March 22, 2008
Today I went to the Palazzo Poggi museum and was struck by the silence there. It’s an hermetic space that carries one into two pasts, those of both the 16th century architecture and the 18th century objects within. I saw Galvani’s (as in galvanized) experiments with electricity on frogs and couldn’t help but think of Mary Shelley’s synthetically animated Frankenstein. In the next room was an important exhibit on early obstetrics that showed dozens of intricate wooden models of the womb as well as the outmoded tools used to extract a baby. These tools resembled large pliers or salad servers, which grab the fetus by the head and pull. The display was historically fascinating but also combined a disturbing element of the grotesque. Ditto for the wax nude sculptures of the male and female complete with real pubic hair glued on. These models were amusingly called “Adam and Eve.”
Outside the museum I enjoyed the quiet that one experiences in the center of any Italian city on special holidays. This weekend is Pasqua (Easter) and most locals go to their families for a celebratory meal. As a result the towns completely shut down. I took a quiet stroll from the Palazzo Poggi under the spacious porticoes where the first sunlight I had seen in weeks played and refracted from between rows of weather-worn columns. Moving slowly toward Piazza Maggiore I first dropped into one of the larger and more important Cathedrals along Via Zamboni. I had been to San Giacomo before, in the dark of winter when the whole place appeared drab in its dim chilliness. But today the sun shown in from the carefully positioned windows on high and cast a beam of golden light upon the gilded altar. What magnificence! I realized for the first time that the Cathedral is decorated not only with the usual somber paintings of a bleeding Christ suffering on the cross but also with magical trompe-l’oeil murals that permit walls to give way to enchanted landscapes seen through imaginary windows. Beside sculptures in plaster cast are painted ones whose depth rivals those that are three-dimensional. A chatty volunteer approached me and asked me if I was Italian. Had I seen the altar? I told her I was American but lived in Bologna and had been to the church before. She left me alone, seeing that I was more of a local than a tourist, then approached a couple with cameras swinging from their necks. Had they seen the divine altar, she asked.
In Piazza Maggiore all of Bologna who had not already packed up their cars and left the city limits sat in the last rays of afternoon sun. Many were seated at tables at overpriced outdoor cafes and even more sat on the ground around a group of musicians jamming in front of the main Basilica, San Pietro. I thought to sit myself, to stop and listen to the acoustic guitar player and his gypsy folk, but the sun was threatening to disappear from above the clock tower that was now chiming four. I chose to keep following the kilometers of medieval porticoes that seemed to call my name as they framed my journey toward home. Ah Bologna!
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