On Tuesday night I went to a free concert at the Cattedrale di Santa Maria del Fiore (the Duomo). I was the first in line until two Italian Lucile Ball redheads drenched in jewelry and perfume shoved their way to the head of the line. May I point out that I had the last laugh. It was apparent when the doors opened that they were trying to balance far too much weight on far too spiked a heel, for centuries polished marble. They were no match for the speed of my tennis shoes, with a posh seat at stake. This concert was part of Il Genio Fiorentino (The Florentine Genius); their motto this year is “Le idee non fanno paura a chi ne ha (Ideas scare those who do not have them).”
The concert was set up in the small domed alcove of the left transept. The orchestra was at the outer wall below a three-foot high stunning jewel encrusted crucifix (it glittered only somewhat more than the two red heads). We faced the orchestra (the Vivaldi experts of Modo Antiquo) with our backs just under the edge of Brunelleschi’s dome. Reliquaries to the left. Reliquaries to the right. Red-shaded oil lamps hung fifteen feet from ceiling supports. Great paintings and sculpture. A draft of cool air coming in from the open eye of the dome. And a little bit too much garlic from the tourist behind me.
Set up in the aisle was a wooden lectern with the patina of great age. It stood nine-feet high with amazing details. The lower part was three-feet high and five-feet square. There was a carved two-foot high pillar holding up the remaining three- sided section that held massive opened books of illuminated antique scripture and music. The setting was impressive.
There were a few announcements and then the orchestra came in, they warmed up and began the program of Veracine and Vivaldi with the added bonus of a mezzo-soprano.
The Veracine is dull classical elevator music. But I enjoyed the privilege of being exposed to something new. The next piece they chose was a Vivaldi that wasn’t much more exciting. Still, I tried to block out the klieg lights they brought into the alcove and all the electronic bric-a-brac and imagined this was being played 300 years ago, despite the plastic chairs. The mezzo-soprano came next. Vivaldi, her weapon of choice. She contorted her body to wrench out the notes as if she were a dishcloth being twisted to extract the moisture. Ok, perhaps it wasn’t that bad, it was just that I could have been at any concert anywhere.
Then I heard it. And the chills caught the nap of my neck. I damn well didn’t care if I was up front. I got up, walked down the long aisle and left the alcove, drawn away by the haunting echo of the mezzo’s voice bouncing around the corner in the nave (the long area from the front door to the altar). There are no pews. The nave is completely open. The sound of the orchestra floated through the massive empty space like the miasma of history calling to me. The deserted cathedral beckoned for a presence, for me. I was alone in the entire area except for one unmoving shadowy figure nestled between the font and a pillar, who I later noticed. Huge carved marble monuments to the people buried here stood guard but let me pass. The masculine large cut multi-colored mosaic of seemingly unending marble floor pulled me to the center of the long column lined space. To stand there in the middle of that ancient chamber of history was profound. The centuries of politics and intrigues that these walls have seen were there for my imagining, unencumbered by tourists or guards. And synergistically intensified by the music that seemed to float from out of the past. There were only a few lights. When I positioned myself just right the lights were just a glow from behind the columns and jewel-tone rays from the stained glass. The oil lamps and the glow from the illuminated icons and artwork of the lunettes at the rear drew the eye to the distance, granting a greater sense of depth, a greater feeling of being lost in the expanse. Glimpses of paintings. Shadows of sculpture. I was all but alone in the dark. Then the aria ended and the applause began. It saturated the space with a roar of sound. And as I took it in I realized it sounded exactly like the sound of a torrential downpour. Those weren’t people clapping it was just a rainy night and I was alone in this monument. It seemed to be mine alone to enjoy. The rush of sound ceased. Then, a moment of utter, stark, silence. I could almost hear my own heart beat. I had been walking and circling around taking in every sense of the moment that I could. I was amazed that no one else realized what they were missing. Except perhaps for the shadowy figure below the font. A woman I think.
I did the same she. I took a position below the sandaled feet of a carved marble saint and just stared up at the dome. I nestled myself within the folds of stone with the cold marble pressing at the flesh of my neck. The music began again. To me they were notes wrenched from the marble and the past. The mezzo began. I was entranced. I floated on an intensity of raw emotion.
It was a giddy feeling. I had escaped. I could still be sitting there with all the others. Watching, listening and clapping just like at any other concert in any hall in any town, anywhere. Yes, they were… we were, in the Duomo but that fenced in herd was squeezed tightly into a corner. I, however, was at liberty. Moving freely within this centuries old Renaissance masterpiece, this benchmark architectural achievement whose architect rests just below my feet, there in that shadowy time-etched space. I stood alone between him and his immortal dome. I was soaking in every detailed moment of this dream, every vision I could imagine.
There are two rows of immense columns on either side of the central nave supporting the huge arching groined ceiling. The groins sprouted from the stone columns like the branches of a tree. I was crouched in a forest of stone haunted by the voice of the mezzo-soprano, as it wrapped around me chilling me with dreams.
There are eight 15-foot horizontal, richly colored, stained glass windows all along the lower half of the cathedral that were backlit from the surrounding streetlights. The lead-lined figures in the glass stared at me, teasing me on to further flights of fancy.
In addition, there are eight round stained glass windows just below the arching ceiling that cast their crackled light on to the curves of the ceiling like the dappled light falling from the forest. In some areas, as the street-light passed through the glass and washed the curved ceiling the light cast patches of red, white or amber. It appeared in my state of heightened susceptibility to be glimpses of the sunset through the branches of a tree.
Eight more round stained glass windows adorn the lower part of Brunelleschi’s dome bringing just enough light into the frescoed scenes to give a sense that one was peering through the curtain of history at the enactments portrayed there.
Once again I got up and began to circle and pan around this cavernous marble display of man’s ingenuity. I moved as though I was the camera setting the scene in the opening of a Cecil B. DeMille epic. Finally, the musicians have mustered up a rousing tempo and the mezzo was in overdrive. The walls echoed and re-echoed until it seemed there was a chorus. I was chilled by the intensity and as I panned around the lone shadowy figure moved. She, yes I could now see that it was a women. She got up and came toward me with a determined step. I stood there, frozen. Her pace quickened so that she came at me like a lover comes to greet a husband from war. I was transfixed by this approaching figure. What was about to happen?
She came but inches from my body and put her hand on my arm. In a strong but whispered voice she said, “I’m so thrilled you were here.” There wasn’t a second of hesitation in her delivery (in English) as she went on with “Although we didn’t speak it was wonderful that I had someone who shared this amazing experience with me.” She, as I, was puzzled that no one else thought to enjoy the space as we did.
She is from San Francisco and was lamenting that she is soon going home after a month in a rented apartment in Santa Croce. For a few moments we exchanged incites about our shared but separate moments. Then came the final downpour of rain. And our moment ended.
Your pictures for tonight are: The Duomo from the hill south of the Arno, Ponte Vecchio at sunset, close-up of the Duomo, top of the Duomo and handbags for sale at Mercato Nuovo (Porcellino).
