Monday, December 5, 2016

Slut-Shaming in the Trecento (and, Poison)


(or: How to Distinguish Fake News Six and a Half Centuries Before Snopes)


Your long-AWOL blogger is back, once again bringing you more than you ever wanted to know about the middle ages in Italy. Today we will probe an instance of research serendipity and how it turned up a whole slew of fascinating medieval guys ‘n gals we would otherwise never have known much about, despite the lurid tabloid-style coverage they got from the chroniclers of their day.

Jacopo da Bologna

I'm part of a trio that performs medieval music, and I was doing some background reading on fourteenth-century Italian composers prior to our recent concert, when I found the following snippet in a biographical sketch of Jacopo da Bologna, written by M. Thomas Marrocco:
Subsequent events in the conjugal life of Luchino Visconti would have us believe that the atmosphere of the court became surcharged with tension, suspicion, deceit, and finally murder.

Hmm. I think maybe there’s a story here.

The musician in me said, “Well, that’s interesting. I wonder which of these pieces Jacopo wrote while he was in Milan.”

But the novelist in me said, “Whoa! Murder? Conjugal life? Tension, suspicion, and deceit? I need to know more about all of this!”


Whereupon my inner musician raised her hands, palms out, backed away slowly, and said, “Fine. You do that. I’ll just go practice a bit, shall I?” Meanwhile, my inner novelist was digging in.

First I read further. I found a quote from a Milanese archivist and historian, Luigi Osio, which elaborated a bit on what Marrocco had said (translation is, I think, Marrocco’s):

After almost 10 years of administration, he [Luchino] died suddenly at the age of 57 years on January 24, 1349, not without suspecting, however, that his wife [Isabella], fearing death at his hands, he being convinced of her infidelity, had had him poisoned.

Luchino Visconti

The plot thickens. Infidelity? Sudden death? Poison? I am intrigued. However, I also experience my first little hiccup of skepticism: it was summer of 1348 that the Black Death ravaged Italy, and a sudden death in January 1349 might not, in fact, be all that surprising. I mean, lots of people were doing that. It had become A Thing.

But let’s see what others have concluded. On a whim, I picked up Barbara Tuchman’s book A Distant Mirror: The Calamitous 14th Century, since this incident sounded sufficiently calamitous to be in there. And sure enough, there it was:

Luchino… had been murdered by his wife, who, after a notable orgy on a river barge during which she entertained several lovers at once including the Doge of Venice and her own nephew Galeazzo, decided to eliminate her husband to forestall his same intention with regard to her.


Lots of material here. First, I love that reference to a “notable orgy.” Would that be as opposed to her usual run of the mill everyday orgies? And the Doge of Venice? Izzy was clearly not slumming, here. And her own nephew? What was that about? And on a river barge? This makes the Viking River Cruises look downright tame.

It was time to do some serious poking around.
 

What the chroniclers say happened

The overall story, as best I can patch it together from various sources which tend to disagree on dates and certain details, is this:

In or around the year 1331, Luchino Visconti, a Ghibelline nobleman in line to become lord of Milan and already lord of Pavia, wed Isabella Fieschi, a Genoan noblewoman from a Guelf family and a niece of Pope Adrian V. The wedding was celebrated with such pomp and ostentation that historical re-enactors do it all over again every year. Here’s a link to a picture of one such recent reenactment.

Pope Adriano V (Isabella's Uncle Ottobuono)
It was Luchino’s third marriage, Isabella’s first. She was much his junior. She was said to be beautiful, lighthearted, and exuberant. He was said to be easily offended and someone who never laughed, and in fact had a prominent frown line etched deeply into his forehead. He was the father of two illegitimate sons, but he had no legitimate heirs. Luchino and his brother Giovanni, an archbishop, shared the lordship of Milan after their father Matteo I Visconti died in 1339, but Giovanni left most of the secular leadership to Luchino.

Giovanni Visconti
Things went along well enough, except for the occasional excommunication, accusation of heresy, territorial dispute, and so on, until 1346 (some sources say 1345, some say 1340), when Luchino learned of a plot against him. The conspiracy was spearheaded by a nobleman, Franceschino Pusterla, whose wife Margherita may or may not have been Luchino’s mistress. Unfortunately for Visconti family unity, also involved were Luchino’s three nephews, Matteo, Bernabò, and Galeazzo. Luchino had Franceschino hunted down and killed along with his young son or sons, and exiled the three nephews. Nobody is quite sure what happened to Margherita, but we’ll get back to her later.

After sixteen childless years, at long last, in August of 1346, twin sons were born to Isabella and Luchino. The composer Jacopo da Bologna wrote a celebratory madrigal on the occasion of the baptism of little Giovanni and Luca Novello [“Junior”], and you can listen to it here.

In 1347, Isabella obtained her husband’s permission to travel to Venice, so that her little boys could be blessed in San Marco. She set off by boat, flaunting a level of ostentation that rivaled her wedding 16 years earlier. She was accompanied by musicians, jesters, cooks, waiters, servants, and a bevy of lovely female attendants, and people stood on the banks of the waterway to applaud as her boat passed by.

So far, so good. If the chroniclers are right (and I am not convinced of this), she then made a teensy little error of judgment, and went on a boat ride with three fine gentlemen – Ugolino Gonzaga, Andrea Dandolo (the Doge of Venice), and her nephew Galeazzo (remember him, from the conspiracy?). She is said to have entertained them in a way not entirely consistent with her marriage vows.

This incident coming to the ears of her husband (not too surprising considering all those jesters and cooks and musicians and ladies), Luchino flew into a rage and vowed to kill her in various unpleasant ways, which he had a reputation for being good at. However, in January of 1348 he died suddenly, and it was said by many that Isabella had poisoned him, so maybe she was even better. She became known as “Isabella del Veleno” - Isabel of the Poison.


She then tried to set herself up as regent for her son Luchino Novello (little Giovanni had died by this time, as so many medieval infants did), but her late husband’s brother Giovanni checkmated this effort, declaring Luchino Novello to be not only illegitimate, but the son of Luchino’s nephew Galeazzo (remember Galeazzo?) and therefore ineligible for the succession. Giovanni still didn’t really want to deal with Milan himself, so he called back his trio of nephews, banished by Luchino after the conspiracy, and gave the lordship of the city over to Matteo, Bernabò, and – you guessed it – Galeazzo. What’s sauce for the goose apparently is not sauce for the gander.

Isabella lived with her remaining now-disinherited son for several years under house arrest in Milan, in a Visconti property on Via Romana, and finally escaped to the relative safety of her family’s castle, Castello Savignone. Luchino Novello grew up to be a condotierro, never on particularly good terms with Milan; his mother presumably died at some point in the Castello. (If you are wondering how the Visconti managed to treat a pope’s niece in this way, note that Pope Adrian V - born Ottobuono Fieschi - was elected to the papacy many years earlier, in 1276, long before Isabella was born. Also he was a very short-lived pope, reigning for only a little over a month before he died.)

Castello Savignone (being restored) - licensed to Davide Papalini via the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license, Wikimedia Commons

It’s impossible to do this kind of research without turning up various fascinating tidbits. They may not be relevant, but they’re fun, so here are a few of them, presented briefly.


Visconti coat of arms

The blue snake eating a red person is one of the most dramatic devices we see in medieval Italy. The Visconti motto, “Vipereos mores non violabo,” apparently translates to something like “I will not violate the snake’s uses.” The Visconti might well have been the sort of folks that would find lots of uses for snakes. Apparently one of their ancestors had killed a marauding snake that bit children.


Matteo (not the nephew, but Luchino’s father)

At one point Matteo was accused by Pope John XXII of conspiring with none other than Dante Alighieri to commit necromancy. It doesn’t seem to have come to much, but still, pretty wild stuff. He was also accused of adhering to the Cathar heresy.


Bust of Andrea Dandolo (Istitute Veneto di Scienze, Lettere ed Arti)

Andrea Dandolo

The Venetian doge-on-the-boat was a friend and patron of the great poet Francesco Petrarca. Still a young man, Dandolo had a lot to deal with. Even before the plague hit his city, Venice had been through a major famine and a disastrous earthquake, the latter striking on the 25th January 1348. And the plague hit Venice hard, killing perhaps three-fifths of the population (around 45,000 – 50,000 people) and completely wiping out perhaps fifty noble families. Maybe he needed a boat ride and a little R&R.


That's Doge Andrea Dandolo at the foot of the cross.


Ugolino Gonzaga

This third man-on-the-boat, the one who wasn’t a doge or Isabella’s nephew by marriage, was a contottiero. His third wife, whom he married in or around 1349, was Caterina Visconti, daughter of Matteo Visconti (one of the conspiratorial nephews).

An episode during the plague at Milan (Wellcome Images)
The plague in Milan

According to E.L. Knox, in The Black Death, “In Milan, to take one of the most successful examples, city officials immediately walled up houses found to have the plague, isolating the healthy in them along with the sick.” Draconian, but apparently effective. And not something that could have happened without the full agreement of Luchino.


Galeazzo Visconti
Francesco Petrarca


Galeazzo II Visconti

Luchino’s nephew, supposedly Isabella’s lover and the father of her sons, and one of the men on the infamous boat, Galeazzo II was known for his sponsorship of writers and intellectuals, including Petrarca; for establishing the University of Pavia; and also for his introduction of the Querasima torture protocol, in which a victim slated for death was tortured over a forty-day period, each torment carefully calibrated to cause maximum pain while keeping the condemned person alive over that extended period. It featured a day of torture followed by a day of recuperation, and involved the rack, the wheel, flaying, eye-gouging, cutting off facial features and limbs, and the strappado. 
 

Luchino

He may have been known as a tyrant, but he apparently loved his dog. Luchino was an avid hunter, and the hunting hound called Varino was featured in more than one madrigal written for his court. Luchino was also a great castle builder.


Luchino Novello

He eventually married Luisa Adorno, daughter of another Venetian doge, Gabriele Adorno. He was probably only about ten years old when he and his mother escaped from their Milanese imprisonment.


Margherita Pusterla

Margherita, born a Visconti, was a cousin of Luchino’s. Many believe that she was also his mistress. She was married to Franceschino Pusterla, author of the conspiracy against Luchino, who, when the plot was uncovered, attempted to flee, but was captured and executed. Some believe that Margherita tried to flee with him and was also caught and killed; others believe she managed to escape. A legend says that she was walled up alive in the Castello di Invorio by order of Luchino, and on dark nights her ghost can be heard screaming for help from this tower:


Margherita captured the imagination of the writer Giovanni Cesare Cantù (1804-1895), who wrote a novel about her despite being a political prisoner at the time, deprived of writing implements. He told her story by writing on rags with a toothpick and candle smoke.

Cesare Cantù
The composer Giovanni Pacini wrote an opera in 1856 about the unfortunate Margherita, based on Cantù’s novel.


 
Jacopo da Bologna

Remember Jacopo? That’s how this whole project got started. In addition to several madrigals extolling Luchino and his beautiful wife, written while employed at the court in Milan, Jacopo later wrote a piece about a beautiful, once-loving woman who had turned into a poisonous viper. Anybody we know, do you think? By the time this one was written, Jacopo had moved on to Verona and was working for Mastino II della Scala, yet another nephew of Luchino. Isabella’s guilt may have been the official family position.

And finally, last but never least, Isabella Fieschi herself. Is all this scuttlebutt true? The chroniclers insist that it is, but I am not so sure. It seems unlikely to me that she would take that huge entourage of people off to Venice and then hold an all-too-public orgy on her husband’s boat. I mean, would that really be prudent? Considering Luchino’s reputation? But it is exactly the sort of rumor that would spread like wildfire with the help of just a bit of malicious gossip.

So we have Isabella, still beautiful but no longer young by medieval standards (assuming she was around 15 when she married, she would have been in her early thirties by this time), and just having lost one of her two sons, and probably glad enough to be out from under her dour husband’s scrutiny for a while. But even if she chose to kick up her heels a bit, is it likely she would have risked everything in that way? I can’t make myself believe it.

Also, at least some chroniclers suggest that the conspirators were exiled perhaps as early as 1340, which would have made it rather difficult for Galeazzo to father Isabella’s sons. But perhaps the exile did happen in the same year as the birth, which would have made his paternity at least possible.

Did Isabella have enemies? Well, sure – she was from Genoa, and the Genoans and the Milanese were at each other’s throats often enough. She was from a Guelf family, he was Ghibelline. And remember the conspiracy? Anyone who had sympathized with Franceschino Pusterla’s attempted coup might well have held a grudge against Isabella or other members of the family. (I wonder, how did Margherita and Isabella feel about each other? Were they rivals? Friends? Was Margherita Luchino’s mistress, and/or did Isabella believe she was?)

Another thing to consider is the fact that Isabella gave birth to twins. In the middle ages, many people believed that twins were evidence that the mother had been unfaithful – that two fathers were involved. Could it be that giving birth to twin boys sixteen years after she was married was what sealed her fate?


We don’t even know when Isabella returned to Milan. If she was aware of her husband’s anger and lethal intentions, would she have gone back? And yet she was placed under house arrest in Milan, so at some point she did go back. Presumably she did so to push her son’s claim to the lordship of the city, once Luchino was dead. But it seems highly unlikely that she was there to poison her husband in person, not that it would have been difficult to find and hire a surrogate. However, any of Luchino’s many enemies might have seen an opportunity to off him and see her take the blame.

If Izzy didn’t have Luchino poisoned (assuming he didn’t die of the plague), then who did? We need to ask, along with Cicero and many another ancient jurist, “Cui bono?” Who profits? Presumably, one or all of the three brothers who eventually took Luchino’s place: Matteo, Bernabò, and the ubiquitous Galeazzo. (Just offering up an alternative theory here.)

One doesn’t have to look back six and a half centuries to find examples of a prominent woman brought down by gossip and innuendo. I can’t prove it (not that the chroniclers are particularly heavy on proof either), but I think she was maligned unfairly. She was bright enough to escape from house arrest in Milan; how could she also have been dumb enough to destroy her future and her son’s for a moment of frankly unlikely lasciviousness?

And even if she was, does that make her capable of murder? Pretty much every male in the family had proved his murderous proclivities over and over, but all we know of Isabella is that she was a pretty woman who loved pleasure.

We’ll never know. But my position, for what it’s worth, is that history has not been fair to Isabella Fieschi.







Friday, April 8, 2016

Stage fright



It's been very Yeatsian out there lately. A glance at any newspaper, or my Facebook feed, is enough to give rise to despair, or at the very least acute anxiety. I've already bailed from Twitter and I can't believe Facebook is very far behind. It's a mess out there, folks, and I wish I were less sensitive to it.

Yeats, in his post-WWI poem The Second Coming, articulated it:
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold...
  And I must admit I relate to another observation in the same work:
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
It's hard not to wonder with Yeats "what rough beast, its hour come round at last, slouches towards Bethlehem to be born."

So, like many others, I've been dealing with a continual low-level angst of late, and recently it's been exacerbated by stage fright as I contemplated the upcoming debut concert by our new trio, specializing in medieval instrumental music.

I've always been prey to stage fright. It can be crippling, and it's certainly one of the main reasons I didn't pursue a career in music. My hands get shaky, I can't get warm, my breathing is shallow, and I am prone to doing extremely dumb things at the worst possible times.

Me hiding behind my instrument at the concert

The other two members of the trio, my husband Tim and our friend Stacy, are luckier. They were relaxed and calm and thoroughly capable.

Must be nice.

We did make it through, in spite of me, and nothing particularly disastrous occurred. It was even kinda fun, as it turned out. But somehow, in the weeks before the performance, the two threads (anxiety about the state of the world, and performance nerves) came together, and the result was this poem:

Stage fright

Because I played badly, the world exploded.
Because I missed my cue, refugees chose the wrong moment to cross the border.
Because I faltered, villagers did not escape their burning huts.

This morning there was no review.

Because there was no review, prisoners spent another day without charges, without rights, without hope.

Because I lost my place, scores of families trudged toward makeshift camps.
Because my fingers trembled, victims shook with fear.
Because I was timid, gangs roamed the streets terrorizing the helpless.
Because I played without conviction, politicians lost all their convictions.

Because a man coughed, thousands died of a preventable disease.
Because a woman rushed out in search of a bathroom, a tsunami destroyed the coast.

Because the program had a typo, a scandal broke in the media and lives were ruined.
Because at one point the microphone shrieked feedback, somewhere a woman screamed.

There was a bloodthirsty ovation at the end, with cries of "Encore!"

Please hold your applause.


Saturday, February 20, 2016

Recreating the past - from the sublime to the ridiculous



When my husband and I decided to re-create this famous portrait of 15th century composers Guillaume Dufay and Gilles Binchois, little did we know just how carried away we were going to get.

Simple, I thought. Just put on a bathrobe or something, strike a pose, and there you go. After all, we had the requisite instruments: my portative organ, Tim's harp. And the picture, which is a miniature in a French manuscript, is not very detailed.

But one thing led to another, and another, and... pretty soon we had cleared our living room, experimented with camera and tripod angles, drafted a friend (Linda Wendt) to take the actual photograph, and gathered the components of our costumes, which included a long dress, a SCA tunic, a beanie, and a hand towel.

The conversation went something like this:

Linda: I don't think Dufay would be wearing earrings.
Me: Oh, right. (off go the earrings) Is my scarf all right?
Linda: Tuck in your hair. There you go - that's better.
Tim: How about my towel?
Linda: Yep, looks just like Binchois's towel.
Tim: Maybe he had just gotten out of the shower.
Me: Maybe so. I'll have to stand behind the organ or it won't all fit in the picture.
 Tim: My harp is about twice the size of Binchois's.
Me: Why is Dufay pointing at Binchois's kneecap, do you think?
Linda: I don't know, but you do realize those two guys are supposed to be the same height, don't you?
Me: Well, our version of Dufay is 5'1" and our Binchois is 6'3". There's not much we can do about that.
[At this point, Binchois starts mugging and doing "Live long and prosper" with his right hand, and Dufay cracks up. Considerable session time is lost before Dufay can once again keep a straight face. At last Linda snaps the picture.]
Linda: Got it. What do you think? The picture in the camera is too little, and I can't see it.

Tim: Let me look. I've got my glasses on. Oops - that means Binchois was wearing glasses. Oh, well.

But getting the picture was only half the battle, if that. Next came Tim's painstaking (read: obsessive) computer work to come ever closer to the original. First he blanked out the bookcase and assorted other stuff in the background. Then he got the brilliant idea of pasting in the original background, with the composers' names in calligraphy.

By this time I was hearing maniacal chuckling from the next room, as he went on to discover the joys of replacing our boring blue carpet with the mottled grassy surface Binchois and Dufay were standing on. Outlines had to be cleaned up, details tweaked, and slowly, slowly our masterpiece came into focus.

And so I present the results to you, dear readers, as an instructive example of either (1) meticulous attention to detail in an act of homage, or (2) relentless persistence in the pursuit of total silliness on the part of three alleged adults, depending on your point of view. Enjoy!

This is what we usually look like.


Thursday, June 18, 2015

Framing the Story


How is a picture frame like point of view in fiction?

I love pictures that provide their own frames. Maybe it's a shot through a window, or maybe the frame is an arch, a doorway, trees, a cave. When we travel and I notice such a potential shot, I always ask my husband the photographer to capture it. I was looking at a collection of these pictures the other day, and it occurred to me that framing a picture in this way directs the
viewer's eye and focuses his attention much as point of view focuses a story for the reader. Rather than trying to encompass everything, it gently points you at something. It tells you where to look and guides your attention.

I don't usually write about writing. Plenty of people are already doing that, and I don't see myself as an advice-giver. Besides, I don't believe that any two writing projects, let alone any two writers, will work exactly the same way.


But I do want to riff a little on the concept of point of view (POV). Not all aspects of it; I don't want to go into the mechanics or the fine distinctions or the how-tos, but I would like to look at a question which ideally would be answered before any serious writing commences. (Though it may take some semi-serious and experimental writing to arrive at an answer.)


The question:  Whose story is it?

 An approach that has become very popular is to take a secondary character, or even a minor character, in a well-known story and tell that person's tale. Examples abound: there's Wide Sargasso Sea by Jean Rhys, about Jane Eyre's unfortunate predecessor; Grendel by John Gardner, in which Beowulf's monster takes center stage; The Wind Done Gone, written from the POV of a slave who was the child of Scarlett O'Hara's father and of Mammy, from Gone With the Wind; Mary Reilly by Valerie Martin, from the POV of a servant in Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde; Finn: A Novel by Jon Clinch, about Huckleberry Finn's father; March by Geraldine Brooks, about the father of Louisa May Alcott's Little Women; and many more.


Think of Gregory Maguire's fairytale retellings from an alternate POV: Wicked, Mirror Mirror, and Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister. You'll also find a bewildering array of books based on practically everybody who ever had a speaking part in anything by Jane Austen.


Two of my favorites are not novels at all, but plays by Tom Stoppard. I am a great fan of his Rosenkrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead (based, obviously, on two minor characters from Hamlet) and Travesties, which is a manic and surreal take on some of the characters from Oscar Wilde's play The Importance of Being Earnest, as well as on Dada, James Joyce, and lots more, and which contains a brilliantly weird scene written entirely in limericks.

For the historical fiction author, this approach probably means choosing some historical character, or a fictional character who might have existed, in the orbit of somebody well-known. The classic example, of course, is the Tudors: there are now so many Tudor novels that there is probably one out there somewhere written from the POV of Henry the Eighth's barber's wife's dog.


This may be a matter of "Writer, know thyself." If someone wants to write biographical fiction about well-known people, more power to them -- I have enjoyed many such books. But I can't imagine myself writing about queens or other famous folk as my central subject, or writing from their points of view.


For myself, I prefer the unexpected, off-to-one-side character who has caught my attention. My first novel, A Thing Done, tells a true story of a feud among knights in medieval Florence, a marriage contracted to make peace, a jilting, and the homicidal
aftermath of this assault on knightly honor. But I told it from the point of view of a jester who got dragooned into pulling the prank that set the whole thing in motion. I chose him for two reasons: he was in the best position to observe the people on both sides of the conflict, and also I wondered how he would have felt about his role in the conflict that divided his city.

To me his story was more immediate and more interesting than the stories that belonged to the squabbling knights, the jilted bride and the chosen one, or the conniving older woman, not least because it enabled me to tell those other stories as well. My marginalized character could tell us all about those rich noble people; had I used one of them as a POV character, what are the chances that he/she would have even noticed the jester?


My jester only appears in a single line in the earliest chronicle that mentions the event. For some reason, that seems to be the sort of situation that attracts me: someone who had a role in the story, yet who was not considered important enough for contemporary chroniclers to dwell on.

My work in progress is about Lady Giacoma dei Settesoli, a Roman noblewoman who was an early follower of Saint Francis of Assisi -- an extremely wealthy woman who was improbably a close friend of the saint who considered himself wed to Lady Poverty. Again, the earliest biographies of Saint Francis contain only one or two sentences about her. Yet because of her prominent family, I was able to dig up a surprising amount of information .

And in another upcoming project, I'm writing from the POVs of seven of the women mentioned by Dante, or in some other way connected with him. Among them: the irascible noblewoman Dante disapproved of; the free spirit and notable lover who he sympathetically assigned to Paradise; his friend's longsuffering wife who sneezed a lot, and who Dante made fun of in an early poem and then obliquely apologized to in the Commedia; the redoubtable mother of his nemesis who he insulted in classic schoolboy fashion in the same series of poems ("Son of we don't know who, until monna Tessa tells us"). I think all of them deserve their say. Plus I'm giving a voice to Gemma Donati, Dante's largely forgotten wife, who never merited a single line in all his writings.


There's also another question, and it may be that only the writing itself can answer this one:  Is it your story to tell?

I had planned to write from the point of view of Dante's beloved Beatrice (pesky poet following her around, that sort of thing), but one day I realized that the real drama was not hers, but belonged to Dante's wife -- the kinswoman of the man who was behind Dante's exile, the woman who raised his children and kept his property together during all the long years of his forced absence from Florence (he was never to return). Where were her loyalties? To her birth family or to her husband, or split between them? How did she like reading her husband's poetic rhapsodies about Beatrice, who was her neighbor and someone she would have seen every day? How did Beatrice's death affect her? How did she feel when her own daughter took the name "Sister Beatrice" when she entered a convent?

Beatrice's story was not mine to tell. It didn't come alive for me. But Gemma's did.


I tried to write from the POV of La Compiuta Donzella, an early Florentine poet, but I couldn't do it. I couldn't capture her voice. (I did create a fictional secondary character who I liked a lot and intend to recycle, though, so it wasn't wasted effort.)

I think we have also to give a nod to the story that is about one individual, but told by another: Sherlock Holmes as told by Dr. Watson, or the story of Jay Gatsby as told by Nick Caraway. The author needs an affinity for the narrating character as well as for the subject, if the voice is to ring true. But perhaps that is a discussion for another time.


Images in this post, except for the book cover, are all pictures taken in Italy and Greece by my husband, Tim Heath. He retains copyright. (And did you notice that the second picture above was the source of the window on the cover of my book? The cover designer was able to incorporate it.)

Monday, April 20, 2015

Our Greek Odyssey 4: Malia (and the British Museum)


Meet the kitty who photobombed the ruins of ancient Malia, a Minoan city on Crete. This little charmer appointed herself our guide, and proceeded to show us around in a most proprietary way.

For anyone wanting to catch up with the earlier three posts in this series, follow these links for posts about Athens; about Nafplio, Epidaurus, Tiryns, and Mycenae; and about Crete (Siva, Knossos, Phaistos, and Aghia Triada).


Malia, a Minoan city on the northern edge of Crete and east of Iraklion, was not the last archaeological site we visited, but it was the last major site.






This last picture is the famous bee pendant, found in Malia and now on display at the archaeological museum in Iraklion. It's an exquisite little piece of intricate goldwork from the middle Bronze Age.

I've not said much about any of the places featured in these posts, relying mostly on pictures. But if you are interested in such things, I would urge you to seek out information about them. The history is fascinating. I learned a lot about Greece, past and present, in preparation for this trip, but I'm no expert, and I'd suggest that you seek out those who are, because Greek history touches every aspect of western civilization. And for those who have not been paying attention to Greece's current economic and political crises, I would urge you to take a look at that, too - it's a David and Goliath tale with no foregone conclusion.

England

So many of the great Greek antiquities have wound up in England that it seemed only appropriate to end our trip with a stop in London and a visit to the British Museum, always one of our favorite places.

Phidias showing the frieze of the Parthenon to his friends, Lawrence Alma-Tadema, 1868
 As many of you will recall, there is considerable controversy over whether the so-called Elgin Marbles should remain in their current home in the British Museum, or be returned to Greece. I don't want to go into it here, but here's one (of many) links if you'd like to know more: http://www.livescience.com/26254-elgin-marbles-parthenon.htmlhttp://www.livescience.com/26254-elgin-marbles-parthenon.html

The new Acropolis Museum in Athens has rather pointedly left places for these friezes and sculptures, should they ever be returned. Here are two pictures of some of the Parthenon sculptures in the British Museum:



I'll leave you now with one last image. One decorative theme we encountered over and over again, especially on Crete, was the octopus. (It also turned up in pretty much every restaurant we ate in.) What amused us most was that most of these sea critters are pictured with huge round eyes, communicating utter surprise, as if they are shocked - shocked! - to find themselves decorating pots and vases. So I can't bring this series of posts to an end without providing you with at least one amazed octopus.



Images in this post are our own photos or in the public domain, with these exceptions: the bee pendant is by Olaf Tausch and licensed to Oltau via the Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported license; the photo of the Parthenon Galleries is by Mujtaba Chohan and licensed to M.chahan via the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license; and the picture of the surprised octopus on the pot is by Wolfgang Sauber, licensed to Xenophon via the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license.