Rome, 9 April, 2021
It is a sunny day, a beautiful Roman sunny day. Few people are in Navona square, but each had found his place on the marble benches around. A flock of pigeons is being chased by a couple of shouting kids, typical.
At this precise moment a couple of guys are chatting about the Bernini’s fountain right behind me.
One of them: Let’s take a photo here!
The other: Should WE take the photo?
The first one: We can take it by ourselves.
This tennis conversation went on for about seven minutes trying to catch my attention, wishing that I would offer my help in taking it, but we’re in Covid times, this should not be done.
Some droplets of the fountain jet are reaching the outside marble edge. Is the water crystal blue? I always wondered if they put any chemical stuff to have this effect, but I think it is all thanks to the blue sky and the space around the fountain.
I can see myself sitting on these old wooden benches I can still smell the wood that had been treated ages ago using some kind of varnish; it’s still there in the air, another smell was also there: A smell of old books everywhere. I am still staring to that book, only a couple of books earned my attention when I sat on this wooden seat: A trompe l’oeil book and Bernini’s book. I used to study each detail of Bernini’s work through the photos. I believe that he had his own language with the marble. The marble beneath his chisel became soft as Proserpina’s flesh in Pluto’s strong grip.
Many years passed since I was there, sitting in the Fine Arts Academy in Cairo’s library until now. I became familiar with Bernini s work; it’s everywhere in Rome. I still love him and will always love him for such a beauty.
I still feel a shiver down my spine when I walk inside of Galleria Borghese and I will never forget my first time face to face with David and Apollo and Daphne.
Yesterday I read a phrase written by someone: ” The art is the only avant-garde hope of our future. I agree with him, but I still believe that there is something so special every artist. Every painter and every sculpture had his own way and language in this world and through their eyes and beneath their hands masterpieces danced softly to touch our soul.
Deep. So deep.
