find it. So I gently and gratefully release her from her obligations and after coffees have been drunk she scoots off in pursuit of a little retail therapy to perk up her Sunday.
I haul my gallery guide out of my pocket and contemplate which room to visit next, a warm feeling of relaxation and enjoyment spreading through me as I now realise I can take my time and not rush through the rest of the gallery. I stroll back along the corridor, following the path of a thousand daily footfalls on terracotta floors worn smooth over the centuries. Fewer people seem to be heading through into room twenty-five, so I follow Sophia’s advice of not observing the regular, prescribed trail and duck in quickly as a Japanese tour party heads into the room next door. This leads me through to a network of smaller rooms, quieter for the moment, so much so that I can hear the click-clack of my own shoes on the polished tiles.
Through into room twenty-eight, the home of some of Titian’s work. I’ve already singled out Tiziano Vecellio as one of the artists I want to focus on whilst I’m here, so I’m thrilled to see so many of his paintings in the one room. Even though he was a Venetian artist, there’s enough of his stuff here in Florence for me to put him on my list and have plenty of material to work with. Just as well I sent Sophia on her way; I plan to spend ages in here, and the welcomed coffee break has left me refreshed and ready to do just that.
This room feels quieter and more serene than the rest of the gallery, although maybe it’s only due to the current lull in the volume of passers by. But then the comparable calm of the room is shattered instantly as the Japanese tour party I’d done so well in evading enters from the opposite doorway. I sit down on a green padded bench to wait as I cannot now get close enough to the paintings I so want to see.
They are a motley crew, this party; some listening earnestly to the guide and clearly genuinely interested in the art, others simply along for the ride, so that they can tick off the Uffizi as done on their grand tour of Europe. They fiddle and twitch at the back of the group, texting, or adjusting their photographic equipment, whose prohibited use in the gallery must be hard to bear for a race reared on recording their entire lives and adventures in 2D.
Suddenly the crowd disperses again, spirited away by their guide to the next room, and the works of art are revealed to me once more. Now I can see the beautiful Flora , fresh-faced in her youthful gracefulness, and the wonderful Madonna of the Roses .
Opposite there is Eleanora Gonzaga, a formidable-looking woman whose harsh countenance is only softened slightly by the small dog at her side; the far from aesthetically pleasing Francesco Maria della Rovere, Duke of Urbino, her husband; and between them, the beautiful and unsurpassable Venus of Urbino. Wow. A true masterpiece, even though I don’t like that term very much. I try to avoid using it whenever I can, as these days it seems to be bandied about as loosely as that fickle term celebrity is used back home to describe someone whose claim to fame is a mere five minutes in the spotlight. But masterpiece this is, quite undeniably. And not just because of the familiarity of it. I know it has a reputation as one of those paintings which are instantly recognisable to a good majority of ordinary people who otherwise know nothing about art, a bit like the Mona Lisa or Botticelli’s Primavera . But Venus is in a league of her own, and seeing her in the flesh, as it were, I am totally captivated. Such is her popularity that she is behind glass; a real shame we cannot touch such a great work of art, but her value is too high and there are always those few who want to spoil it for the rest of us.
Just as I regret the presence of the glass, a man’s hand goes out towards the Eleanora painting next to her, not for malicious means I’m sure, but because he is an enthusiast and is
I haul my gallery guide out of my pocket and contemplate which room to visit next, a warm feeling of relaxation and enjoyment spreading through me as I now realise I can take my time and not rush through the rest of the gallery. I stroll back along the corridor, following the path of a thousand daily footfalls on terracotta floors worn smooth over the centuries. Fewer people seem to be heading through into room twenty-five, so I follow Sophia’s advice of not observing the regular, prescribed trail and duck in quickly as a Japanese tour party heads into the room next door. This leads me through to a network of smaller rooms, quieter for the moment, so much so that I can hear the click-clack of my own shoes on the polished tiles.
Through into room twenty-eight, the home of some of Titian’s work. I’ve already singled out Tiziano Vecellio as one of the artists I want to focus on whilst I’m here, so I’m thrilled to see so many of his paintings in the one room. Even though he was a Venetian artist, there’s enough of his stuff here in Florence for me to put him on my list and have plenty of material to work with. Just as well I sent Sophia on her way; I plan to spend ages in here, and the welcomed coffee break has left me refreshed and ready to do just that.
This room feels quieter and more serene than the rest of the gallery, although maybe it’s only due to the current lull in the volume of passers by. But then the comparable calm of the room is shattered instantly as the Japanese tour party I’d done so well in evading enters from the opposite doorway. I sit down on a green padded bench to wait as I cannot now get close enough to the paintings I so want to see.
They are a motley crew, this party; some listening earnestly to the guide and clearly genuinely interested in the art, others simply along for the ride, so that they can tick off the Uffizi as done on their grand tour of Europe. They fiddle and twitch at the back of the group, texting, or adjusting their photographic equipment, whose prohibited use in the gallery must be hard to bear for a race reared on recording their entire lives and adventures in 2D.
Suddenly the crowd disperses again, spirited away by their guide to the next room, and the works of art are revealed to me once more. Now I can see the beautiful Flora , fresh-faced in her youthful gracefulness, and the wonderful Madonna of the Roses .
Opposite there is Eleanora Gonzaga, a formidable-looking woman whose harsh countenance is only softened slightly by the small dog at her side; the far from aesthetically pleasing Francesco Maria della Rovere, Duke of Urbino, her husband; and between them, the beautiful and unsurpassable Venus of Urbino. Wow. A true masterpiece, even though I don’t like that term very much. I try to avoid using it whenever I can, as these days it seems to be bandied about as loosely as that fickle term celebrity is used back home to describe someone whose claim to fame is a mere five minutes in the spotlight. But masterpiece this is, quite undeniably. And not just because of the familiarity of it. I know it has a reputation as one of those paintings which are instantly recognisable to a good majority of ordinary people who otherwise know nothing about art, a bit like the Mona Lisa or Botticelli’s Primavera . But Venus is in a league of her own, and seeing her in the flesh, as it were, I am totally captivated. Such is her popularity that she is behind glass; a real shame we cannot touch such a great work of art, but her value is too high and there are always those few who want to spoil it for the rest of us.
Just as I regret the presence of the glass, a man’s hand goes out towards the Eleanora painting next to her, not for malicious means I’m sure, but because he is an enthusiast and is
Similar Books
(LB2) Shakespeare's Landlord
Charlaine Harris
The Wrathful Mountains
Lana Axe
Strands of Starlight
Gael Baudino
Betrayal
Lee Nichols
i 51ddca29df3edad1
Unknown
Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy
John le Carré
Burning Man
Alan Russell
The Lightning Bolt
Kate Forsyth
The Busy Girls Guide to Cake Decorating
Ruth Clemens
Sellevision
Augusten Burroughs