What makes a basilica a basilica?

The word basilica is one which is often used with abandon to refer to any important church, but “what exactly is a basilica?” is a question I am often asked. The basilicas of the Roman world were multi-purpose secular buildings: the sites of legal activity, public meetings, and economic activity. Like so many elements of the Roman world (gladiators, thermal baths, and theatres included) they were lifted from an original idea by the Greeks, and given a thoroughly Roman twist. From the Greek basilikos meaning royal, the word basilike was a royal hall and was usually rectangular, with an apse at one end to house the throne of the basileus (king).

Ruins of the Basilica of Maxentius, Gianbattista Piranesi, mid 18th century.

The largest ever to be built was begun soon after the year 300 AD in the Roman Forum, by the ill-fated Emperor Maxentius.

Floor plan, Basilica of Maxentius, Roman Forum early 4th century AD

Maxentius came to a sticky end in the Tiber, defeated by Constantine at the Battle of the Milvian Bridge in October 312, and his victor concluded the project and commissioned a colossal statue of himself for the vast niche of his Basilica.

Head and partial arm of the monumental statue of Constantine from the Basilica, Capitoline Museum

The year after his victory, in 313 (this year is a big anniversary), Constantine legitimised Christianity. The first state-sanctioned churches began to be built in the city. But what shape should they be? Clearly the forms used for Roman temples were unsuitable; not only were they a reminder of the fearsome persecutions the Christians had suffered, but Christian churches also required a different sort of worship. A building type was needed which was able to house large numbers of people at once, and the basilical form met these criteria.

Floor plan of San Paolo fuori le mura. 4th century

As the role of the church became ever stronger, the liturgy became more complex. More and more space was required to accommodate the rapidly growing ranks of the priesthood. At the apse end the transepts gradually grew larger, and the floor plans of churches for the first time began to take on the form of the cross. Many of the grandest Roman basilicas (St Peter’s, St John in Lateran) were rebuilt in the pronounced form of the Latin cross, and whilst no longer technically basilical in form retain the title which is testament to their ancient foundations during the reign of Constantine.

Floor plan of New St Peter’s, 16th century

Although the basilical form might seem to have been lost, the importance, and indeed majesty, of the form was not lost on Michelangelo; as architect in charge of St Peter’s, he spoke of his plans to create a building which would evoke the grandeur of “the Pantheon atop the Basilica of Maxentius”. The very buildings of the city of emperors had transformed into those of the city of popes.

From a city of emperors to a city of popes

Yesterday, as every Good Friday, the papal Via Crucis was held at the Colosseum. The procession begins in the amphitheatre and concludes at the temple of Venus, built by Hadrian at the pinnacle of Roman imperial power. The image of the pope amid the ruins has always struck me as wildly poetic, the vast niche behind him once held a statue of the goddess, herself mother of Aeneas and distant ancestor of Romulus, founder of Rome. It reminds us that the story of Rome is a single thread; that the city of the emperors became the city of the popes, that a city of temples became a city of churches.

Going underground: The Columbarium of Pomponio Hylas

A very unlikely entrance…

I’ve mentioned (here and here) my fondness for clambering improbable staircases to view long bricked-in frescoes. Just as good, if not better, is making an appointment through the city heritage office to meet a key-bearing guard in an unlikely looking spot. One of these sublimely doubtful gates leads down a flight of stairs to the Columbarium of Pomponio Hylas. A columbarium (literally a “dovecote”) was a common, usually semi-underground, structure built to house multiple niches where funerary urns could be placed. Built either by a private builder or by a professional corporation for its members they were, if you will, a sort of condominium of death. Less grand than a single-property mausoleum, but nevertheless expressing a certain social status, the proliferation of colombaria bears testament to the burgeoning middle class in the early Empire.

Inscription referring to Pomponio Hylas and his wife.

Within the shadow of the Aurelian walls, the Columbarium of Pomponio Hylas was discovered in 1831 in excitingly good condition. It takes its name from the beautiful mosaic inscription which is the first thing one sees as one descends the (original) staircase. Framed with shells it tells us that this was the tomb of Cn[aieus] Pomponius Hylas and his wife Pomponia Cn[aieus]. The last part of the inscription L[ibertae] Vitalinis tells us they were the freed slaves of Vitalinis, a reminder of the social mobility of the Roman world. Above Pomponia’s name the letter “V” suggests she was still alive when the inscription was made, and below two griffins are shown on either side of a lyre.

The dominance of this inscription has led the colombarium to be named for Pomponio Hylas, however it was not made for him. Rather, his memorial is part of a second phase of building which saw the addition of tombs during the Flavian dynasty of the late 1st century. As one descends the stairs the first phase of building, excavated into the friable tufa, is visible on the right. The niche holds the tomb of Granius Nestor and his wife Vimileia Hedone.

The earliest tombs, including those of Granius Nestor and Vimileia Hedone are visible in the niche on the right, the pedimented structure on the left is part of the later additions.

Other inscriptions which were found in the earliest part of the colombarium include reference to a certain Celadius, freed slave of the Emperor Tiberius, and Paezusa, formerly ornatrix (hairdresser) of Octavia, the first wife of Nero. These inscriptions place this first phase to the post-Augustan Julio-Claudian dynasty (14-68).

Tomb of Granius Nestor and Vimileia Hedone, with some urns intact.

“Quintus Granius Nestor built this for himself and his wife Vimileia Hedone”

The couple are shown in paintings on either side of the niche with a curious large urn (kiste) between them which suggests them to be members of some sort of undetermined religious cult.

Granius Nestor and the “kiste”

Above the ceiling is elegantly painted with floral decorations, even including a grasshopper.

painting detail, grasshopper.

Towards the end of the 1st century Pomponio Hylas and company came along, shamelessly destroying obstructing tombs to add in their own.

Later additions, with some urns still intact (late 1st century)

Their colourfully painted columns are of a type which were clearly known to Filippino Lippi, and those which frame his glorious Annunciation at the Cappella Carafa of Santa Maria sopra Minerva might have been copied from these, as can be seen in the photos below.

column detail (late 1st century)

Cappella Carafa, Santa Maria sopra Minerva. Filippino Lippi (1488-93)

Of course Filippino Lippi never visited this columbarium; indeed were it to have been exposed to the elements in the 15th century its glorious (and entirely original) colours would certainly not be in such good condition today. However his emulation serves to remind us that in this decoration we can see echoes of the architectural fashions set by much grander buildings: indeed the use of shells and mosaics in Pomponio Hylas’ inscription recalls the monumental fountain of Nero’s palace at Anzio. In the Columbarium of Pomponio Hylas we can see a snapshot of a new Imperial bourgeoisie made up of self-made men who proudly proclaim their social evolution from the slave classes with tombs at the cutting edge of design.

Entrance is by appointment only. The site could be incorporated upon request, and where site availibility permits, in my Roads and Water itinerary.

Columbarium of Pomponio Hylas

Park of the Scipios

via Latina

The Vatican Museums: Not just the Sistine Chapel

Anyone visiting Rome over the next week or so may have been dismayed to find that at 1pm today the Sistine Chapel closed to allow preparations for the conclave to take place, and will remain closed as long as is necessary. The next time it opens there will be a new Pope. When the last conclave took place in 2005, I was a guide in Rome (though Understanding Rome didn’t yet exist), and I remember the Chapel remained off bounds to the public for two weeks. The Vatican likes to remind us that the Chapel has another, and far more lofty, principal function than our visit.

If, however, the Sistine Chapel being off the itinerary puts you off visiting the Vatican Museums, think again. It’s an excellent opportunity to explore the other areas of one of the finest museums in the world. Plus, if my experience in 2005 is anything to go by, the place will be all but deserted.

On this occasion, one of the sections of the Museums which is often overlooked by visitors for reasons of time and stamina should be your first port of call. The Vatican picture gallery (Pinacoteca) is a prime candidate for the best smallish (15 main rooms) gallery in the world. Arranged in chronological order it’s a roller-coaster zipping you through the history of western art from Giotto to Pompeo Batoni, taking in Fra Angelico, Filippo Lippi, Raphael (a roomful), Giovanni Bellini, Titian, and Caravaggio along the way. Oh, and did I forget to mention there’s an unfinished Leonardo too? It’s that sort of place.

Angel. Detail, apse fresco (fragmentary). Melozzo da Forlì c.1480. Pinacoteca Vaticana

Among my absolute favourites in the Pinacoteca are several sections of fresco by Melozzo da Forlì. Commissioned for the apse of the church of the Santi Apostoli near piazza Venezia by Cardinal Bessarion (for whom Melozzo also painted this funerary chapel in the same church), they were part of the scene of the Ascension of Christ.

Originally the fragments we see here were focused on the central figure of Christ (now in the Quirinal Palace). In the heavens angels play musical instruments, and below the apostles gaze upwards. All of these figures were designed to be seen high in the apse, the angels and Christ above the apostles, and all of them above the earth-bound viewer anchored by gravity to the cold marble floor of the church.

Melozzo’s technique of sotto in su (from below, looking up) is exquisite, and whilst the cherubic angel above is a sort of poster boy for this room, I find it is in the features of the apostles that an almost heart-breaking beauty can be found.

Apostle. Detail, apse frescoes (fragmentary). Melozzo da Forlì c.1480. Pinacoteca Vaticana.

A visit to the Pinacoteca plus the Raphael rooms should sate even the most vigorous thirst for painting. And you’ll be able to explore these masterpieces knowing that but a stone’s throw away 115 cardinals are engaged in the election of the next pope, and history is being made.

Vatican Museums,

viale Vaticano

16 euros (20 euros with online reservations)

Heavens Above: A few thoughts about ceilings

Recently I’ve been thinking about ceilings. Elaborately painted ones to be precise. A couple of weeks ago I took a group of 41 seventeen-year-old girls from the James Allen’s Girls’ School, plus their teachers, to see two of them. In the morning we visited the Vatican Museums, home to the most famous ceiling of them all. We talked about how the painted framework designed by Michelangelo to “hold” all of the various scenes and figures in place pointed to the confidence, both intellectual and political, which characterized the reign of Michelangelo’s patron, Pope Julius II. The central scenes of the creation are obediently enclosed within their frames; man, the ceiling tells us, can get his head around the infinite, here the very beginning of time is under control, obedient within the confines imposed upon it by the human imagination.

 

Sistine Chapel ceiling. Detail. Creation

Five years, to the day, after Michelangelo climbed down from his scaffolding for the last time, the event upon which the girls’ A-level History course rests took place; on 31st October of 1517 in Wittenberg, a disgruntled Martin Luther set the wheels of the Protestant Reformation in motion. The Roman Church, eventually, saw the threat this breakaway movement posed, and the Council of Trent convened in 1545 with the task of defending the supremacy of the Roman Church.

The art of the Church, the Council determined, was to be reined in as the handmaiden of religion; decoration for decoration’s sake was out. But less than ten years after the Council’s long meetings concluded, things began looking up. Victories over Turks and Protestants were fought, and gold was flooding in from the New World; this new optimism was reflected in art. Any residual defensiveness was lost, and the Roman Catholic Church came out to meet the 17th century with all guns blazing. The Baroque was born. As wildly un-Protestant as possible, art was the tool through which the Roman Church illustrated its strength. Theatrical and dramatic, it was the perfect medium through which to advertise the Church’s renewed emphasis on miracles and visions, on the transcendental, on that which was beyond comprehension.

Art was to wow the faithful, enveloping them within a dizzying spiritual experience to which they were to surrender. And with their representations of the heavens, ceiling decorations lent themselves perfectly.

So after a well-deserved lunch-break we took the metro and trotted along to Palazzo Barberini. Almost always empty, it struck me as an agreeable spot to spend an hour or so, a pleasant foil to the crowds of the Vatican. Built by Pope Urban VIII, it houses a super collection (including a Holbein Henry VIII which fitted in with our theme). Its main salone has a fabulous ceiling painted by Pietro da Cortona. Furthermore, the gallery has thoughtfully placed couches in the main salone from which to admire Pietro da Cortona’s work which I thought would go down well. I remember only too well that being seventeen was an exhausting business.

In rich allegorical detail the ceiling outlines the “Divine Providence” that led to the election of Maffeo Barberini as Pope Urban VIII in 1623. It details the glorious prosperity, abundance, and peace which his reign brought upon the Papal States. It’s a great piece of PR.

The Triumph of Divine Providence, ceiling of the Salone of Palazzo Barberini. Pietro da Cortona

In the centre three vast bees, the crest of the Barberini family (adapted by Urban when he was still a cardinal from the rather less glamorous horseflies which had represented the family since time immemorial) are topped by the vast papal tiara and the keys of Peter. But rather than detailing every aspect of the allegories shown, sometimes less is more, I encouraged the girls to look at the overall effect, in particular the way the architectural framework worked.

If at the Sistine Chapel, Michelangelo’s framework was obediently respected, here it exists but is ignored by the figures which inhabit it. The scenes merge one into the other, and the heavenly realm above bursts out over the painted cornicing. The force of the heavens cannot be contained by mere matter. The Baroque, we decided, was about going over the edges.

 

Palazzo Barberini is part of my “Bernini, Borromini, and the Spirit of the Baroque” itinerary
Palazzo Barberini

via delle Quattro Fontane

Tuesday – Sunday 8.30am – 7pm

7 euros

 

Eclectic Exoticism and Funerary Bling: The Pyramid of Gaius Cestius

Pyramid of Gaius Cestius in an engraving by Giovanni Battista Piranesi, c.1755

If you find yourself entering Rome by the via Ostiense, you might be surprised to see a large white marble pyramid, not perhaps a form one associates with the city. It certainly struck Thomas Hardy, and in his poem Rome at the Pyramid of Cestius Near the Graves of Shelley and Keats, he wondered:

Who then, was Cestius

And what is he to me?

Amid thick thoughts and memories multitudinous

One thought alone brings he.

I can recall no word

Of anything he did;

For me he is a man who died and was interred

To leave a pyramid

His poem goes on, with inimitable British solipsism, to determine that really whatever it was that Gaius Cestius had done in life to merit such a splendid tomb, in death his chief purpose was to “beckon pilgrim feet, with marble finger high” as they flock to the tombs of Keats and Shelley in the adjacent cemetery. Poor old Gaius Cestius becomes, for Hardy, little more than a signpost for dead Romantic poets.

This is, of course, thoroughly unfair. Indeed had Hardy torn himself from his reverie and looked at the inscription, which Cestius had especially ordered on two sides, that it might be seen by all passing traffic, he could have determined who indeed then was Cestius. It tells us:

C CESTIUS L F POB EPULO PR TR PL

VII VIR EPULONUM

Which is to say, Gaius Cestius Epulo, son of Lucius, of the voting tribe Poblilia, praetor [chief magistrate], tribune of the plebs, one of seven state priests in charge of public banquets [the epulones] which celebrated various religious festivals.

The choice of a pyramidical form suggests that Cestius may have served in the far reaching province of Nubia (southern Egypt/northern Sudan); the tall narrow pyramids of the region may have inspired his choice of tomb. This is a civil servant made good advertising his sophistication; the ultimate souvenir of a well-travelled man.

That his tomb survives in such good condition can be attributed to its incorporation within the fortifications of the city in the late third century; those ancient buildings which survive tend to do so because they were turned into something else, usually churches or fortresses.

In the 1660s, excavations found the bases of long since pillaged bronze statues. They bear inscriptions which name Cestius’ heirs (which include Augustus’ son-in-law Marcus Agrippa – leaving property to the Imperial family was not an uncommon way to curry favour). The inscriptions tell us that the statues were paid for by the ale of valuable tapestries from Pergamum (presumably picked up on another his travels) with which Cestius had intended to decorate the interior of the pyramid, but which contravened a law on luxury passed in 18 BC. As Marcus Agrippa is known to have died in 12 BC the pyramid can be dated to between 18 and 12 BC.

Instead of these attalici, the epitome of Eastern bling, the barrel-vaulted central chamber had to make do with simple but elegant fresco paintings. And last Saturday morning, thanks to the organization and enthusiasm of a fellow guide (thank you Guido!), I was able to enter the pyramid. The interior of the pyramid is accessed by a low corridor carved out in the 17th century, originally it was entirely sealed.

Interior of the Pyramid of Gaius Cestius, damage visible caused by tomb raiders

Despite damage caused by “tomb raiders”, including the theft of the sarcophagus and any other removable pieces, and the detachment of choice pieces of fresco (then sold as souvenirs to Grand Tourists), the chamber remains surprisingly well-preserved.

In the photograph above, alongside an elegantly painted candelabrum, the tunnel burrowed into the chamber by tomb raiders is visible.

Candelabrum, detail

The barrel vault is decorated with four winged victories, while the damaged part in the centre indicates that the tomb raiders burrowed upwards into the pyramid in search of more loot.

Winged victory, detail

This mix of modern Roman painting within a monument inspired by far-flung tombs which predate Rome’s foundation is a wonderful analogy for the ancient city as a whole; elements were borrowed from the exotic and the ancient to create an eclectic architectural language which is spoken with a thoroughly Roman accent.

At the time of writing scaffolding was being erected on the pyramid’s exterior for a restoration project. Hopefully it won’t stay there forever…

Pyramid of Gaius Cestius,

piazzale Ostiense.

The interior is visitable at 11am on the second and fourth Saturdays of the month. Booking necessary (06 39967700). Euro 1.50

The Birth of Christian Art: The Basilica of Saints Cosmas & Damian

The verdigris door in the photo above belongs to a temple in the Roman Forum, traditionally said to have been dedicated to Romulus, the infant son of the Emperor Maxentius. About a century after the mosaics at Santa Pudenziana (about which I spoke in my last post), and half a century after the last emperor in Rome had been deposed, the temple was incorporated into the church of Saints Cosmas and Damian by Pope Felix IV (526-30).

Over a millennium after the church was built, major modifications were undertaken. These saw the narrowing of the apse to make way for new side chapels which rather brutally cut into the mosaics, but the central part of the original apse mosaic survives largely intact.

The inscription at the base of the mosaic tells us that, “Felix has offered this gift worthy of the lord bishop so that he may live in the highest vault of the airy heavens.” I rather like the gumption with which he makes this deal with the Almighty.

Apse, Basilica of Saints Cosmas and Damian

Dominating the apse is the bearded figure of Christ. A forbidding figure, his right hand, replete with stigmata, is raised to indicate the phoenix in a palm tree. The bird which rose from the ashes becomes in Christian art a symbol of the resurrection.

On either side, and more solidly rooted on earth, are Saints Peter (always shown with white hair) on the left and Paul on the right (always shown with a domed head and a brown beard). Peter presents Cosmas, while Paul presents Damian. On the far right St Theodore lurks nervously, while on the left Pope Felix IV, his face heavily restored, holds a model of the church he dedicated.

Detail showing Pope Felix IV, and Saints Damian and Paul

Below twelve sheep represent the apostles. They form a procession leading towards the agnus dei, the lamb of God, which stands on a rock from which flow the four rivers of paradise.

Detail, apse Basilica of Saints Cosmas and Damian

This programme – Christ, saints on either side, the donor, and the sheep below – would become the standard for apse mosaics for the next eight hundred years. For example Santa Maria in Trastevere, mid twelfth century.

Apse, Santa Maria in Trastevere, c.1154

We can compare with the mosaics at Santa Pudenziana (images can be found in my previous post here). There Christ is involved in discussion, here he is completely removed from the scene. Far larger than the other figures, and neither old nor young, he floats on the fiery flame-coloured clouds in an entirely different realm from the other figures. Indeed they are not looking towards him but out at us; it is as if the Christ figure appears both to them and to us as a communal vision.

Detail, showing the figure of Christ indicating the phoenix.

While the image of Christ at Santa Pudenziana was distilled from the Roman model of the orator, here we see a figure which has entirely broken the pragmatic shackles of Roman realism. This Christ fully embraces the transcendental nature of Christianity, so different from the Roman religion. I spoke of “Roman Christian-ness” at Santa Pudenziana, this, perhaps for the first time, is a fully Christian art.

If the spirit of naturalism of Roman Imperial art has been transformed into something else, the hierarchy of the Roman world is still very much present. Christ is robed in a gold toga edged with purple, the inverse of the toga picta (purple embroidered with gold) reserved for victorious generals, consuls, and emperors. The analogy of Imperial power is used to indicate rule over the realm of heaven, of triumph over death. The togas of Peter and Paul mark them out as Romans of substance, but unlike the dynamic realism of the gestures of the apostles at Santa Pudenziana, their poses are identical in their indication of the figure (vision) of Christ. Similarly Cosmas and Damian, dressed as Byzantine princes and bearing the crowns of their martyrdoms, exactly mirror one another. A residual naturalism can be seen in the positions of their feet and the shadows they cast, especially Damian on the left.

The abstract and formal nature of the mosaic marks the first flowering of a truly Byzantine art in Rome. Too often we are tempted to think of the loss of perspective after the fall of the Roman Empire as just that, a “loss”. For so long the plodding banality of much art history wanted us to place value judgements on Late Imperial and Medieval art based on realism, an entirely subjective and arbitrary parameter. Are Michelangelo’s figures on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel realistic, is Picasso’s Guernica realistic? The question of success in art is more complicated, the achievement of representation depends on what is to be represented. The art of Byzantium, driven by the focus on the divine, the intangible, the future heavenly world, retreated from the classical search for realism (how do you represent heaven?) into a symbolism which could be meditated on by the faithful. The very nature of Christianity meant that art did not need to do all the work, but became a tool through which internal visions could be achieved.

The wildly eminent Byzantine art historian (and sometime Professor at my alma mater) David Talbot-Rice uses a wonderful analogy. He speaks of a quotation from the Indian Nobel Laureate Rabindranath Thakur who said of Indian music:

“Our master singers never take the least trouble to make their voices attractive. Those of the audience whose senses have to be satisfied are held to be beneath any self-respecting artist. Those of the audience who are appreciative are content to perfect the song in their own mind by the force of their own feeling.”

Just as the music he speaks of as the symbol which sparks another concert within the soul, so the art of Byzantium offers the same formal symbolism, a mantra to provoke meditation on the divine. It’s neither better nor worse, just different.

This would make a super part of a tour of Early Christian art, or perhaps a 4 hour extended version of my “Heart of Ancient Rome” itinerary

Basilica of Saints Cosmas and Damian,
via dei Fori Imperiali, 1

Open every day 9am-1pm, 3pm-7pm

Roman Christian-ness or Christian Roman-ness? The Apse Mosaics of Santa Pudenziana

I have recently been in a mosaic phase, as mentioned in my last post. My mosaic phases are cyclical – all that glittering gold in the gloaming is so wonderfully atmospheric – but this one began last month when watching a BBC documentary about the Dark Ages (specifically this one). It reminded me I had only been to Ravenna once, aged sixteen on a school trip. I remember being impressed but little else. To be honest I probably wasn’t concentrating as much as I should have been. So I earmarked a couple of free days and hopped on a train to explore 5th and 6th century mosaics.

Orthodox Baptistery, Ravenna. Mosaics mid-5th century

The Orthodox Baptistery (also known as the Neonian Baptistery) set me thinking about apostles shown, somewhat ironically given the treatment the Empire meted out to the early Christians, in the opulent togas of Roman senators.

Senatorial apostles, detail, Orthodox Baptistery, Ravenna

It also has some glorious Roman architectural elements, for example here framing the hetiomasia, the empty throne which awaits Christ on the day of Judgement.

Hetiomasia, detail, Orthodox Baptistery, Ravenna

When I came back to Rome, my appetite whetted and ready for more, I returned to some mosaics here in Rome of roughly the same period with a new perspective. The oldest of these is at the church of Santa Pudenziana, now the church of Rome’s Filippino community (Pudenziana was declared patron of the Philippines by the Conquistador Miguel López de Legaspi). She is a poorly documented figure, indeed her very existence is questionable. Believed to have been the sister of Santa Prassede (whose church is on the other side of Santa Maria Maggiore, and about which I wrote this), the sisters were the daughters of a Roman senator called Pudens. He is said to have harboured St Peter at his house on this spot. Nearly a century after Peter is said to have stayed here (c. 60 AD), the house was replaced by a bath complex, which was itself subsequently partially incorporated into the basilica.

Tucked away behind Santa Maria Maggiore, it contains the earliest major Christian mosaic decoration in Rome. Despite major and multiple remodellings in the intervening sixteen centuries, the church’s ancient foundation is attested to by the fight of steps which leads one significantly below the nineteenth century street level.

Once inside, the apse mosaic beckons. It dates to the church’s construction under Pope Innocent I (402-417) and offers a glimpse into the very origins of Christian art. If earlier Christian decorations had been largely restricted to funerary chapels in the catacombs and sarcophagi, commissioned by relatively humble patrons, the decree of Theodosius of 380 saw Christianity declared the only religion of state. This marked a major shift in every aspect of Roman culture, including art: patronage was now in the hands of the very wealthy, and the expensive art of mosaic was at the disposal of a Church which now had an institutional role.

Apse mosaic, Santa Pudenziana

Christ is enthroned in the centre of the scene. He wears a toga of gold and purple, both colours associated with Imperial power, and is shown bearded. This marks a dramatic departure from earlier depictions (such as the Good Shepherd at the catacombs of Sts Peter and Marcellinus) where Christ is a fair, clean shaven, and youthful figure. Here institutional recognition of the Church sees him imbued with a new gravitas.

Christ, detail, apse mosaic of Santa Pudenziana

The scene appears to be set in the atrium of a grand Roman house. With his left hand Christ holds a book, on which is inscribed “DOMINUS CONSERVATOR ECCLESIAE PUDENTIANAE” (Lord protect the church of Pudenziana), while his right hand is raised in a gesture of benediction. Six apostles are seated on either side. Robed in the togas of Roman noblemen and senators, they emphasise the dynamic nature of the scene by turning to one another and gesturing vehemently.

Sts Peter (to the left) and St. Paul (to the right) are closest to Christ. Behind them St Prassede is in the act of placing a crown upon the head of Peter, and St Pudenziana does the same behind St Paul.

Santa Pudenziana crowning St Peter, detail, apse mosaic of Santa Pudenziana

The faces of the women follow faithfully in the expressive tradition of Hellenistic art, the flush of their cheeks, the parting of their hair and the generous folds of their robes tangible in their realism. In the background the roofs of a Roman cityscape stretch into the distance, just the kind of view which would have been seen on the walls of the villas of the Roman haut-bourgeoisie, for example this fresco from Boscoreale, near Pompeii.

Cityscape from the Boscoreale frescoes, 1st century. Metropolitan Museum, New York

This lower part of the scene could show an orator instead of a god. The discussion might be one of earthly legislation instead of the divine. The language and hierarchy of Roman art has been transplanted in the service of the new religion of the State. However, look up and the mystical nature of the subject matter is clear. Above Christ a jewelled cross floats amid fiery clouds, itself a bombastic symbol of triumph, another thoroughly Roman concept. On either side, heavily damaged by later remodelling, are the winged symbols of the evangelists; this is no earthly Imperial cityscape, we are told, this is the new Jerusalem.

Santa Pudenziana could be incorporated into a walk focussing on early Christian art on the Esquiline

Santa Pudenziana,
via Urbana 160

Open 9am-12noon, 4.30-7pm

Seeing new things; it’s all in the detail

I usually like to take advantage of this quieter time of year by exploring Rome. And there’s no shortage of things to look at. As they say around these parts, “Roma, nun basta ‘na vita”: a lifetime isn’t enough. Familiar places can be looked at from different angles, and with a longer respiro, to yield new depths. New and less familiar sites can excite and astonish from behind an innocuous façade one has passed by a thousand times, enriching the infinite “whys” and “hows” which make my own understanding of Rome an never ending project.

It was in this spirit that I joined a group of similarly-minded guides who had taken the initiative to arrange a series of winter guided tours led by Professor Alessandro Tomei, a medievalist. A medieval focus very much appeals to me, it is the period of Rome’s history most often overlooked; a thousand years too often and too easily dismissed. Whether we speak of the “Middle” or the “Dark” Ages we use a pejorative term. A millennium is defined either by its position in relation to other “greater” moments – it is in the “Middle” of the Empire and the Renaissance, a trough between two great peaks of civilisation – or by the unfair accusation of a “Dark” absence of knowledge.

This week’s trip was to Trastevere, firstly to Santa Cecilia where we focussed particularly on these frescoes by the fabulous Pietro Cavallini.

We then continued the Cavallini theme at Santa Maria in Trastevere where, thanks to Professor Tomei’s erudition, I saw something quite new in mosaics I have admired since university.

In the scene of the Annunciation in the apse the Virgin is seated in a sort of throne-building. For over decade I have shown visitors the church, and used this structure to illustrate Cavallini’s precocious use of perspective. A few years before Giotto is credited with the “rediscovery” of perspective in the frescoes of the Scrovegni Chapel, Cavallini was employing it in mosaic, an altogether more unwieldy medium.
But I had never noticed what Professor Tomei pointed out yesterday, and which can be seen in the detail below: just as the Virgin is sitting at a three-quarter angle, so the tiny cross-vaults in the niches on either side of her are also at a three-quarter angle.

A sophisticated structural detail manipulated from nuanced coloured tiles seven centuries ago and all but imperceptible in the gloaming of the church took my breath away, and surely serves as a clear reminder that those “Middle” Ages were anything but “Dark”.

Santa Maria in Trastevere is visited on my “Jewish Ghetto and Trastevere” itinerary

Santa Maria in Trastevere,
piazza Santa Maria in Trastevere
Open every day 8am – 8pm

Arrivederci nel 2013!

Thanks to all my charming clients and blog/ Twitter/ Facebook followers for such a splendid 2012, and I hope to see you in 2013!