Saint Francis of Assisi

San Francesco d'Assisi 

This is a story about a boy. 

Not just any boy. A particular boy.  He could have been a girl.  He could have been you.  Or me.  Or no one.  But he wasn't.  He was special.....

His father was a business man, named Bernadone.  His business was importing cloth, and selling it.  He was rich, and traded with Avignon, in France.  Which was why he called his son Francesco, or Francis.

He came from Assisi, in the heart of Italy, and had warehouses full of fine cloth from France there.  And so his son grew up.  Under blue skies and sunshine. Wanting for nothing.



They had all they could eat:

All they could drink:

Luxuries of all kinds.  Welcome in the finest restaurants.

And as Francesco became a young man he became something of a playboy.  He had time on his hands:

Like many rich young men, then as now, he led a life of pleasure:  "La dolce vita" some would call it.  Carefree.  Hedonistic.  Spoiled.  Thoughtless.  Careless.

Though one day Francesco noticed a beggar.  He didn't do anything,  But he noticed, and the image etched itself on his mind.

It didn't stop him enjoying the fruits of his father's wealth.  Playing with style.  Having fine friends.

Living life in the fast lane.

Until a war broke out with a neighbouring city state, and Francesco was called up.

Then he was captured.

And imprisoned.

And this was the turning point.  He became ill and the image of the beggar grew in his mind until it took over.  He realised that his ways had been worthless, and so, when released due to ill health he returned to his father's home and denounced all his wealth.  He went to rebuild a ruined chapel just outside Assisi;

And, to his parents' horror, and his friends' incredulity, he took to helping the lepers and the lame.

And so, having made the decision not to indulge himself in the ways of his patrimony, he took instead as example the life of Jesus Christ, and his life took on meaning, and purpose.

He travelled.  And in the town of Gubbio he met, and tamed, a fierce wolf that had been troubling the people.

And his activities began to be talked about.  He gathered followers.

He moved into remote places in central Italy, in the mountains, where he and his followers lived very simply.  He dressed in a rough tunic, tied with a cord; and he went barefoot.  Francis seemed to have an especially good rapport with animals and his gentle and sympathetic approach to all creatures became a talking point. By 1217 he had many followers, not only in Italy, and his movement was becoming a Religious Order (Pope Innocent III had authorised Francis and eleven companions to be roving preachers - but Francis never became a priest).  In 1224, while praying at the Sanctuary of La Verna, there appeared on his body scars which resembled the wounds of the crucified Christ.  The 'stigmata.'

His order was accepted by the Pope and the 'Friars Minor' or 'Lesser Brothers' were formed.  In the years following his death in 1226 his legend was embellished and the great basilica at Assisi was built (beginning on July 17th 1228, the day after Pope Gregory IX pronounced Francis a Saint), to be decorated by the greatest artists, including Giotto, Cimabue, Simone Martini and Pietro Lorenzetti..

The basilica, which is really two churches on top of each other, houses some of Italy's finest frescos telling the story of the life of St Francis.  It was very badly damaged in an earthquake on September 26th 1997, but it has been successfully restored to its former glory.

Assisi itself is now a place of pilgrimage. On June 18th, 1939, St Francis was named by Pope Pius XII to be joint patron saint of Italy with Catherine of Siena.  Francis's feast day is observed on October 4th.

The panels on the walls of the upper Basilica, painted by Giotto, depict the life and legend of the saint. 

The following picture of St Francis receiving the stigmata was painted in 1596 by Lodovico Cardi Cigoli, and is to be seen in the Uffizi Gallery, Florence.

The death of St Francis, as portrayed by Giotto in Santa Croce, Florence.

In modern times, the life and work of St Francis has been the subject of a number of films:

And the Christmas tradition of presenting the birth of Jesus in three dimensions owes much to St Francis:

As in 1223 he organised the people of the village of Greccio, near Rieti, to bring the event to life in what is now known as a "Presepe (or Presepio) Vivente" -  which means a living crib - with local people taking the parts of Mary, Joseph, the Wise Men and so on, and local animals playing themselves.  This is now a common part of village life throughout Italy.

And the name Francesco, or Francis, or Frank, is often chosen to link the child with the saint.  Here is one of Italy's most famous footballers - Francesco Totti, in Roma strip:

Or you could think of Frank Sinatra, Frankie Dettori, Francis Ford Coppola.... And here is a recent Pope. Though not Italian, he is the first Pope to adopt the name of Italy's favourite saint:

In fact there is a striking resemblance to the face in the painting of St Francis by Cimabue, to be found in the Lower Basilica at Assisi.  They could almost be related.

St Francis left a mark on Italy and on the world.  His story, which is not dissimilar to that of Gautama, the Buddha, inspires people to this day, and his writings and recorded thoughts are similarly effective.  In the English language one of the most popular hymns is based on what is known as The Prayer of Saint Francis, though almost certainly Francis did not compose it.  Make me a channel of your peace......  If you wish you could watch Susan Boyle singing it for five minutes on youtube, though for me the following video is infinitely preferable:

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GZTNVoNPmrA

 O Signore, fa' di me uno strumento della tua Pace:

Dove è odio, fa' ch'io porti l'Amore.

Dove è offesa, ch'io porti il Perdono.

Dove è discordia, ch'io porti l'Unione.

Dove è dubbio, ch'io porti la Fede.

Dove è errore, ch'io porti la Verità.

Dove è disperazione, ch'io porti la Speranza.

Dove è tristezza, ch'io porti la Gioia.

Dove sono le tenebre, ch'io porti la Luce.

O Maestro, fa' ch'io non cerchi tanto:

Essere consolato, quanto consolare.

Essere compreso, quanto comprendere.

Essere amato, quanto amare.

Poiché è Dando, che si riceve;

Perdonando, che si è perdonati;

Morendo, che si resuscita a Vita Eterna

This story of an Italian boy informs us all. 

 

 



Firenze (Florence)

A Day in Florence

With recent advances in the services provided by Trenitalia, Florence is now only an eighty-minute trip from Rome.  What is more, you can book your own seats on the trains from home, on the Internet, and, with Eurostar, move comfortably and swiftly between cities.  In some ways this brilliant advance in transport may, however, be a drawback, making the world ever smaller.  It’s like the Apple or Blackberry.  It’s all so easy now; we take things for granted.  In the “good” old days, the first stop out of Rome on the way to Florence was at La Storta, where lunch at the Trattoria del Quarto Secolo might have given you the strength to make it as far as Campagnano, or perhaps Sutri, depending on whether you were travelling in style or tourist class.  Whatever else this meant, by the time you got to Florence, you were probably in need of at least five days rest, giving you time perhaps to see the major sights before moving on.  At today’s pace, you’ll do a bit of shopping in Via dei Calzaiuoli, have a bistecca alla fiorentina for lunch, and then back on the Eurostar to Rome for tea at Babington’s.

 

There are, however, variables and you don’t have to be so hurried.  Florence is a city of changeable weather, and I, for one, seem to have been quite unlucky on some of my visits.  The surrounding mountains and the nature of the Arno valley, combine to create a microclimate that can be very cold in winter or very heavy in summer.  And then, of course, it rains sometimes.  The first time I went there was the tenth anniversary of the 1966 floods, and it was very worryingly wet.  I squelched about the streets encountering shopkeepers uneasily checking their defences and entering churches that still bore the tide marks half way up the walls.  Subsequent trips have been icily cold, with winds like liquid nitrogen scouring down from the Casentino.  On other occasions it has been breathlessly hot, with brown clouds and an airlessness that gave even Michelangelo’s implacable David something of a headache.  On some occasions, however, I have been treated to perfection, and have greatly enjoyed afternoons in the Boboli gardens or on the Ex-Forte Belvedere (partially closed at present for restoration, but a delightful place to picnic and view the city below).

The weather is not a huge issue, however, for Florence is a very internal city – indeed perhaps this is because of the weather.  Massaccio’s Adam and Eve, bitterly ashamed of themselves for their stupid disobedience (or simply annoyed that they got caught?) care not a fig leaf for the climate, as their punishment is fixed within the Brancacci Chapel, roofed over by the strength of Santa Maria del Carmine.  From another point of view, perhaps, one of the delights of Florence for many visitors is to take hot chocolate in Café Rivoire on Piazza della Signoria (though my preference is for un espresso at Gilli’s on Piazza della Repubblica) and it’s the internal glitter, the antique but well-maintained opulence, that is the attraction.  Exteriors, by and large, in Florence (despite notable exceptions) don’t count for much.  Just look at the facades of San Lorenzo or Santo Spirito for confirmation – they just aren’t there.  The streets don’t really lend themselves to views; it is after all a cramped Roman settlement at a prestigious bridging point.  Buildings have risen on the original grid plan and the streets have become deeper and darker.  It is very hard to match outsides with the glories within in this proud and self-contained city.  Try to imagine what lies within the rough-hewn fortress of the Palazzo Medici-Riccardi for instance, and then go and view Benozzo Gozzoli’s Journey of the Magi (1459-1463) within.  The contrast between the vibrant colours and the exciting swirl of people and animals on the interior walls and the rugged, chipped and impregnable walls outside is, to use a local word, impressionante.  Despite, of course, the irony that the walls within depict outside scenes.  Almost as if the whole of life is an illusion.

Or a piece of theatre, which is coincidentally what I stumbled on in the vicinity of the Piazza della Signoria one cold and rainy December afternoon.  Some hundred or more mature citizens of Florence had got themselves into medieval costumes and, with a variety of weapons and musical instruments, were parading in a stop-start, heavy, slow procession.  Trumpets blared a tune, followed by martial drumbeats, and then, at someone’s imperceptible signal, the four characters in charge of the trundling cannon, set fire to the charge and all were deafened to a standstill.  And then it started again.  Police in escort, ladies and gentlemen, hand in hand.  Striped pantaloons, red shoes, steel helmets, halberds, pikes, and flags – the works.  As the crowd pressed in, the rain began to intensify, the whole troupe approached the Palazzo della Signoria, and, then….  it broke up.  Tourists had their photos taken arm in arm with five hundred year old gentlemen; the party was over.

I asked a frightened looking policeman what it was all about.  He hesitated, twitching like a rabbit with a stopwatch.  “Una manifestazione,” he explained.  “Scusi, devo andare.”  Leaving me feeling like Alice in a slightly awkward Wonderland.

And so, if it’s a phoney world, why go there?  Why does half the world knock on the door?  Could it be that this is perhaps the only place in the world where you can see a fur coat on a bicycle?  Could it be that this place has perhaps the greatest concentration of pictorial and sculptural riches anywhere in the world?   As with so much, some of it is a matter of opinion.  Some will argue that Michelangelo’s David is overbearing and disproportionate and that Cellini’s Perseus (and Donatello’s David) are too pretty and posy.  But the arguments will continue, because of personal opinion, and informed opinion at that.  Those that prefer Fra Angelico have plenty to see.  Those who enjoy the brightness and mannerist exuberance of Pontormo in Santa Felicita cannot complain, while those who love Domenico Ghirlandaio have only to go to Santa Trinita if they cannot get into the Refectory of Ognissanti (recently elevated to be a Benedictine Abbey, after the Franciscans moved on). 

Or, indeed, look inside Filippo Brunelleschi’s dramatic and elegant Ospedale Degli Innocenti in the busy Piazza Santissima Annunziata.  Within, apart from the offices of UNICEF, aptly housed in this ancient Foundling Hospital, you can find the masterpiece of Domenico Ghirlandaio, the Adoration of the Magi, as well as the beautiful Madonna col Bambino degli Innocenti. by Sandro Botticelli, which was painted between 1465 and 1467.  Or, again, slip into the Palazzo Davanzati,  one of the few remaining medieval Florentine houses, a palazzo signorile, which dates back to the 14^th century; it is an extraordinary, wonderfully decorated and furnished building, recently reopened after extensive works.  Internally, at least, Florence is a feast.  Enough to feed a thousand art history schools.

Externally, however, it does have a few glories.  There’s marble enough to interest the lapidarian, from Santa Croce, to Santa Maria Novella, to the Duomo to Giotto’s exquisite Campanile up to the gem on the hill of San Miniato del Monte, (which is as good inside as out).  And when up on the hill, rest awhile and gaze back over the town and its coursing river.  You can see why the Romans needed it, and why everyone else since has kept it on the map.  You can perhaps understand why Dante loved the place so much, and why, for a while at least, it was capital of the new Italy. 

And when you have done musing, wander down the hill again and try one of the Hostarie in Via San Niccolo, or walk on back to the central market and sniff out the Trattoria Gozzi, where, despite the demise of the imposing Sergio himself a few years ago, the enduring standards of friendliness and honesty are practised by his son.  It’s only open for lunch, but their food is procured daily from the adjacent covered market and prepared in traditional Tuscan ways.  Ribollita, aqua cotta, pappa del pomodoro; excellent red wine, first class meat.  Its welcoming interior lit by bright chandeliers that reflect off the Della Robbia (type) ceramics on the walls.  Only now, I notice, the chandeliers are burning energy efficient bulbs, a faultless piece of modernisation, that perhaps matches the practical resourcefulness and famous intelligence of the Florentines.

And if that was the lunch, an eighty-minute nap on the train back to Rome will do just nicely!

Trattoria Toscana Gozzi Sergio

Piazza San Lorenzo, 8r, Florence, Italy

(no website)

Umbria I - Assisi

The Heart of Italy - Part I



La Basilica di San Francesco, Assisi

On September 26^th, 1997, starting at 2.30am, Italy suffered a series of heart attacks.  The furred up arteries of her heartland were racked with shocks which caused devastation in and around Assisi, the home town of St Francis, patron saint of Italy.  The great basilica, with Giotto’s 13^th century frescos of the life of the saint, was seriously damaged and much of the vaulted ceilings fell in ruins.  In the neighbouring hills, monasteries and villages were ravaged and, as with a serious cardiac arrest, there was fear, pain, and death.

The Cloister of the Basilica of St Francis

Fortunately the paramedics, doctors and nurses worked tirelessly and brilliantly and the green heart of Italy is still beating.  Some might even say its health has been improved, and like a reformed smoker, Assisi is pink and shiny, clean and bright, getting up early to greet the day and still having the energy to stay up late at night.  The basilica is in top condition, and the miraculous cycle of frescos has been restored for all to admire, so we can still see young Frank handing his father his fine clothes in the presence of the Bishop, and the remarkable proportions and movements of the doves, quails and sparrows coming to feed from his careworn hands.



Reflections on St Francis

Some say, however, there has been an element of Disneyfication, so that Assisi, with its crowds, is more a medieval theme park than a living museum.  It’s too smart and shiny, and, again like some reformed smokers, there’s a zealous cleanness about it that doesn’t quite convince.  In fact, the town is craving for a puff of smoke, a taint of tawdriness in the darker corners, and that touch of danger that comes from risky practice.



Tempting goodies to catch the eye

You can sense the tensions in the shop windows – a material world of glittering creations is on sale here, from plaster Saints to enticing cakes; figurines for cribs to hand-painted pottery.  On the steps of the great church of Santa Chiara a group of brothers wait for opening time, their watches and mobile phones not quite in keeping with their simple habits and sandals.



On the steps of Santa Chiara

For me there’s interest in these contradictions, but I tend to prefer the other places, not quite so pretty, not quite so frequented.  However, I am not complaining – Assisi is a wonder; a treasure trove of medieval art and architecture, from the imposing Rocca Maggiore that dominates the hill to the cloisters of San Damiano below.  And you do not have to wander far up the stony veins that lead into the piazza to get away from the swirling, chattering masses, and to find symbolic peace within the walls and gardens.



A Peace Niche within the walls of Assisi

And one special place, not far from Assisi, that also suffered in the landquake, is the Abbey of Sassovivo (living rock – because of the clearwater spring there).  This monastery, which tops a spur on the wooded slopes of 1100m Monte Aguzzo, commands a view across the city of Foligno and up towards Monte Subasio and Assisi. 



The Abbey of Sassovivo, 520 metres above sea level

It was founded by Benedictines around the year 1,000, and was an important centre of scholarship in the fourteenth century, although it went into decline in the fifteenth.  Today it is the home of a small group of The Little Brothers of Jesus, followers of Charles de Foucauld.  It is being lovingly restored, but work is slow.  Central to the complex is a beautiful Romanesque cloister, the work of Pietro De Maria in 1229, who constructed it in Rome to be brought here and assembled. 



Part of the Cloister at Sassovivo

I marvel at the idea of an upmarket medieval Ikea, with the monks choosing the design from a vellum catalogue and a team of donkeys employed to deliver the goods.  It consists of 128 double columns, with 58 arches, around an ornate well (dating from 1340, although redesigned in 1623).  Today the silent shade is skewed, as though the hand of God has lifted and twisted it slightly but left it whole, respecting its integrity and value as a place of contemplation.  A solitary brother studies in the cool.  The coloured marbles, pink limestone and threads of mosaic catch the sunlight and reflect it back to the blue sky.  Nothing stirs, except for a tiny tremor in my heart. 

Il Chiostro - Sassovivo