Cover-a-Week #29: "Greensleeves" (traditional)

A Tudor era piece:


http://youtu.be/dMS42q0wPF8

The original is very long (not to mention that there exist many versions of the song, which was often learned orally, in true balladeer fashion), so I took the liberty of cutting a few verses.

The Renaissance Faire!

Last weekend, some friends and I went to the Renaissance Faire!

I've been to a few Faires over the years, both in California and here in New York. They're great fun -- cheesy as all hell, and you'll certainly be disappointed if you're a hard-core re-enactor or history buff who expects most everything to be historically accurate (that got me the first time, but I've learned to ignore it). There're all sorts of things to see -- human chess, birds of prey, dancing, acrobats, and even jousting.

Here I am at the archery range. The target is rather low to the ground. Full disclosure: the bow I'm using has a draw weight of only twenty pounds or so, and the fletching on the arrow is rather bent out of shape (not to mention that the entire kit is made of plastic!). I did ask for the heaviest bow they had on loan. (photo by Irina)

Here I am being kidnapped (and my bag being ransacked) by pirates! We are all too amused to look properly frightened/menacing. (photo by Irina)

And here is the castle and tourney field (click to enlarge). You can see the lions of England hanging from the castle walls, and the unicorn of Scotland above the stable doors. There was also a knight from France, and one from the Holy Roman Empire, though you can't see their heraldry in this shot. (photo by Deb and Terence)

I'm already looking forward to next year's Faire! Can't wait to break out the corset and skirts again. :-P

Cover-a-Week #15: "Scarborough Fair" (traditional)

For May Day (a week ago, yes), I thought I'd dial a few centuries back in time and play a seasonally appropriate song from 1600s England:


http://youtu.be/O8BnL41eN08

It was originally written as a duet, consisting of two lovers making impossible demands of each other (in the true spirit of courtly love!). Since it would probably sound a bit schizophrenic with a single vocalist -- not to mention, that version is twice as long -- I've cut a few verses.

This would be a great song to waltz to, I think.

io9: Galileo's Ship Was One of the Oldest Relativity Though Experiments

It has always irked me, a little, when people claim that Einstein "invented" relativity. The man was a genius, to be sure, and contributed greatly to our understanding of general and special relativity in modern physics -- but the idea of relativity existed well before him. The term itself is quite broad, encompassing everything from temporal and spatial relativity to more nebulous perspective- and human interaction-based concepts; it hardly seems possible that despite hundreds of years of innovation in math and physics, relativity only arose within the past century. Certainly, there have been a number of similar (if more rudimentary) observations throughout history, such as Zeno's paradox(es). One of the oldest examples dates from the Renaissance:

http://io9.com/galileos-ship-was-one-of-the-oldest-relativity-thought-486468038

It sounds like a very low-tech version of Einstein's lasers-on-a-train thought experiment, doesn't it?

This brings to mind a blog post from about a year ago... Straying away from the sciences for a moment, relativity as an abstract concept -- even models of relative perspective uncannily like the sort of thought experiments Einstein proposed -- seems to have existed in the literary and cultural milieu for quite a while. It's reasonable to conjecture that there was some cross-pollination. (Eliot, for example, even drops an allusion or two to relativity in "The Waste Land.") The idea of relativity is marvelously intuitive (albeit in a slightly mind-bendy way) and quite useful in describing life alongside other sentient beings.

Erasmus, the Consummate Bibliophile

Story of my life:

When I get a little money, I buy books. If any is left, I buy food and clothes. 

~ Erasmus

To reassure those of you with concerns about my continued survival... I doubt I'd ever actually resort to such extremes. Library cards, after all, didn't exist in the fifteenth century.

And of course, Erasmus is one of my favorite Catholic philosophers, though admittedly, I admire him more for his humanism than for his religion. (Granted, his being Dutch -- as opposed to, say, Spanish -- during the Renaissance might have something to do with it.) In a day and age filled with all manner of extremists, he was a moderate -- a principled, rational, articulate moderate, and a champion of religious tolerance amidst rampant sectarian violence. It was all the books, of course! :-)

The Economist: Piero della Francesca at the Frick

I saw this article about the Piero della Francesca exhibition at the Frick, and went to see it over the weekend:

http://www.economist.com/news/books-and-arts/21571857-introducing-early-renaissance-master-american-audiences-divine-splendour

The show is well worth seeing, though I admit to being somewhat biased because I'm a fan of the Frick. It's one of those small, very specifically curated museums that a visitor can see in its entirety in just a few hours. It's worth visiting more than once if you live in New York, though -- there are always a few special installations (often pieces on loan from other countries, such as the above) -- and it's the sort of place one visits to soak in the ambiance. It has this beautiful central courtyard vaguely reminiscent of the villas of Classical Rome (covered, though), and a few surprisingly well-known works, including some lesser-known works of rather famous artists.

Anyhow, the Piero della Francesca exhibit. If you're at all interested in Renaissance art history, and you're in the City, go see it.

Cover-a-Week #9: "The Three Ravens" (traditional)

"The Three Ravens" is an old English folk ballad first written down in the early 1600s, and later (more famously) collected among the Childe Ballads. It's a wonderful, grim little piece, and I thought I'd have a crack at it:


http://youtu.be/lFP9dDMpsmw

I'm rather fond of Renaissance-era music; I have Greensleeves and Scarborough Faire on my list of songs to learn.

Beauty and Madness

 I've been reading some William Morris for a literature class on medievalism (both medieval literature and Victorian medievalism). This line, in particular, struck me:

 I was half mad with beauty on that day...

~ William Morris, "The Defence of Guenevere"

I've noticed that beautiful people, and people who create beautiful things, are often a little mad. (By "beautiful people," I mean people who have beautiful souls or minds, not attractive exteriors.) There's a sort of fragile beauty, the sort where you can hear the madness vibrating under the surface, like an impossibly light glass orb that might shatter if you touch it. It's the wildness of it, the thrill of unpredictability. It's the beauty of the endangered predator, the tiger that doesn't know it's one of the last of its kind, that can still kill you where you stand.

Madness itself can be beautiful, in its own way (hence the Gothic novel). There's a certain purity to madness, in that everything that affects a lunatic ultimately comes from within her own head (much of it is exhibited as response to stimuli, but the response is atypical -- i.e. not socially dictated). The greater part of the significance that literature assigns to madness is the uniqueness of its perspective.

Western culture idealizes individualism to an extent unmatched in other societies -- and that applies to Western intellectual culture as well. I think of it, sometimes, as the "genius in a box" phenomenon. People are attracted to the image of great ideas springing fully formed from the aether, like Athena from Zeus's head. They like thinking that geniuses are born, not made, and that they achieve their success purely through their own inscrutable methods. Of course, this construct doesn't quite reflect reality; as Newton once said, "If I have seen a little further it is by standing on the shoulders of giants." (His expression of the sentiment is the most famous, but not the first; the earliest known attribution is to Bernard of Chartres.) I actually just read, for a history of science class, an interesting book by Peter Galison entitled Einstein's Clocks, Poincaré's Maps, which argues (perhaps a tad overzealously) that Einstein, the quintessential representation of genius in modern Western culture, was inspired in the formation of his theories of relativity by the mathematician Henri Poincaré. One can't be a pioneer in one's field without having a good grasp of the work that preceded one's own. Genius is hardly ever as isolated as the romantic ideal would have it.

The thing is, genius is isolating only insofar as society renders it so. There were plenty of intellectuals throughout history who, in addition to being brilliant, were also scintillating conversationalists, consummate socialites and courtiers, and infamous Lotharios -- Renaissance men, as it were. It's terribly unfortunate that in the modern day, intelligence is seen as a social liability (that's probably a reflection on the state of American society, but we'll not go there tonight). But it's that isolation that makes it seem mysterious, unattainable -- and therefore beautiful.

A bit of a digression, I suppose. Perhaps not quite what Morris was going for, but that's how I read it.

Physics from Hell

Speaking of Galileo:



It's quite fascinating how this entire body of mythology developed as a way of rationalizing a historical document in light of scientific advances over the course of centuries. It led to some pretty interesting literalist interpretations, as shown above. (Obviously, Biblical literalism yielded some rather significant results, mostly through its loss of scientific credibility. Ironic, but not surprising.)

Poetry vs. the Inquisition

A thought on the power of poetry, or perhaps just the abstruseness of some of the stuff:

If Galileo had said in verse that the world moved, the inquisition might have let him alone.

~ Thomas Hardy

Of course, if Galileo had written the Dialogue in the style of Vergil, he might never have achieved the posthumous scientific success that he did. (Then again, there were Renaissance men in his day, scientist-poet-philosophers. I wish our modern education system allowed for that -- but that's for a different post all together.)

Hardy was himself a great poet, so he knows whereof he speaks.

BBC: Ten Strange Ways Tudors Died

Not so much royal Tudors, but Englishmen and women who lived (and died) during the Tudor dynasty:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/magazine-13762313

Lifespans were significantly shorter back then (the most common culprit being disease, and probably childbirth) but these are some more interesting, historically accurate ways to go. For a fair number of them, I would say they brought it upon themselves. Can you imagine what their families might have had inscribed on their tombstones?

Today

is the 484th anniversary of the Sack of Rome. Since there have been multiple Sacks of Rome (makes Rome sound a bit like potatoes?), I'm referring to the one where Charles V's troops ran amok after the death of their commander Duke Charles and pillaged Rome. (Duke Charles III and Charles V were not the same person; Charles V was the Holy Roman Emperor and Charles III was the Duke of Bourbon.) His second-in-command (sort of) Philibert de Châlon, Prince of Orange, was a bit of a wet blanket, and nobody listened to him, so there was no one to prevent the troops from doing as they pleased. Not to mention that Charles V, while outwardly condemning the lawlessness of his men, actually stood to benefit greatly from the Sack of Rome, as it put Pope Clement VII under Hapsburg control -- so I would imagine that Charles V didn't do much in the way of preventing the Sack.

Edit: I realize, upon re-reading it a day later, that this post is rather incoherent. I blame lack of sleep...

NYTimes: Nabokov Theory on Butterfly Evolution Is Vindicated

Nabokov: celebrated novelist and amateur entomologist. Who would have thought?

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/02/01/science/01butterfly.html

A Leonardo of the modern day, a Renaissance man, in the classical sense.  There is also something deeply literary, deeply Romantic about a brilliant writer who spent the proceeds from his art on butterfly quests.

It's humbling to remember that often, literature is but a reflection of a wilder, more beautiful reality.

Today

is the 538th anniversary of the birth of Nicolaus Copernicus, who surely needs no introduction (but I'll give a brief one anyways). He was a Renaissance astronomer, the first person to form and champion a good heliocentric construction of the solar system. As I'm currently taking a course on Renaissance arts and sciences, I find this to be particularly well-timed.

The Original Snuggies

This is, of course, Raphael's "The School of Athens". I have a photograph of the original in its entirety in an earlier post. The speakers depicted are Plato and Aristotle, which makes it even better.

Italy Travelogue, Part 3: Vatican City

If you're ever in Rome, the Vatican is definitely worth seeing. It'll take a day, at least, but do go. It's chock-full of centuries of artwork and architecture, and not all of it is Catholic; some of the most famous classical sculptures are there. The pièce de résistance, of course, is the Sistine Chapel; disappointingly, but understandably, we were not allowed to photograph it. We did take pictures of lots of other things...

The Vatican Museums are home to some of the greatest artistic treasures in the world. Exhibit A -- Here's the marble of Laocoön and sons being strangled by Athena's sea serpents, the one that Pliny the Elder wrote about (Yes, I took Latin in high school, why do you ask?), one of the most celebrated statues from antiquity:


The story goes, Laocoön was a Trojan priest of Poseidon, who was in Poseidon's bad books because he took a wife and sired children (this is relevant only because his terrible luck and grisly death is sometimes attributed to the god's displeasure). Anyhow, he was one of the few Trojans who suspected that the Trojan horse was a ruse, and proposed that they set it on fire. Athena summoned a pair of giant snakes to strangle him and his sons. The Trojans then assumed that the horse was sacred (and that anyone who dared to harm it would meet a similarly nasty end), and so they brought the horse into Troy. I'm not sure who had it worse, Laocoön or Cassandra.

We also saw Raphael's even more famous The School of Athens:


This is often considered to be not only Raphael's finest piece, but also the very spirit of the Renaissance in painted form. The term itself, "Renaissance", means "rebirth", and the great artists and thinkers of the Renaissance felt a deep intellectual kinship with their Greco-Roman peers. It is only fitting that the spirit of the era is captured as Greek institution.

I had fun squinting up at it and trying to identify all the people in the painting, but I didn't get very far. The two figures in the middle (under the central arch) are Plato and Aristotle, in the red and blue mantles, respectively. Plato is supposed to be modeled on Leonardo da Vinci (and with that beard, I can see the resemblance). Michelangelo is in the middle on the bottom step (purple shirt and red pants, with his elbow on a box, looking bored), as a Greek painter (what else) of some importance. Raphael painted himself in, too, though I didn't find him until we got home. He's in the upper right, where the bottom of the arch meets the top of the pillar, next to the old man in the green cloak (he's wearing red and purple, too).

Fast-forwarding several centuries in art history, we come to Canova's Perseus, who is depicted in the style of the classical hero (read: naked), holding up the head of his slain foe (Medusa). Here he is:


I thought he looked rather familiar, and that's because he is. Canova made another Perseus, which is almost identical, and that one resides in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, so I've seen it before.

Canova's Perseus is one of the few post-Renaissance marbles to be exhibited so prominently in the Vatican Museums, and rightly so. He sculpted Perseus in the tail end of the Baroque era, when everything was excessively embellished (to the point of seeming nauseatingly garish), and manages to capture the hero triumphant, simple and clothed in little besides his own achievement.

The Vatican Museums also house a collection of artifacts of non-European antiquity. They have an excellent Egyptian wing, and also one with Near Eastern art. My sister and I were much amused to find, in the Assyrian section, this piece:


It's Birdman! (My sister is a better bird(wo)man than I am, I know; I have a terrible poker face.)

It's one of many long-standing points of reference for us. She currently attends the same middle school I did, and one of our favorite teachers is the inimitable Ms. Springer, archaeologist and historian extraordinare, who taught us sixth grade history. (She did a wonderful job of it, too; I was immensely surprised to find, in my Ancient Empires course reader, a passage from "Wen-Amon Goes to Phoenicia", which we read in sixth grade.)

Birdman was one of the most memorable characters from our Assyria unit. I still remember taking a field trip to the Met to see him; I thought he was enormous, back then. I spotted him in the Vatican all these years later, and we couldn't resist.

Of course, no trip to the Vatican is complete without a visit to St. Peter's Basilica. The lines were not as terrible as we'd feared (thank goodness!), and the inside was every bit as spectacularly grand as we'd imagined. I made a beeline for Michelangelo's most famous Pietà:


You'll have to click on it to get a closer view, and even then, it's still quite small; I was pressed up against the plexiglas wall, but I was still about a dozen feet away from it. Apparently, some crazy person tried to attack it with a hammer, and ended up chipping off Mary's nose, and so they won't let anyone get anywhere near it anymore. (Something similar happened to the David (who lost a few toes), and so there's a plexiglas shield around him, too.)

One of the first things anyone notices about the work is that Mary looks incredibly young. There's some debate about why this is; we know that Michelangelo made her deliberately so. Some say that it's an indication of her purity and favor with God; others say that she's actually supposed to be a young mother, and that she's holding her baby and having a premonition of her son's fate.

On the subject of Pietàs, I edited the Florence part to include some pictures from the Museo dell'Opera del Duomo that I oddly couldn't find the first time around, so scroll down if you're interested in one of Michelangelo's other Pietàs.

Well, that's Italy. It was a lot of fun (and a historian/erstwhile Latin student's dream). There was plenty we didn't get to see this time around, so I'd definitely want to go back sometime in the future!

Italy Travelogue, Part 2: Rome

Rome is big. Not quite as big as New York (what is?), but after Florence, Rome seemed huge. Of course, it was the place to be (in Europe, at least) for several centuries, way before any of the other major metropolises even existed. We procured four Roma Passes, which are designed for tourists and include discounts to major attractions (museum tickets are expensive!) and free public transit, valid for three consecutive days.

Four days in Rome was definitely not enough (especially since one of them was spent outside of Rome, technically, in the Vatican). Unlike Florence, which rose to prominence in the Middle Ages, Rome was the center of a vast empire in antiquity, and has several millennia of history on Florence. (Huzzah for Ancient Empires!)

The afternoon we get there, I drag them to see the Pantheon. (I'm a sucker for Greco-Roman mythology, but this one's really worth seeing.) It also houses the work of several Renaissance masters, as well as several of their graves, most notably that of Raphael. This is an interior view of its dome:


The Romans were really architectural geniuses, given their level of technology. It's incredible that the Pantheon survived several regime changes and wars. Of course, one of the reasons it wasn't quarried for marble or anything was that it was converted to a church in honor of the Virgin Mary and assorted Christian martyrs. It stands in stark contrast to many of the temples in the Roman Forum (dating from the days of the Republic) and the later Imperial fora; most of those now lie in ruins, much of their marble facing carted off to adorn other facades. Even so, the Roman Forum is well worth seeing. Here is a photograph of the Temple of Romulus:


This was one of the most intact of the temples in the Forum (and indeed, in all of Rome), mostly because it was converted to a church, that of the saints Cosmas and Damian, two Greek brothers, to stand in stark contrast to the Temple of Castor and Pollux, also in the Forum. This is, unfortunately, all that's left of the latter:


Freestanding monuments and buildings not constructed of marble were also generally in better repair; take, for instance, this photograph of the northwestern corner of the Forum:


In the middle of the picture is the Arch of Septimus Severus, commemorating the emperor's victories against the Parthians. He was a strong leader and a military man, which was good for Rome, given the corruption and political disunity of the preceding reigns. He also sponsored numerous public works, among which were several arches like this one.

The brownish building on the right (the one with three windows above its main entrance) is the Curia Julia, the Senate building built by (somewhat ironically) Julius Caesar. (He never saw it in its current form, as it was completed during the reign of Augustus.) The height of its ceiling is particularly impressive from the inside.

While I'm at it, here's another Augustan monument:


My sister and I are standing in front of the Ara Pacis (English: Altar of Peace). It was built by the Senate on the occasion of Augustus's subjugation of Gaul and Hispania, to celebrate the Pax Augusta, the peace that the emperor brought about by uniting various far-flung European peoples under imperial rule. My father, when I explained the altar's history, aptly remarked that Augustus was rather like the first Qin (秦) Emperor of China, Qin Shi Huang (秦始皇), who unified China. (Personally, I think Augustus was a lot friendlier. Also, Augustus's overall geopolitical achievement was probably somewhat less impressive, given that he was building upon Julius Caesar's successful military campaigns, whereas the Qin Emperor had to conquer the other six Chinese states, which were more or less equal in power to his at the start of his campaigns. Not to say that Augustus wasn't awesome, because he was.)

We also spent an afternoon at the Capitoline Museum, where there is a great glass-roofed hall housing some remarkable and historic bronzes. This one is the very famous equestrian statue of Marcus Aurelius, the only such statue of a pre-Christian emperor still in existence. It survived the Christian fanaticism of the Middle Ages mainly because it was thought to depict the Christian Constantine; this sort of imperial statue was quite common in the Roman Empire, but all the others were melted down.


It's greenish because it used to be prominently displayed on a pedestal outdoors, but then people moved it inside and put up a replica instead, because of precipitation damage.

This one, from the same hall, is the equally well-known bronze of the Capitoline Wolf, with Romulus and Remus as suckling infants:


Its origins are still uncertain, with some art historians contending that the wolf was first cast in the Etruscan era and others (a minority) arguing that it was made in the 13th century (both parties agree that the twins were a later addition). Either way, it's an iconic sculpture in the modern consciousness, where Rome is concerned.

This is getting ridiculously long. I'll write a third post on the Vatican, and lump in the Renaissance stuff with it. Stay tuned for travelogue part 3!

Italy Travelogue, Part 1: Florence

I'm back! And as promised, highlights of the first leg of the trip:

Upon arrival in Florence, my father, my sister, and I decide to explore the neighborhood to scope out nearby sources of food and to pick up some essentials at the supermarket. We encounter a strange public service announcement spray-painted on a building. We aren't quite sure what it is all about, so we decide to take it very literally:


Anyhow, on to items of actual historical significance. These are the east doors of the Baptistery of St. John, which Michelangelo famously dubbed "the Gates of Paradise", because they are so beautiful. (They're actually a faithful replica; the real ones are in restoration.)


The first set of Ghiberti doors was actually commissioned for the north-facing entrance in a competition sponsored by the Florentine guild of wool merchants. He and Filippo Brunelleschi were tied for the commission, but Ghiberti, through sheer persistence (and Brunelleschi's temper didn't help), eventually won out. Brunelleschi swore off sculpture in a fit of spite, and took up architecture and engineering instead (and was astoundingly talented at both); he designed the famous dome of the Florentine cathedral Santa Maria Del Fiore, one of the architectural marvels of the Renaissance:


Further reading on the subject, if you're so inclined: Brunelleschi's Dome, by Ross King. It was an assigned reading for a course I took in freshman year on Renaissance machine design (the system of pulleys, cranes, and other machines that Brunelleschi created in the process of constructing his dome is quite amazing), and it's a wonderful (and short) read on its own.

We also went to the Museo dell Opera del Duomo, where the real Gates of Paradise are currently housed. That particular museum is a treasure trove of amazing works by famous Renaissance masters. Among them is the understated, somewhat mysterious Magdalene Penitent by Donatello:


It's most striking, methinks, in its depth of emotion. She's not particularly beautiful, but she's wonderfully tragic.

Also in the Museo dell Opera del Duomo is the second-most famous Michelangelo Pietà, where instead of the Virgin Mary (as is customary), he depicts Joseph of Arimathea holding the body of Jesus:


It's believed that this Joseph was actually a self-portrait; Michelangelo originally intended this sculpture to be placed at his own gravesite. It's beautiful, and unlike many of the other really famous masterpieces, there isn't any plexiglas or a ten-foot fence, so we could walk right up to it to admire it.

We saw a lot of other things, too, like the David (I trust you don't need another picture of him) and some of the Medici palaces and private chapels (some of these restricted photography, to preserve the artwork). Florence basically belonged to the Medicis during the Renaissance, so half the sites in the city from that era were Medici-related in some way.

Florence was smaller than I'd expected; given its prominence during the Renaissance, I had thought it would be much bigger. I'd forgotten that cities in general were smaller back then (comes of being a New Yorker, methinks). We could basically get everywhere on foot -- no public transportation adventures there!

Rome is next.

Phiala's String Page

For all the computer scientists of my acquaintance, this has nothing to do with the sort of strings you guys know. This is a great page on medieval fiber arts:

http://www.stringpage.com

I've done a bit of tablet weaving, and quite a bit of braiding, and have ambitions to try some of the other types of weaving, &c. on the page. I also knit, but that's almost out of period, having originated in its recognizable form around the Renaissance, I believe.

Medieval and Renaissance Musical Instruments

http://www.music.iastate.edu/antiqua/instrumt.html

It's actually really complete, and really accurate -- and they have recordings!

There are some really interesting (and interesting-sounding) ones, like the dulcimer and the lizard. My favorite, though, is the hurdy gurdy. It's the string equivalent of a bagpipe, and it sounds via hand crank, and it's called a hurdy gurdy. I want one.