that when we share them (or when we write about them and read about them), we're aware that there is something very good going on. What splendid music we have to listen to!

Impressionist Pictures that Impress

A recent visit from a young relative got me to thinking about some of the art works that I keep returning to and enjoying. Our cousin had come to us on a brief visit once before, but now she was with us to explore New York City with her grandmother and to see parts of the city which would be of particular interest to her.

Her list included the Metropolitan Museum of Art, important to her now because—even though she comes from a family that takes art seriously and enjoys many family visits to neighboring museums and galleries where they live (Tennessee)—this was to be her first visit to the Met since she had moved on with her education. She's now in her first year at university, and art history and art appreciation are now being taken very seriously.  

When she returned from the museum, her enthusiasm for the Impressionists was very evident, and she asked me to describe for her the Impressionist pictures that appeal most me. I told her, and I'll share these with you, too. It seems like a nice way to usher in the new year, to share something beautiful that has special meaning, and our cousin seemed to like hearing about the three paintings described here.

I had fun with our little conversation, trying to tell her why each of these pictures is special to me, playing with each one and coming up with my own explanations. She seemed to like the stories I told. The fact that two are by Pierre-Auguste Renoir (1841-1919) and one by his close contemporary Gustave Caillebotte (1848-1894) probably tells our visitor more about Mr. Guy than about Impressionism, but I was able—I think—to give her a good idea of the period in French history and French art that most interests me.

As we spoke about the paintings, I talked about how these represent what is called "genre painting," that is pictures that tell a story of everyday life, with the artist giving us viewers a snapshot—we might call it—of a particular event or activity. And in most cases the activity in genre painting was not particularly noble or had anything to do with the aristocracy or gods and goddesses. Just a look into something happening at a particular place and at a particular time.

Pierre-Auguste Renoir

Bal du moulin de la Galette

Musée d'Orsay, Paris

Certainly that's what attracted me to Renoir's 1876 Bal du moulin de la Galette. The idea of being with these normal, working-class folks dressed up for a light meal and dancing on a Sunday afternoon appealed very much to me. And the people in the picture weren't all necessarily working-class people, for somewhere along the way I learned that some of them were professional or semi-professional friends of Renoir, like Georges Rivière, the young man with his straw hat pushed back on his head in the lower right of the painting. I had for some reason thought that Rivière was a journalist, probably because I had read—confirmed in Anne Distel's Renoir: A Sensuous Vision (London: Thames and Hudson, 1995)—that Rivière had published a magazine. Indeed, he had, briefly. At Renoir's suggestion, he had put out a periodical called L'Impressionniste, four issues of which came out in April 1877—and for one of which Renoir himself had written an essay entitled "Decorative and Contemporary Art." Rivière was, in fact, a civil servant but obviously one who gave serious attention to his writing, as he ended up being Renoir's biographer, with Renoir et ses amis published in 1921. In the book he told the story of the painting of the picture; it seems to have been a very lively afternoon when Renoir and his friends got together and he spent time with them capturing their Sunday-afternoon leisure.

One fact about this painting I like is that it was in Gustave Caillebotte's collection from 1879 to 1894, when it was transferred to the French Republic after Caillebotte's death, as Caillebotte had—at the age of twenty-eight—written in his will that his collection of paintings should be left to the State. Bal du moulin de la Galette had came into Caillebotte's collection shortly after the third Impressionist exhibition in 1877, in which twenty other Renior paintings had also been exhibited. The two men were clearly great friends, and in Distel's book she tells the sweet story that when Caillebotte decided to paint a self-portrait sometime about 1879, he used a mirror that also reflected a painting hung on the wall of his studio "which he accordingly painted in reverse." It was his friend Renoir's Bal du moulin de la Galette.

And a story I like to tell about this painting is more about me than it is about the painting. Once, years ago, we were in Paris with friends from Canterbury, people we had known for many years (as will quickly become evident). As we made our way up to the top floor of the Musée d'Orsay to see the Impressionists, I challenged my friends to spot my favorite painting (yes, I used the word). We walked into the hall and my friend Sandra took a very quick look around at all the pictures hanging all over the place and immediately—without a word—pointed to Bal du moulin de la Galette. I suppose there is nothing subtle about me, is there?

Pierre-Auguste Renoir

Le déjeuner des canotiers

Phillips Collection, Washington DC

Another special story-telling Renoir picture is the 1881 Le déjeuner des canotiers (Luncheon of the Boating Party), here in the States at the Phillips Collection in Washington, DC. It was painted on the upstairs terrace of the Fournaise restaurant, located on the island of Chiard at Chatou, a popular gathering place for boaters.

One of Renoir's best-loved paintings, for me it is always a treat to visit the Phillips and observe how the people viewing the painting just put themselves into the story. And why not? It's a luncheon you want to join. For a long time though, despite the fact that everyone depicted in the picture was a friend of Renoir, only two of the people according to Distel could be identified. In her book, she notes that the man leaning against the railing is an oarsman who was a son of Alphonse Fournaise, who owned the restaurant and the young lady playing with the dog (in front of Fournaise) is Aline Charigot, a dressmaker who would become Renoir's wife.

As it turns out, a few years after Distel's book Scala Publishers in London created (and it is offered at the Phillips as a "souvenir" book in the gift shop) a book "created after the concept of the series Découvertes Gallimard Hors Série (France). In this fold-out book, practically all the friends are named including Alphonsine Fournaise (Alphonse's sister), Gustave Caillebotte (the seated young man with the hat), Jules Laforgue, Charles Ephrussi, publisher and later owner of Gazette des beaux-arts and an important champion and collector of the Impressionists. While not a particularly scholarly approach to learning about the painting, the little book helps to introduce a very pleasant personal adventure into Impressionism. And when accompanied by Susan Vreeland's full-fledged fictional account of the afternoon party—called, like the painting, Luncheon of the Boating Party (New York: Viking, 2007)—anyone with even the lightest interest in reading about these people and what was going on will have a good time.

Gustave Caillebotte

Paris Street, Rainy Day

Art Institute of Chicago, Chicago IL

And then there's Caillebotte's own masterpiece (that "masterpiece" designation is my opinion—Caillebotte painted many very special pictures, including the one for which he is probably most famous, The Floor Scrapers, painted in 1875). He had a hard time getting started with being recognized, and he was rejected by the jurors of the 1875 Salon, for which he had submitted The Floor Scrapers. Recognition did come, though, and I find I'm particularly taken with thinking about the time and place he worked. This was the Paris that had come into being with Baron Hausmann's renovation, just winding down in the early 1870s by which time the shape of the city had been seriously changed by all the many re-buildings and the many rearrangements of the streets into what we now think of as so elegant and grand. Caillebotte excelled particularly in depicting the new look of the city, and Paris Street, Rainy Day (1877) is typical of his fine eye.

I specially love Paris Street, Rainy Day, and it, too, is on view here in the States. And just as a trip to Washington is worth it to see Luncheon of the Boating Party at the Phillips Collection, so is a trip to Chicago to go to the Art Institute and just stand in front of and be awed by this painting. The specialists at the Art Institute write about the painting's "unusual monumentality and compositional control" and it's fun to be viewing what one of the city's new boulevards might have looked like when it rained. Like many of Renoir's works, this painting, too, was shown in the third Impressionist exhibition; by that time Caillebotte was being considered one of the most active members of the Impressionist group.

I've loved it ever since I was in graduate school in Illinois, when I visited it every time I had a chance to go to Chicago. It came to New York a few years ago as part of a splendid exhibition at the Met, then went back to Chicago for a full restoration before coming to Washington for the big "Gustave Caillebotte: The Painter's Eye" exhibition at the National Gallery last summer. And what a job the restorers did with this jewel-like painting! When I visited the Art Institute to see the painting about eighteen months ago, I was amazed. It seemed that every little detail was brought to life anew (and even the small white dot in the lady's ear—which I thought was a pearl—turns out to be a diamond and a very pretty one at that).

So that's my story for a happy new year, and I thank you for allowing me the opportunity to say a little something about how nice it is to have a visit from a young relative so interested in art. And to have her listen to me as I share some of my stories about some of the special pictures I've come to know and love. Perhaps some of my enthusiasm about these pictures will rub off on her. Or perhaps on some other young person.

Happy New Year.

Saturday Night in New York and Weeping for Paris

Eiffel Tower -
Closed and Dark

It's Saturday night, and I'm safe at home in mid-Manhattan.

And my heart is breaking.

I am thinking of Paris, a city I love so much, and remembering so many things about that beloved place (not visited now for two years — just about this time two years ago — and we were able to enjoy all the pre-holiday festivities and shopping, just as Parisians were doing until last night).

I'm not dealing very well with the news. I'm streaming France24. It's coming in very well over the internet, and I'm trying to keep up. But at this point there is no more news, as such. Just horror. And weeping. And Parisians pleading, begging for news of loved ones who are still missing, presumably in hospital or laid out in morgues until the workers can get to them, get them identified, and tell their relatives where they are. Or how they are.

I'm listening to Radio Classique Paris, streaming in via the other big iMac. Splendid sound, and a little while ago they played the "Libera me" from Verdi's Manzoni Requiem with the Vienna Philharmonic. I decided it would be appropriate for me to play my CD of Dudamel conducting the Requiem at the Hollywood Bowl, so that's what I did for a while this evening.

Palais Garnier - No performance here
or at the Opéra Bastille tonight.

Why appropriate? Because as we finished our nearly day-long walking tour of the Palais Garnier two years ago, we had finished walking about, after several hours (did you know that for €5 you can buy a ticket to go into the Palais Garnier and just walk around to your heart's content, stay as long as you like up to late afternoon? Just swallowing up all that beauty?).

As we approached the exit, to leave the building — where we were going to hear Mozart's La clemenza di Tito the following evening — I could hear the sounds of the Requiem being played in the gift shop. So of course we went in and of course I bought it. What a splendid souvenir for our day at the Palais Garnier! And never knowing it would be listened to with so much heartbreak this evening. And the Palais Garnier, like everything else, closed and shuttered until ... when? After three days of mourning? Until the next attack?

What is going on?

Grande Roue - Now Dark

I keep thinking of people I know and knew in Paris. Not necessarily friends, although there are some of those, friends who have come up from other parts of the country to visit with us when we're in Paris, a special friend from Berlin who had lived in Paris years ago and come from Berlin to have a week with us, another friend — a New Yorker who couldn't stand the pressure of his desires any more and simply, once he had enough financial security, went off to Paris to spend the rest of his life there. And another friend, a silly friend in Washington who has a needlepoint cushion that simply says "I'd rather be in Paris" (and he goes to Paris every opportunity he has). Another couple, friends I got to know and care about when they were in England when I lived there, oh! so many years ago. And in the early 90s when I was in Paris and had a personal family crisis they took me into their flat in La Défense and took care of me until I was OK.

Tonight the city is all shuddered, closed down, people at home in their beds, afraid to go out, the city desolate. I keep thinking of Parisians I hardly knew and wonder how they are doing. The lovely, very special lady at the Mayfair — my favorite hotel — who takes such good care, such serious, sincere care of us when we're in her hotel. The sweet young man at the Galeries Lafayette (closed today and for a while to come, I gather) who took so much time ('way too much time) to make sure that the clothes I tried on would work on an American man's frame — very different from a Frenchman's!

Maxim's - No Caption Required

And most of all I suppose I'm thinking wistfully of the wonderful woman who took time out of her busy career (she's an actress and has a one-person performance piece in which she plays Colette). We were scheduled to visit Pierre Cardin's l'art nouveau museum at Maxim's and the regular curator was not so she stepped in for him. So generous and so willing to allow us to stay as long as we like, take all the photographs we wanted, and she even complimented me on "how well" I speak French (I said she was very generous).

And I couldn't resist: I wrote about her in January of last year, in a post mostly about l'art nouveau but I had to include her. Take a look if you like: Ah, Paris: Pierre Cardin's Art Nouveau Museum at Maxim's.

What is she doing tonight? Is Maxim's closed, like everything else? I hope she — and the curator of this very sweet, very fabulous museum — are well.

So many memories. So sad. And I know I'm not alone. The French were so worried about us when we had 9-11 and now we worry about them. And so many of us — like me — love France and the French so much, and we love Paris, and we're all worried.

What's going to happen next? I've been advised not to "obsess" about the situation in France, and I'm trying not to.

But I'm so sad.

Ostia Antica (3) - The Elephants of Ostia Antica—And a Correction

Yes, I know I'm going a little overboard with so much content about Ostia Antica, but I don't want to forget any of my favorite experiences in this wonderful historical place.

And who would have expected elephants in this ancient site?

But before I get to my elephants, let me apologize for a bad link.

If you enjoyed the first of the Ostia Antica posts (Rome's Ostia Antica—For Travelers Who Like to Stray from the Typical Track) and the post about the museum (Ostia Antica (2)—The Surprising Museo Ostiense), you probably ran into a flaw with the latter. I refer to my own few photos. I published a bad link to those.

I think (hope) I've fixed that now, and all the links seem to be working. If you go back to that second post, you should be able to see my few photographs from the Museo Ostiense.

In any case, I sorry if the bad link caused any inconvenience.

Wrapping up my Ostia Antica adventure, I'm delighted to share one more little treasure found at that splendid place, the mosaics of the elephants. And, yes, it's true I seem to go a little overboard about elephants—even elephants from ancient days—but I hope you'll bear with me for yet another story of one more of Guy's adventures with elephants. (I can't seem to stop, can I?)

Actually, I suppose it's a pretty harmless interest, and certainly seeing the elephants in the wild in Africa is a thrilling adventure indeed. For me, it's also intriguing to think about how long elephants have been capturing the attention of explorers and adventurers, centuries even. I remember visiting Villa Romana del Casale in Sicily and being very impressed with what I saw (and with the extremely knowledgeable archaeologist guide who took us through the site, even kneeling down to wash away some of the dust from some of the mosaics, so we could view the colors better and take joy in how brilliant they are, even after all this time).

There's a very informative article telling the story of what's happening at Villa Romana del Casale that's worth reading. It appeared in The Telegraph (Sicily: A Miracle at Villa del Casale). We had visited this remarkable site back in 2009, three years before the article in The Telegraph, and it makes me very happy to see that work is progressing there. Even though there is much still to be done, one of the great treasures of Villa del Castale is the very well preserved mosaic floor. It's just loaded with mosaics, including images of people as well as depictions of all the wild animals the Roman nobleman had had brought back to him, after commissioning hunters and ship captains to capture and have these animals in his own private zoo. A massive array of photographs of the mosaics at Villa Romana del Casale can be viewed here but, alas, there's no photo of the elephants at that site.

So there's obviously a long tradition of having mosaics of the wild elephants, and everyone knows elephants live a long time. How about elephants that are still around after 2,000 years?

OK. Perhaps not the animals themselves, but who wouldn't be impressed when finding himself viewing mosaics that were put down in Ostia Antica.

These are located in the floor of the Piazzale delle Corporazioni (Square of the Guilds) which I've already described. This area was sort of a city center or governance area, and because Ostia Antica was the center so much shipping—both for bringing goods into Rome and taking Roman goods away—it makes sense that the shipbuilders and shipping companies (or whatever organizations managed the shipping) would decorate the floors of the square with mosaics with images of what was seen in the lands they visited.

Of course these two amateur photographs don't add much to the story, and as photographs don't begin to match the "travelogue" photographs in guidebooks and newspaper accounts of ancient mosaics, but they are fun to view. As I noted earlier, I was there almost to closing time, and I didn't get to the mosaic floors of the Piazzale delle Corporazioni until it was nearly evening, and the light was beginning to fade. So I had to do a little dancing about to capture these photos of my beloved ancient elephants. Nevertheless I had fun taking the photos (pine cone detritus and all—I didn't dare climb over the barrier and walk on the mosaics to clear away the pine cones, and I had to deal with the falling shadows as well). So the photos aren't great they're good enough to give me a nice reminder of my favorite part of Ostia Antica.

Ostia Antica (2) - The Surprising Museo Ostiense

Museo Ostiense
(Photo: Klaus Heese)

In my September 7 personal post (Rome's Ostia Antica—For Travelers Who Like to Stray from the Typical Track) I promised to share my impressions of the Museo Ostiense.

Tucked away in the almost overwhelming space of Ostia Antica, it is a jewel of a museum. It is briefly described at the Ostia Antica site:

The Ostiense Museum is housed on the ground floor of a building dating back to the 15th century, known as "Casone del Sale" (Big House of Salt), as it is linked to the exploitation of the nearby salt marshes by the papal government. The building features a neoclassical façade. During the sixties of the 19th century this structure was adapted by Pius IX to become a museum. Today it serves as a museum and an office space from where the excavation works are directed.

A classical statue just before the
entrance to the Museo Ostiense

Any visitor to Ostia Antica will want to set aside some time to visit the museum. It isn't large, although the collections, made up of a wide range of classical sculpture and mosaics gathered from Ostia Antica during the many years of the site's excavation, are impressive. It's my guess that classical scholars are much rewarded by perusing the many items collected here. And an eye-opening digital visit is available at the museum's virtual tour.

There are a few of my photos here (and one image that came from the museum's own gallery). 

Of course I enjoyed all the classical sculpture displayed throughout the museum (and there are a few examples outdoors, like this typical statue just to the left of the door as you enter the building). I was particularly taken with two sarcophagi, one a beautiful depiction of children playing, carved on what was obviously a child's sarcophagus. The other one also pleased me very much, a family scene again and I surmise, because of the size, for a child.

Other child-related sculptures I liked were the boy slaying the cow (his knife lost over the years) and (who could resist?) the delicate depiction of Cupid & Psyche, kissing ever so sweetly. Naturally I enjoyed the classical heroes, and specially liked being able to see the juxtaposition of the Cupid & Psyche quietly resting behind a magnificent statue of Perseus (which I had to photograph twice because it was just so splendid!).

One innovation I enjoyed was the arrangement of two herms, no longer perched on their pedestals but artfully set up at the base of a doorframe. Very clever.

Photo: Paul Adams
ethicsculture.blogspot.com

If you view my photos, you'll be a little distracted by the first three photographs, showing examples of the work of Giacomo Manzù (1908-1991). The second and third photographs (the two children and the female bronze) are part of a temporary exhibition (until November 2015, I believe). I found out more about Manzù in the Art Directory and was pleased to learn about this important 20th-century sculptor of religious statuary. I had not encountered his work before.

Among Manzù's many successes were his teaching at the International Summer Academy in Salzburg from 1954 to 1966. And at Salzburg he was commissioned to design the main portal of the Salzburg Cathedral in 1955. Shortly thereafter Pope John 23rd asked him to make the "Portal of Death" for St. Peter’s Basilica. Also known as the "Door of the Dead" ("Porte della Morte") it is the southern door of the five portals from the narthex to the interior of the basilica, and it includes in one panel a portrait of John 23rd kneeling before the crucified figure of St. Peter.

In my photographs, the final of the three pictures of Manzù's work is of a bronze statue of his wife Inge. The "other side"—we might say—of the work of "Bergamo's Master"(as he is designated in the museum's notes) was the series of sculptures and drawings in which the figures, predominantly female, "are investigated (invested?) with meticulous passion." Along with the "Porte della Morte" these works are described in the Museo Ostiense's current exhibition notes as "masterpieces of plastic art in the 20th century."

Apparently Manzù's fame grew over the years, so much so that, at Ostia Antica, almost at the entrance to the grounds, there is a splendid Manzù sculpture—Grande Cardinale seduto (Grand Cardinal seated)—greeting every visitor, and, as best I can tell, installed permanently on the grounds. I can't pull up the connection between Manzù and the historical site, but I suppose the site's managers have a reason. The first photograph in my little collection shows that outdoor sculpture.

Go here to view the "official" link to the Museo Ostiense.

Rome's Ostia Antica - For Travelers Who Like to Stray from the Typical Track

The Roman Road—Ostia Antica's
Main Street

To anyone who knows much about Italian history and Rome, there's so much to see that no journey could enable you to take in everything. Oh, I suppose if you changed your life and went to Rome to live for a few years, you might get to see all you wanted to see. I have a friend who did that for Paris about fifteen years ago. He's still there and he still complains that he can't see everything he wants to see. So maybe the trick is to seek out things beyond what tourists usually see.

One "secret" place in Italy is Ostia Antica, deliciously uncrowded (except for the occasional well-mannered school group). Ostia was the original fortified city built to guard the mouth (ostium) of the Tiber.  The place is well worth the short journey (a 30-minute train ride from Stazione Ostiense beside Porta San Paolo, plus a few minutes walk from the Ostia Antica station).

The remains at the site date to the 4th century BC, providing a picture of what life was like in a large commercial city (and not much later, a naval base). Ostia Antica served as the port for Rome, responsible for all of the capital's imports and exports and, in particular, supplying annona (produce—mainly grain—for Rome.

By the 4th century AD, Ostia Antica had become a residential town instead of a commercial city, and over the next few centuries Ostia went into decline from the loss of trade and the increase of malaria. In the 16th century Gregory IV tried to revive the place, but it didn't work, and as quoted in one text on Ostia Antica:

By 1786 the city which at the height of its prosperity had a population of some 80,000, had 156 inhabitants; half a century later only a few convicts of the papal government lived here. Augustus Hare, writing in 1878, speaks of one human habitation breaking the utter solitude.

The Ruins of the Ancient Granary

Of course the site had been pretty much covered over during the centuries, and excavations only began (on a small scale) in the early 19th century. Serious work did not get started until 1907, and in 1938-1942 Guido Calza and others embarked on a major excavation program (unbelievable given world events at that time).  The work continued after the war, and today, some 34 hectares (or some two-thirds of the city at its largest size) have been excavated. I read somewhere that the site is much larger but by my calculation that's still pretty big, some 84 acres and enough space to tire out a visitor coming for the day.

Saying Good-by: The Roman
Road Leads Out as Well

There's no question about it: Ostia Antica is an impressive site, with beautiful old packed-dirt streets, excavated ruins, masses of umbrella pines and cypresses, and thick grass just about everywhere, with statuary and building foundations all along the path. And since the ancient city seems to have been divided into five districts or regiones, there are more civic buildings, temples, baths, warehouses, and domestic dwellings than you could ever keep track of. The main street (an original Roman road with its stones still in place) cuts right through the city, as one would expect, and on both sides are blocks and blocks of ruins that in their original state would have been the lifeblood of the central city. The Via delle Corporazioni, with its apartment houses and central government buildings, gives a good sense of how varied and cosmopolitan it all was.

On one side of the street is the massive theater, originally seating 2,700 people in three tiers, though only two tiers survive. Beyond the theater is the Piazzale delle Corporazioni (Square of the Guilds), where offices of commercial associations were located, with their fascinating mosaics indicating from whence (whence?) foreign representatives from all over the ancient world came. And not only the origins of the foreigners but the trades of local citizens (such as ship repair and construction, dock maintenance, warehouses and embankments), all shown in the beautiful—and exceptionally well preserved—mosaics.

So it's worth the time, for a day out from Rome (some people who will be nameless here have been known to take the early train from Rome, planning to return by lunchtime. It won't happen. On that occasion the visitor had to be asked to leave the site when it closed at 7pm!). There is a lovely museum (more about that another time) and a tiny, not very special lunchroom. But it's Italy, after all, and even an informal luncheonette is going to provide you with a very tasty meal to keep your energy up while you're wandering about in the ruins.

A selection of Ostia Antica photos is here—or if the live link doesn't work: https://guystclair.smugmug.com/Travel/2015-Italy-Ostia-Antica-May/n-5xb3HR.