La Mer

Don’t let me down now, college Italian language course from 15 years ago.

Ok, Marzo is definitely March. So I’m in the right month. Giovedi is…Thursday? Must be, Sabato is definitely Saturday. And today is…Thursday! Sweet. I assume Virgilio Sieni is the name of the dance company? Is that something about virgins? I probably should have brushed up on my vocab before I arrived. I don’t know what CANGO means, but it’s in all caps and repeated below so maybe it’s the name of the building…or maybe that is the company. Hm. Whatever it is, I’m pretty certain ‘via Santa Maria 25’ is the address. Or at least an address. I don’t know what the entire Prevendite section is…going to ignore that and hope it’s not important. But I know for a fact that this is the Japanese painting associated with DeBussy’s ‘La Mer’, and that is definitely french for the sea. I’m so smart.

Except for all the ways I’m not.

So, to sum up: at 21.00 tonight there may or may not be a dance performance to a piece of impressionistic music I dearly love, either here in Firenze or in Toscana. Sold. This is why I’m here- I love Europe! How lucky am I to stumble across this poster and have two semesters worth of Italian classes under my belt!

(Actually it was three, but I failed one. I probably should not be confident right now…)

Alright. It’s 17.00, I’m in a splendid renaissance city, and I have four hours to kill before I may or may not be at a dance performance. Perfetto.

(That’s Italian for ‘perfect’. I know that one.) (I think)

Let’s go down…this street.

Ah, Renaissance corridor, with your darkness, your grandiose drama and worship of human form. These streets somehow feel both sterile and alive, as if I walk through a museum which has crawled out into the open. Large cycles of time lay atop one another in venn diagrams: here I am in the 21st century traversing a city which preserves 15th century masterpieces that consciously evoke artistic styles from 2,000 years earlier- styles preserved by Islamic empires of the 9th century. Reminders yet again of how vital the trade of ideas and goods across natural or unnatural borders is to a nation’s own culture. Homogeneity is the enemy of creativity.

Cloudy grey skies drape stone sculpture, an appropriate frame. I can’t imagine these creations under happy blue skies, their grave visages and theatrical folds of cloth bathed in warm sunshine. Did these artists imagine Earth itself as purgatory, eternally torn between cherub-filled heaven and masquerade ball hell? Every iota of beauty here seems hard-won, a dramatic ascension. I meander through a forest of stonework, accompanied by throngs of tourists and gentle strains of a street guitarist. I can almost imagine Machievelli and Michelangelo passing by, only without raw sewage dumped from windows above.

I’m pretty sure I know where I am now; another block or two and I’ll see…ahh, yes. Il Duomo. The Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore.

I’m still not sure if this is the official ‘Il Duomo’ or if that’s supposed to be the one in Milan…but whatever. This is the cathedral I have dreamed of seeing, ever since I watched a PBS Nova episode on construction of this magnificent dome. The first moment I laid eyes upon it chills swept over my entire body; the curious play of light reflected on its brick tiles, the elegant polychromatic marble panels, the elaborate facade, the size of the dome itself! Higher and wider than any in the world at that time, it took 94 years to complete. The idea was set forth by Neri, ingenious engineering solutions were worked out by Brunelleschi, and the final touches applied by Michelozzo after everyone else who began it at had passed away. I can’t imagine their lives- dedicated to a grand work they would never see completed. Did they know? Or were they plagued by doubt every day until they passed? Brunelleschi was years ahead of his time; he utilized intuition and innovation to work out solutions to each new problem, innovations that were only understood by general science centuries later. Of course, he and other architects at the time struggled to understand exactly how Romans constructed the sublime dome of the Pantheon over a thousand years earlier. Records of their work had been lost to the ‘dark ages’, with only the inexplicable dome left as a testament to their ingenuity. How much genius has humankind lost, re-discovered, and lost again through the cycles of time?

I have yet to enter the cathedral itself; perhaps tomorrow. I’m still lost in adoration for the incomplete glimpses I snatch from narrow alleys and oblique streets nearby. This is unlike any cathedral I’ve seen so far in my springtime European adventure; most are centered in wide open spaces or atop hills, in prime focus. Here, an assortment of museums, restaurants, gelato shops and other tourism holes press in on sacred space and crop every view into small, irregular frames. Almost as if its beauty is too great for any one limited viewpoint.

Of course, I could also walk across the Arno river and up to a nearby hilltop to admire the dome in all its glory…I’ve still got two hours left, right? Let’s do this.

After another gelato.

Ahh, soft and delicious gift from the gods…I’ve waited the entirety of my Europe trip to eat Italian food, pleasure delayed for the moment I actually crossed the border into Italian land. Two days after crossing that border, I’ve literally only eaten gelato. 6 times in two day.

-make that 7. So delectable, so rich yet airy, so unassuming and true. Each scoop is an aria unto itself. (only from a metal container, that is; never plastic)

I’m lost in a gelatic reverie all the way through town and across a swampy river. Gothic structures give way to lush green spaces, dotted with complacent statues and joyous fountains. Streams of sunshine and euphoria carry me effortlessly. Every step a waking dream, mundane and transcendent. Humans fill every plaza and park, co-creators and co-inhabitants of this dreamscape. Che bello! Everywhere I look I sense warmth and happiness.

Sunset arises as I ascend the crest, and there she is: Firenze. Florence, sparkling in twilight with Il Duomo as the crown jewel. I didn’t know if I could appreciate this masterpiece any more deeply, but here I am with misty eyes. Humankind is the worst, capable of mass destruction and oppression and unfathomable hatred…yet we can still come together to create irrepressible wonders beyond the reach of any individual. To plan beyond the scope of a single human lifespan, to let vision run past current knowledge. Did Brunelleschi in his wildest dreams foresee the possibility of such a diverse group of people from all across the world gathered on a hilltop on a random Thursday just to admire his work 600 years after he had passed from the earth? I wonder.

But I’m running out of time. I need to find 25 Santa Maria, which may or may not house something called CANGO and a dance performance set to a french impressionistic masterpiece. I don’t really know what I’m getting myself into, and I love it.

By luck or skill- hard to distinguish- I find the address with little trouble. It doesn’t look like a performance venue from the outside, just another unremarkable doorway in an avenue-long facade. But who knows what could be inside? I enter to find a simple table, set up for what I suppose to be ticket sales. A couple dozen people mill about in this lobby- or parlor room? I don’t know the correct term. I thankfully have enough familiarity with Italian numbers to buy a ticket, though I don’t quite comprehend what they say when they hand me the ticket. Just smile and nod, I remind myself.

I continue to repeat this as I try to nonchalantly navigate the perimeter of the room. I fall back to my go-to method for awkward social situations (or…well, all social situations): study the details of the space and avoid pronounced eye contact. Basically anything over 1 millisecond; otherwise some delightful person may try to strike up a conversation with me. We all seem to be waiting in this foyer, for what I am not sure. Maybe there will be a musical cue or public announcement. I continue to stroll around the room, and notice that the age-range here is incredibly wide; young children dart around polished parents and doting grand-parents; everyone is dressed nicely, but not formally. It is far more of a family affair than I would anticipate for a dance performance, but I am grateful I don’t seem offensively under-dressed. The entire setting seems natural, unremarkable, without any ostentatious flamboyance. Perhaps this is more of a community act, and not a prestigious glamour-fest?

After a few circuits around the room, an official-looking couple finally steps up to quiet the crowd. They announce….um, something. I try to follow along, but the speed and ease with which they communicate is far beyond my comprehension. I find myself enjoying their song of speech and nod along as if I am definitely on the same wavelength. They finish, open the doors, and I hope to goodness I didn’t just miss an essential set of instructions. We all file into the next hall and I frantically search my ticket for any sign of where I am supposed to sit…nada. I guess I’ll just go with the flow. The hall has vaulted ceilings, smooth walls and a few rows of seats arranged by the entrance. There is no stadium-style seating elevated above the stage, no curtains or ornate decorations; spectators and performers are essentially equal on the floor. In fact, as we file into the seats a whole row of spectators simply plop down on the floor right next to the stage. No one seems to follow any standard protocol or procedure, so I grab an open seat next to a comfortable old woman. It feels somewhat like a casual, minimalist cathedral in here. I don’t know if this is normal or not, but I love it. The woman next to me smiles; I smile back, and to my horror she opens her mouth to speak. I prepare to announce myself an embarrassingly ignorant American- when the lights dim and save me from social interaction. Whew.

Here we go. I’m ready for La Mer. The initial strains of DeBussy’s strings are already alive in my mind, prepared for fulfillment…but an elderly woman walks out on to the stage, accompanied by no music. She is dressed in simple, loose, monochromatic clothing, and she moves gingerly across the hall. When she arrives at a spot on stage right, she stops and faces us. No words, no twirls, no music. She stands in silence.

Hm.

Another elderly woman enters, and repeats the same process. Still no music. And then another, and another. 6 in total, all in a line on the stage looking past us. The audience is quiet. Is this…it? I don’t imagine these dancers will be leaping and running around the stage…maybe they are just part of the act?

Music rises from speakers around us, but not the orchestral aura of french impressionism. It’s deep, electronic, atmospheric. The sound slowly envelops our space as the women begin to gently gesture. Not uniformly, or to any discernible pulse; they just…move individually, within the limited range of motion in their aged bodies. Maybe a few of them repeat the same gesture? I can’t quite tell…in fact I don’t know what I’m watching. Was I completely wrong about that poster?? Hm. They move around the stage a little bit- I guess this qualifies as ‘blocking’? Is this the actual choreography? I look at the audience members around me, all appreciatively focused on the performance. Perhaps it is a community act of some kind, a volunteer dance program for the elderly and the audience members are family and friends here for support.

Well ok. This is nice, then. Not exactly the La Mer I know, but a beautiful little communal moment. I’m all for learning new skills at any age. I stop questioning and accept what it is before me. They clearly put a lot of care into everything they do. And the longer it goes, the more I find myself transfixed by the qualities of their movement across the dance floor. What they lack in athleticism they make up in a sort of worn-in grace only possible with decades upon decades of life experience in these bodies. Each step, each lift of an arm, every circular motion is only the latest iteration of a human action with hundreds of thousands of predecessors. The subtle smiles on every face embody gentle ease, thinly-veiled wisdom present in every corner. No surprises, no epiphanies. As the zen saying goes- “Before enlightenment: chop wood, carry water. After enlightenment: chop wood, carry water.”

I don’t know when it happened, but I have slipped into their frequency, navigated by ambient soundtrack; a wave with deep, widely-spaced troughs and peaks and no turbulence. Somewhat like the gradual passage of time across countless life cycles. This is not the playful sea but the cold, slow movement of dense brine at the bottom of the ocean, an ancient force that drives saltwater circulation around the entire globe. Ideas begin in one woman’s wrist and pass to anothers hip, accompanied by soft creaks in floor and body. An arm sweeps back and forth, memory of a mother’s afternoon chore. Pressed motions of hand-washed strength. Backs bend and extend with the strength to bear generations into limitless horizon. Eyes reveal lineage beyond what can be recorded.

After a timeless time, the evening tide recedes with as little fanfare as possible. Each performer recedes from view, back into great silence.

I smile, warmed by contentedness. Touched by this pleasant little detour. I prepare to exit- and then she enters. Tall, lithe, fluid in action…and naked. Or mostly. I think those are nude-colored bottoms. So, topless. I sit up as my fundamentalist Christian-American programming lights up ‘shame! shame! shame!’ alerts. I peek to my left and right, to see how the less mature kids respond to this lewdness…and then I realize, this is Europe. We can accept art for what it is here. Every human being, no matter the age, is engrossed in the art of this moment. Fully relieved, I join them.

Another woman enters, surfs through the wake of her companion to take her place in line. And another, and another. 6 sirens in total, to match the ancients from before. They each arrive in different poses, pulsating statues to beauty and divinity. Works of Michelangelo and Brunelleschi made flesh and blood, each with slightly different features yet sculpted by the same Creator’s hand.

The hall is thick with silence.

And then

A bass intones

Cello plucks

Out of the depths

Intervallic ascension

A single tremulous melody

Lightbeams dive

DeBussy begins.

They flow into gesture

Grace cuts through tense space

Every muscle contraction

Every extension

Every press

Every lift

Another note

Another hue

All collected, blended

To one symphony

Vignettes separated by bold strokes

Grand statements aside subtle suggestions

Their arms tentacles

anemone fingers

With saltwater veins

Drift and dart

Purpose-driven current

and directionless eddy

There is no classic delineation between any phrase.

Moments arise and seamlessly transform into the next.

Only DeBussy at the helm.

Every corner of the floor is not left untouched.

It is as if each dancer is on her own journey, a nautical path that intersects at times with the separate journeys around her- all woven into symphonic tapestry.

An entire ecosystem arises before our eyes; porpoises leap with glee, crustaceans scuttle across ocean floor. Rays and turtles soar freely above schools of shifting fish. Every emotion, every character emanates purely from their naked bodies, artisanal masterworks themselves, striking, translucent.

Tabula rasa.

Every gesture is an exultation of human-ness, an evocation of multitudes.

The music follows no traditional structure; lyricism and vivaciousness in constant discussion with one another. Melodies emerge, empty themselves, and then are subsumed into bubbly activity, ten thousand rippling colors.

I follow a dancer’s story as it converges with others, spins out into solo virtuosity, and then returns to support another. Epochs of evolution compress into an eternal moment- heat and fission birth new life, chaotic growth and death and regeneration under the waves. Dancers flow across the stage, across characters, across themes and variations. A few times they collect into one tight mass, one huddled organism of varied faces. Then they spread out across the entire floor, disparate points in expansive archipelago.

My heart rises and falls with the episodic contour of DeBussy’s composition, black notes and bar lines amplified by muscle and skin and fluttered feet. I can’t grasp one single moment, any more than I can grasp a handful of seawater. The entirety of the experience washes over me indiscriminately. My eyes cannot unlock from rhapsodic gaze to peer at my fellow attendees, yet I feel their solidarity. We take our place in a lineage of countless generations, men and women joined together in this renaissance metropolis to witness artistic expression beatific and transcendent. The ancient Greeks thought the act of absorbing a tragic drama together was a sacred communal act: Catharsis. A purification, a cleansing. An exhaustive purge of emotions. The innervated statues dancing before us offer their own catharsis, human movement as extension of inner spirit. Soliloquies through bodies, not speech.

At the end, DeBussy lifts us above the surface once more for a vast view of sunset over open seas. The mermaids on stage stride forward, arms extended; stately, grand. Horizon visible in their simplicity.

They are lifted-

we are lifted.

Horns beckon from heaven

Strings cascade

Their bodies shining

Sun rays sing

The globe before us-

and then we plunge

race with frothy glee

pierce the waves

arms and torsos tumble forward,

downward,

jet stream to Poseidon’s palace

seashell finale

and it’s over.

Every hair on my body stands in applause.

Every muscle in my mouth twitches upwards.

The audience may be rapturous, they may be courteous; I won’t remember.

I leave atop a familiar cloud, my trusty mount from every epiphanic experience.

Out the hall, through elevated doorway

Into moonlit Florentine streets.

Cobblestones and bricks don’t touch the skin of my feet,

nothing but happiness surrounds my atoms.

My oblivious body wanders into a bar, lead by attentive ears.

Downstairs I go, into an underground cave of a venue.

A twosome jams on stage, soulful and groovy.

They finish, the intimate audience applauds.

The guitarist nods to lanky Italian man near me.

He lilts up to the microphone and pours out goofy charisma.

Chuck Berry has just passed away, he informs us,

and to honor the rock’n’roll legend, he launches into a serenade.

Which is how I came to hear a passionate rendition of ‘Johnny B. Goode’ by an Italian dude in the middle of a springtime evening in Florence, Italy.