November 2017 – Finding Florence

Florence’s Marzocco Lion

By Kellie Bessette

Florence is covered with many versions of the Marzocco lion that date back to the Middle Ages. The Marzocco lion is the animal symbol of the free Republic of Florence.

While there are no real lions hunting the streets of Florence, statues of lions have been seen around the historic city center since the Middle Ages. The Marzocco lion, also known as the heraldic lion, is a symbol representing the free Republic of Florence. The Republic chose a lion not only because lions are a universal symbol for strength, but because they are able to tear apart eagles, which is the symbol of imperial power.

During the Middle Ages, it was not uncommon for nobles to present each other with exotic gifts. By the fifteenth century, as many as 24 lions were kept in cages behind Palazza Vecchio, or what is now Via dei Leoni. According to legend, one of the lions escaped and snatched a child during the reign of the Primo Popolo. The lion gave the child back to it’s mother unharmed and was dubbed a symbol of good luck for the people of Florence.

The most famous Marzocco was sculpted by Donatello in 1418 and was originally installed at Santa Maria Novella for Pope Martin V. The piece was later moved to Piazza Della Signoria in 1812. The lion is seated protecting the red fleur de lis, the coat-of-arms of Florence. The lion’s eyes are wise and the body is lifelike. Within the same piazza, two large lions guard the entrance to the Loggia dei Lanzi.

Another spotting of the Marzocco lion is located at Piazza Santa Croce at the Statue of Dante. The Statue of Dante was created in 1865 to celebrate the poet’s 600th birthday. Four heraldic lions stand at each corner of the pedestal holding shields with the names of Dante’s works. With many more statues of the Marzocco lion, it is clear that this animal has such an important historic connection.

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Apollo and Daphne

By Chrystalla Christodoulou

One of the most famous sculptures in the Borghese Gallery in Rome is Gian Lorenzo Bernini’s Apollo and Daphne. The masterpiece captures the story of Daphne who after being pursued and harassed relentlessly by Apollo, asks her father – a river god – to save her by changing her body. In this piece I imagine Daphne’s last thoughts before she is turned into a tree.

God of light cannot get enough, he cannot let go of the dream bestowed on him by Cupid’s arrow.

I twist against him, my voice hoarse from hours of yelling for help.

Destroy the beauty that has injured me, although my beauty has nothing to do with Apollo’s antics

In my desperation I call out in vain for someone to shift the space in between us, alter whatever it is he wants or change the body that destroys my life

Suddenly I feel a rush, a ferocious buzz go through my body as my flesh turns into bark. I don’t know how, but as soon as it starts I know that this is what is happening. My limbs grow heavier as I attempt to keep on running, my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth which now tastes like grass. And my skin is now changing, I see it on my arms shifting colors and textures. In one last moment of brilliance I catch a glimpse of my fingers as they slowly turn into branches. Their growing leaves astound me, and for a second I forget what is happening. For a second I am a fairy, I have leafy fingers that could turn into paintbrushes, or maybe wings. I let out a laugh before my eyes close forever.

My sight is gone but the rest of my senses, I can tell, are stronger now. I can hear the god-boy’s cries, but they are indeed far away. I am rooted in this land, forever perhaps.

Yes, he is free to roam and boast, but he is nothing more than a boy. Maybe one day a branch of mine will strike him down. For now I am safe, I am rooted in this land, strong.

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Rainy Afternoons

By Chrystalla Christodoulou

A student’s perspective on rainy days in Florence and learning to find something beautiful in everyday life.

Nothing is as pretty as the Duomo after it’s rained. The bright colors turn somber. Suddenly it turns from playful and boasting to wise. I drink it all in without stopping, I’m already late.

I bought gloves yesterday, the type with no fabric to cover your fingers. My friends make fun of me, asking me what their use is. It’s true, for most of the day my fingertips remain frozen. But the lack of fabric gives me freedom to write even if I’m outside or send a quick text.

Sit n’ Breakfast was the first coffeeshop we discovered in Florence, spotted by a friend who was here for only a few days. I used to come here every other day, determined to befriend all the baristas and practice Italian in what felt like a safe environment. I wrote in my journal: I am in love with coffee shops that feel like someone’s backyard; I am simply visiting a friend. I sat outside and revelled in the glorious sun, the same burning sun my friends complained about. I read my book and sketched for hours.

Then came a long pause, a time of intense budgeting and pushing myself to visit churches, museums, anything I could get in with my Uffizi card. I would quickly pass Sit n’ Breakfast, and the other hundreds of quaint coffee shops and try to ignore their call. But after I came back from Fall break I found my Florence different, moodier. Suddenly it actually rained, and I never needed my sunglasses. As someone who grew up on a Mediterranean island and has spent the last few years in Texas, it’s safe to say I don’t do well in “bad” weather.

But I surprised myself, not for the first time this semester. In the mornings I noticed the significant decline of tourists on the bridges as a result of the cold. I paused on the empty Ponte alle Grazie, my favorite bridge, looked at the almost silver sky, and enjoyed this newfound solitude. Almost in a trance, I found myself making my way into new coffeeshops. Without the promise of a long sunny day, that ridiculous guilt of not “making the most out of it” is gone and instead I can sit inside for hours. Speaking of ambiance is inherently cheesy, but I can’t help but smile thinking of the soft colors that accompany a fall evening in a coffee shop, the soft chatter and even softer music. Whether I’m reading, memorizing conjugations, or sketching, I can stay there until the music starts getting louder, and I know it’s aperitivo time.

To learn how to travel is to learn how to live, said Goethe. I learned that from my literature class I’ve been taking in Florence. I’ve learned that finding something beautiful and comforting in everyday life is easier than most of us like to think.

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