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9 Settembre, Martedi |
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written
by Eliana Hechter / 07.04.2004 |
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Itinerary |
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Our day began at nine, as usual, at the Café Biscione, where we watched the CHID students congregate from across the square. The walk was longer than usual, past the Coliseum and to San Clemente. It was a beautiful morning. The tourists had just begun to emerge from their hotels and, sleepy eyed, survey the ruins before moving on to the next monument. I felt somehow superior to walk past the grand silhouette of the Coliseum, past the gladiators parading around with their plastic swords, without being moved.
We made our way to San Clemente, a Medieval church with a staid, plain façade now home to a group of Irish priests. Jennifer, one of the administrators at the Rome center, acted as our guide, giving us a historical summary of the layered site. The oldest level, she explained, dates back to 1st century Rome. The next level is a 4th century church that was sacked in 1084 by Normans along with the whole of the Celio hill area. This church was filled in with rubble and served as a foundation for the current church. An Irish priest rediscovered the ruins below in the 18th century on what Jennifer explained as purely instinct. What are the odds, after all, that digging below a church in Rome he might have found something?
The entrance to the church is 12th century, she continued, pointing to knotted designs in the marble. There is a pretty courtyard with a fountain surrounded by mismatched columns. These columns are called “spoglia” and refer to a kind of ancient recycling during a time when there were no quarries, and instead builders would borrow from other sites. One has a sense that the columns carry the weight of past empires. Yet this didn’t seem incongruous at the time. Another use of spoglia is evident in the church in the mosaics on the floor, which were made by slicing marble columns of different hues into rounds and then cutting them to form patterns. Here again I had the sense that this church was built on the concept of conversion. After all, the columns originally held up pagan temples.
The mosaic in the apse is apparently unique to Rome, constructed in the 1100s. Surrounding the classic crucifixion are some beautiful genre details including tiny birds and deer drinking from a stream, representing genesis. Again, this more pagan attention to nature in the apse did not seem incongruous in the day it was built. Since it is made of glass, Jennifer pointed out, it is as bright as the day it was made. Walking in to the church it is the first thing that captures the eye: a concave half dome of sparkling roses, greens, and gold. Only after does one notice the segregated area for the choir, which is strangely positioned in the center of the nave. At the back of the church is a frescoed chapel built in 1427. It is beautiful, but with a distinctly more pastel mood than the rest of the church. Part of the marble floor is sinking, giving the feeling that the church is slowly tilting.
Down one flight is a 4th century church that was used continuously until 1084. There are structural additions visible both from 1100 and from 1800, making it even more difficult to sort out what the spaces must have been like. Jennifer pointed out a faded fresco illustrating one of the legends of St. Clement. As the story goes, he was anchored to the bottom of the ocean and drowned. Once each year the seas would part and the faithful could come pay homage to his grave. One such year a mother left her child behind and the sea closed. The fresco shows the scene wherein she is reunited with her child after a year of prayer to the saint. Similar frescoes, or fragments of frescoes, are painted on the walls, which fill in the spaces between columns and were used to hold up the church when structural damage made the columns ineffectual. Another fresco includes the first written Italian vernacular ever to appear. Jennifer translated it loosely to read what would today be “figli di putane” or “sons of bitches”.
The next level down is the so-called “Roman level”. We walked on 1st century pavement, characterized by the herringbone designs in the brick. The walk underground leads to a series of disconnected rooms, including what may have been storage rooms or a mansion, a space for the worship of Mithrais, a Mithraic school, a titular church dedicated to St. Clement, and a room where you can hear a river rushing. The cult of Mithrais was popular among soldiers and was competing with Christianity during its heyday.
As we walked back upstairs the Irish priests, clad in white robes, were sitting in the central space singing hymns, conducted by a cardinal who sang with them from the altar. We sat in the pews and listened to the end of the hymn before leading out. Perhaps to add one more level to the patchwork of this awkward church’s history, they were singing in English.
Walking up a hill we passed an unassuming brick fortress that houses Santi Quattro Coronati. This church is built inside a 4th century nave, rebuilt in the 9th century. Its history mirrors that of San Clemente; the same fire caused the reconstruction effort in the 9th century. An inelegant, short and squat bell tower recalls the Medieval period, when the Pope took refuge from the Lateran during times of tension with the Emperor over control of Rome. As we walked into the second courtyard, a single white pigeon flew out of the high walls. The Augustinian nuns who live and work at the cloister take a vow of silence. Perhaps it is for this reason that the church seems to exist in a different frame of time. The silence hangs, offering the opportunity for meditation. Shawn suggested that we come here for Mass on Sunday, when the nuns sing and drown all thoughts of Rome.
There are curtained windows in the generous curve of the apse, giving the impression that you are in someone’s living room. The frescoes are softer and muted in color, almost like wallpaper rather than pedantry. Many columns are painted or protrude only slightly from the walls. Upstairs there is a matrinaeum from which the nuns can participate in worship without contact with men. Arched spaces from the second floor look out onto the nave. The ceiling over the nave is a beautifully carved wood, a nice deviation from the golden heavens depicted on many church ceilings we have seen. Natural light pours from three simple windows at the back, illuminating bouquets of pink lilies and small potted plants that adorn the altar.
We reconvened in the courtyard and walked into the entrance to the Chapel of St. Sylvester. “Watch this!” Shawn added, as enthusiastic as a small child, pointing one manicured finger at Jennifer, who rang a small doorbell at the side of a grate and a wooden trapdoor. A nun appeared in the shadows behind the grate. Suddenly, the wooden door began to swivel, revealing a set of keys. Shawn deposited some money in the opening and back the door swiveled. Jennifer opened a wooden door with the key provided by the nun and in we went.
The chapel is very small and feels almost cozy, being decorated with colorful frescoes almost in its entirety. A series of these depicts the conversion of Constantine in a Byzantine style. Constantine has leprosy in the first panels, marked by tiny splotches on his face. A cure is suggested: bathe in the blood of babies. He considers this, but is dissuaded by the pleas of the young mothers. In another panel, two men visit him in a dream and tell him to go to Mt. Serrate to visit Pope Innocent, who tells him that the two men in his dream were Peter and Paul, and that he must convert. Constantine is cured in the scene of his baptism and in his gratitude brings the Pope to Rome on a white horse. Throughout the panels, Jennifer noted, the Pope is at a higher level than Constantine. She explained how she thinks that this is propagandistic, given its historical inaccuracy and dependence on a forged document. The power of Rome was never given to the Pope, she insists. The Pope merely commissioned this artwork in a time of tension. The scenes of Sylvester are pushed to the side, and over them perch two odd holes in the wall that appear somewhat like phonographs. These are voice pipes, she explained, which would carry the discussion of visiting dignitaries to a room above. The chapel was built in 1246. I noticed on our way out that the single window to the outside was broken, perhaps by a stray baseball?
Jennifer rode away on her silver Vespa in her matching helmet and we marched on to San Giovanni in Laterano with a short break at a bar for sandwiches. The plaza in back of the church contains the oldest obelisk in Rome. Laterano was founded by Constantine and has a distinctly Baroque style. Shawn pointed out an old Roman aqueduct over some buildings nearby, and I was calmed by the vision of two completely indecorous brick arches.
Inside, the church is enormous and opulent, recalling images of St. Peter’s. A photographer was setting up his camera before an intricately mosaic-ed apse, crawling on the marble floor on his knees. I felt as though I was swimming in a sea of gold and frescoed nymphs and saints. An enormous German tour group – to scale with the church – flung coins into the tomb while the vague ring of singing reverberated off the tall pulpit. Lining the main length of the church, which is done in white marble, and seems quite plain in contrast to the rose and gold walls, apse, and pulpit, are twelve statues of bearded men, each twelve feet tall, in various poses. These are all saints: one is holding his own dripping face, like a Dali clock, over his arm, one is stepping on a dragon, one is holding a book. The ceiling is ridiculously gold, adorned with ornate crests plastered down its length. I felt like I couldn’t stand any more, so I retreated into the cloister, where I found everyone else also hiding. The cloister is built around a central court, which is caged by arches supported by tiny twisting columns of quaint beauty. In the halls surrounding the courtyard hang historical fragments. A growling marble lion seems to pounce, tipped, his paws out of proportion to his mane. Here, large chunks of Latin-engraved marble sink into the walls. It occurred to me that no buildings today are meant to last.
I went back into the church and braved the rest of it, glimpsing momentarily at the inner chapels, which all seemed to have a different character. One crawls with marble cherubs, others, behind gates, show relics behind glass. I noticed that one confessional had a sign reading “English/Tagalog/Italiano”. That was enough. Two twenty-plus foot iron doors beckoned. I left feeling as though the place seemed like a dollhouse for monsters.
Outside, in front of the grand entrance, MTV was setting up a concert for tomorrow night. The acoustics as they played sample songs were just lovely. We caught a crowded bus home.
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