Sinalunga

 

Edward Hutton liked Sinalunga because its churches still contained their works of religious art. He loved to see paintings in situ and complained of the removal of these works to museums like the the Uffizi. It is true that there is nothing like seeing a painting in the place where it was originally meant to be, but 100 years later I believe that many of these works would have been lost forever if they had not been removed. Moreover, when I saw crowds of people straining to see Michelangelo's Doni Tondo in the Uffizi, they did remind me of worshippers.

Pictures there are and to spare in this neglected town, but even today in the vulgar rush hither and thither of poor people who have no time to do anything gently, it would be unpardonable to take even Sinalunga by assault without some sort of introduction. Indeed, if it is thus we are to be compelled to visit the cities of our second fatherland they will lose half their interest for us; and as for their pictures, they might as well share the fate of their brethren and be imprisoned in those vast emporiums called Museums, where much the same crowd hustles and gapes as you may find at the entertainments of Barnum and Bailey. No picture howsoever lovely, howsoever holy and divine, can survive a single month in such an asylum as the Uffizi or the Academy of Siena. In some way, I know not rightly why, they fade and die there as in an intolerable captivity. Perhaps, like ourselves, these living and lively beings which we are so powerless to create strike roots as we do into their native earth, or into that place  to which love has brought them which they have learned to regard as home. Perhaps in the cold corridors of a Museum, they miss the prayers of the poor, the tears of the sorrowful, the thanks of those they have often assisted, the laughter of little children.  Certainly there is here some mystery we cannot wholly understand. Only we know that, however carefully we bear it away from its altar, that triptych, that panel, that picture of the Madonna will in its new place presently suffer some change, will seem to fade and die; and in delivering up to us, to the curious, cold eyes of the connoisseur, or the crowd what they think to be its secret it will suddenly move us no more, will tell us no longer of heavenly things, or interpret for us the dumb poetry of our hearts, but like a dead body in a dissecting room will tell us only those secrets which the corpse retains when the soul has vanished whither we cannot follow. …

 

Now since this is so, it is delightful to find no picture gallery or museum in Sinalunga… 

 

Now certainly what we should do first in Sinalunga after climbing into that lofty piazza before the church of S. Martino from the station is to wander through the narrow ways of the town… And when you have first lifted up your heart you may find again all your desire in the churches…

 

 

In S. Martino, besides the curious little shrine to the right of the western doors there is over the altar of the south transept a fine altarpiece of the Deposition, possibly from the hand of Girolamo del Pacchia…. His work has the usual composite quality of the sixteenth century, but here for once I think—or is it just my fancy?—he has brought something almost divine into a picture but for that would be a little mannered, a little lacking in sincerity. In a wide and beautiful valley where afar off we seem to recognize the beautiful lines of Monte Cetona and Mont’ Amiata. The cross itself hiding the height of Radicofani, Jesus our Saviour has been lifted from the Tree and now lies in His Mother’s lap supported by the Holy Women, while S. John carefully lifts away the crown of thorns from His brow, and S. Joseph of Arimethea and Simon of Cyrene wait in the background, the one with the precious ointment for His burial, the other with the holy relics—the instruments of the Passion—which he holds in his hands. And lo!  Though yesterday it was almost summer, it is bleak winter now; the little trees stand forlorn, stripped of their leaves, and all the world is bare and still with the stillness of death awaiting the Resurrection.*

 

 

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* Apparently, the altarpiece has since been removed from S. Martino, and can now be found in the collegiate church of S. Blasé.

 

Edward Hutton: Siena and Southern Tuscany, New York, 1910. Pp.209-210. 

Tragedy of Monte Oliveto Monastery

 On his tour of southern Tuscany Edward Hutton visited the famous monastery of Monte Oliveto. Even though the frescoes of the life of St. Benedict by Signorelli and Sodoma remain, he believed that those frescoes are an impeachment of "the wanton stupidity that has drained away the life of such a place in mere barbarian revenge."

 

Moreover, on the road from Asciano to Monte Oliveto there is much of great beauty in the landscape beside the beauty of the desert. There is the majestic loveliness, the incomparable outline of Mont’ Amiata, the bizarre and haggard splendour of Radicofani, and both these wonders burst upon one suddenly and dramatically after climbing the longest hill some halfway to the monastery. 

 

There are many outlines of surpassing splendour in Italy; there are the hills of Cortona as seen from Montepulciano, there are Monte Cimino and Monte Venere as seen from Abbadia S. Salvatore, there are the hills of Vallombrosa as seen from Vincigliata, the whole splendour of Val d’Arno as seen from Empoli, and the Monte Pisani as seen from the leaning tower of Pisa; but there is no other outline that I have seen, even in my dreams, that may compare with that of Mont’ Amiata as seen from three different points—the Porta Romano of Siena, the platform behind the Cathedral of Pienza, and the desert hillside between Asciano and Monte Oliveto. Modern Italy has wantonly destroyed half her patrimony in a kind of pique, to humour fools or to mark what she conceives to be her “progress,” whither no one knows; but not yet has she thought or been able to destroy much of the superhuman loveliness with which God has endowed her…. (180)

 

But if one seeks destruction one has not far to go for it—only, indeed, as far as the monastery itself, hidden away among the worst precipices of the desert, which here the monks had made to blossom like a rose.

 

The great block of brick buildings which form the monastery, with its church, cloisters, and conventual houses, are the centre of a venerable oasis in this bare country, of an oasis which little by little the desert is claiming again. For the place is no longer a monastery, the monks having been deprived by the jealous Italian Government not only of the fruits of their labours, the houses they had built, the smiling garden they had contrived in the desert, but the right to labout at all. Nor in robbing them has modern Italy seen fit herself to fill their place. Her policy has been, here as elsewhere, that of a mere anarchist, eager in destruction, but too often careless or incapable of construction, or even, as here, of carrying on the good work of the monks she has robbed … (180-1)

The loss is Italy’s and ours; for while we as mere travellers may still find here the hospitality we seek, the Italian contadino and labourer are deprived of their employers; the land carefully and labouriously  redeemed and cultivated by the monks has been lost, and a host of people left without employment. It is a striking spectacle, not uncommon in Italy, where the true Italians, the common people, have been more ruthlessly exploited by the middle classes, the bagmen from Piedmont, and all the riff-raff of the risorgimento, than anywhere else in Europe. (181)…

 

The last Abbot of Monte Oliveto, the holy and courageous Abbate di Negro, of the family of S. Catherine of Genoa, died in 1897. He remembered the now empty cloister and choir, filled by fifty white-robed monks. And then the peasants sang in the vineyards, and the corn was golden in July and reaped with joy, and the whole country-side was glad in those days. And now? – well, now there is only a horrid silence. * (184)

 

* Note: The Olivetani have been suppressed almost everywhere, like the rest of the Orders. Their General now lives in the little monastery of Settignano. May they long be left in peace. ###

 

Edward Hutton: Siena and Southern Tuscany, New York, 1910. 

Asciano: a Famous Painting

 

On his tour of Siena and Southern Tuscany, Edward Hutton's first stop after leaving Siena was Asciano whose claim to fame was its churches. One of them contained a famous depiction of the Birth of the Blessed Virgin. Although, modern scholars attribute the painting to an unknown Master, Hutton followed Bernard Berenson and gave it to Sassetta.

As you gaze southward from the platform of Siena, from the Porta Romana or the bastion of S. Barbara, you see before you, across the narrow gardens that hem Siena in and fill all her valleys with plenteousness, a country of a very different character, that has much in common with the bare uplands about Volterra, a strong and masculine country of vast and barren undulations, of low and restless clay hills, very tragic in aspect and full of mystery. 

 

Almost invisible at midday in the glaze of the summer sun, often hidden in early morning by the mists of the valleys, this strange wilderness reveals itself only at evening, when it seems to lie like a restless sea between the city and that far away fair mountain, Mont’ Amiata, whose beautiful and pure outline nothing can ever trouble or modify. Forbidding at first, little by little, as day by day, evening by evening, you gaze on that vast loneliness, it begins to attract you, to call you, to fascinate you; its little cities half-hidden here and there in the sombre billows of clay or suddenly shining out in a glint of stormy sunshine, or delicately revealed in some virginal dawn, beckon you from Siena, till at last you set out to find them where they are repeating their beautiful names—Asciano, Buonconvento, Montepulciano, Pienza, S. Quirico, Montalcino, Radicofani, Chiusi…. (175)

 

But the true splendour of Asciano lies in her churches, which are to be found alike in her three divisions. There is S. Agata in the town proper, the Collegiata since 1542, a fine and interesting building of the transition period. It is perhaps here that Asciano keeps her greatest treasure. For in the choir behind the high altar, on the left, is a magnificent altarpiece, an early work by Sassetta, representing the Birth of the Blessed Virgin, with scenes from her life. … It is certainly the earliest important work by Sassetta that has come down to us. It must have been one of the greatest and noblest works anywhere to be seen in Europe when it was new, for it is full of a sweet gravity, precision, and daintiness that still entrance us and lift up our hearts. In the midst, in a beautiful and lofty room before a cheerful fire… sits some sister, maybe of S. Anne, with the Blessed Virgin—our Life, our Sweetness, and our Hope—in her arms. A servant warms some linen before the crackling flames, while to and fro through the sunlit room angels softly pass and repass, intent on the service of their Queen. Nor are they forgetful of S. Anne, who, still abed, is served by one of them, while another waits on guard, fascinated by the little Virgin. To the left without sits S. Joachim, talking, it may be, with the doctor, while a little lad, perhaps S. Joseph, runs in from the garden, charmingly visible, with its well and cypress and border of flowers, through an open doorway. Above are three scenes: in the midst the Madonna and Child with four angels, to the left the death, and to the right the funeral of the Blessed Virgin. Nothing can exceed the intimate loveliness of this work. (175-176)

 

 

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 Edward Hutton: Siena and Southern Tuscany, New York, 1910. 

Siena: Duccio's Maesta

 Writing in 1910 Edward Hutton called Duccio's Maesta Siena's greatest achievement. After an account of the town-wide procession that accompanied the painting on its way to installation in the Duomo, he went on to describe the painting in his own inimitable fashion. 

 

Among the many fragments that go to make up the museum of the Opera, it is, after all, to that room on the third floor which holds Duccio’s broken Majestas that we shall return again and again. Before this marvellous altarpiece one often wonders whether this was not the greatest thing Siena ever accomplished in the world of action, in the world of art, in the world of the intellect. It alone, at any rate, endures for ever. (118)

 

Duccio was born about 1255, and already in 1278 he was employed as a painter by the state … He was the true founder of the Sienese school, which was in its own way as lovely in its results as, and perhaps more original in its aim than, the other schools of painting in Italy. Duccio seems to have got his training from some Byzantine master, perhaps in Constantinople itself, perhaps in Siena. (118-119)

 

The picture thus honoured is one of the great works of the Middle Age. In the midst, on a vast throne, is seated the Madonna Advocata Senesium, with her Divine Child in her arms. Four angels on either side gaze at this wonder, leaning dreamily on the back and sides of the throne, while in the right and left on either side six others stand on guard. In front of these stood SS. John Evangelist, Paul, Catherine, John the Baptist, Peter, and James; and before all in adoration knelt the four Bishops, the patrons of the city, SS. Savinus, Anasanus, Crescentius, and Vittorius. On the footstool of the six-sided throne was written—

 

MATER SANCTA DEI SIS CAUSA SENES REQUIRI SIS

               DUCCIO VITATE QUIA DEPINXXIT ITA.

 

This, being interpreted, prays, “Holy Mother of God, be thou the cause of rest to Siena, and to Duccio life, because he has painted thee thus.”

 

But this was not all. This altarpiece, as I have said, was set up over the high altar of the Duomo, and in those days the high altar stood under the cupola. It had therefore to be seen from both sides; from the nave where the people worshipped and from the choir where the Chapter was gathered. The Madonna enthroned with the divine child and Angels and Saints, as I have described it, faced the people, and beneath this was a gradino of nine panels.  In all, with the gradini, the altarpiece consisted of forty-four small panels beside the Majesta, only thirty-five of which remain in Siena…. (119-120)

 

It is a pity that the Sienese authorities cannot find a better room in which to place this, perhaps the greatest work in their possession. It should be re-erected, if not in a church—that might seem to be impossible—then in a room by itself. The missing panels could be replaced by copies. As it hangs at present it is impossible to appreciate its true effect. What it once would have been in the Duomo we shall never know. (120-121)

 

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Edward Hutton, Siena and Southern Tuscany, 1910.

Siena: Pius II and the Piccolomini Library

 

 

Edward Hutton's, Siena and Southern Tuscany contains many brief biographies, especially of little known local saints. Today, I present his brief biography of the famed humanist Pope, Pius II, and the library built by his successor to house his works. 

The Library is, then, really a monument to the great humanist Pope who canonized S. Catherine of Siena. The bronze doors were made by Antoniolo Ormanni. Over them is a fine fresco of the Coronation of Cardinal Francesco as Pius III. Within are the ten splendid frescoes of the life of Pius II by Pintoricchio.

 

Pius II was born in 1405. He was an adventurer of fine character, but an adventurer. He had no great convictions, but, unlike so many who are without them, he was capable of learning from experience. And then, if he was without convictions, he was also without prejudices. He made the most of life in no vulgar way, but with a success that proves his superiority. He was not one to mould the world, but to use it and enjoy it nobly. His early life is said to have been disorderly. He wrote much sensuous and even licentious verse, and a novel that might have come from the hand of Boccaccio in a moment of ennui. At twenty-six he became secretary to the Bishop of Fermo at the Council of Basle. There he made his reputation, and in the years between 1432 and 1435 he was employed on missions to England, Scotland, and Germany. He then followed Frederic III, reformed his life, took Orders, reconciled himself to the Pope, and was created Bishop of Trieste, and returning to Italy in 1456, he became Cardinal of Siena. On the death of Calixtus III, two years later, he was elected Pope, and, in reference to his name of Aeneas, took the title of Pius II. His reign was disappointing; it revealed his want of conviction and his opportunism. Instead of forming that confederation of Europe against the Turks…he wasted himself, his eloquence—which was considerable—and his material power—which was small—in breaking the unruly barons of the Romagna and the Marche…  The effort to regain Constantinople, worthy of all his energy, came to nothing, and, as though in remorse for his failure, we see him at last, feeble and suffering, borne to Ancona on a litter to bless and encourage the half-hearted and belated Crusade. There he died in August 1464. Looking back on his life now, it is as a scholar and a humanist he chiefly appeals to us. His long Commentaries are full of human pages and a real love of Nature that in the men of his day was only to be found again in Lorenzo de’ Medici and Leon Alberti. He was a mixture more strange than rare, of weakness and strength, of a vanity and idealism truly Sienese. He erred, but he did not deceive himself; he did not try to make himself out nobler than he was; and for his sincerity and frankness we respect him, so that his very inconsistencies come at last to seem the most real things about him, and his thoughts about life, so plentifully recorded, really spontaneous impressions are valuable to us on that account. And last, but not least, he had the courage of his opinions—he canonized S. Catherine….

 

Pintoricchio: Frescoes of the Life of Pius II.

 

Full as these works are of the petty detail that Pintoricchio loved, they are redeemed even from their faults of composition, even from their feebleness of structure, even from their lack of life, by the spaciousness of their landscape and the charm of their thousand incidents. They are a complete decoration to the room, though not perhaps a really splendid one, and they remain the masterpiece of the artist, and one of the brightest and most harmonious works of the Renaissance. *

 

 

 

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Edward Hutton: Siena and Southern Tuscany, 1910, pp. 116-118.

*Image courtesy of David Orme.