The story goes that Romulus hosted a series of games at the Circus Maximus and invited all the local neighbors insisting that the Sabine women sit separately from their men. Things were going well for the new city state on top of the Palatine Hill for all the raucous freemen who flocked there. Romulus had politely asked if the Romans could marry the Sabine daughters. When the men derisively declined, Romulus lured the Sabine men and women to the staged event on the promise of great entertainment. The women were promptly seized and raped to the outrage of their fathers and brothers who went home to get their weapons. When they returned they discovered the women unwilling to leave. So what else would you expect from the guy who was raised by wolves and killed his own brother.
The doorbell rang. I descended the stairs to a long hallway past the “organics only” trash bin and swung open the ancient wood door covered with graffiti. The hot afternoon poured in along with the smell, sights and sound of old Rome and the presence of my dear friend Sal and his son Domo. He flew in that morning. His cousin Ana Maria had picked them up at the airport and driven them into town where she worked.
It’s near the Spanish Steps right?
No it’s not. I told you Trastevere.
I only remember Spanish Steps.
I gave you the address in Trastevere.
How would I know where that is? Ok we’ll find it. So Sal and Domo walked from the Spanish Steps to the Vatican along the Tiber to Trastevere. My feet really hurt said Domo.
Ok you and Nick stay here and relax and I’ll show Sal around. Bolstered by the tour Alessio gave me the night before and my additional wonderings I felt like I knew the place. The front door at Via di San Francesco a Ripa 166 was separated from the street by one step that once taken, plunged you into the chaos of this of this neighborhood of tiny alleys that somehow accommodated cafe seating, pedestrians, sidewalks, parked cars and space for vehicles of all types driving every which way. We chose a cafe Alessio said was where the locals hung out near the Piazza. Sal ordered granites for us, crushed ice coffee with cream on top. We sat in front of the café and took in the scene around us. Trash cans of recycled bottles were overflowing and the air smelled of ancient stale liquor, spilled between the sundrenched black cobblestones for centuries. Teams of orange vested trash collectors were sweeping through with brooms, street cleaners and litter luggers. Each day a major effort was undertaken to clean up Trastevere of debris from the night before. Drunks and vagrants asleep in the early morning seemed to know better and were out of there when the army of orange vests arrived.
Looking past the cleanup, a different sort of eye sore could be seen. The walls, doors, bridges, fountains, churches, signs and metal shudders within arm’s reach of something to stand on were thick with graffiti. Nothing seemed to be spared. Some of it was good art and a lot of it was tagging. Nick had started a photo record of graffiti in Israel and Greece but Trastevere was an unequalled potpourri of graffiti art beyond anything I have ever seen. While Nick referred to it as street art like many young Italians as modern art I struggled to look past it. A lot has been written about Roman graffiti from ancient times and it literally means etched writing. The Pantheon is covered with it. Pompeii is famous for it as is the Catacombs; political expression, historical significance, folk art all of which is part of being Roman. I read a recent blog by
Paul Baines that describes current politics surrounding graffiti art including an August 5, 2009 announcement by the Mayor of Rome Gianni Alemanno to crackdown on its proliferation. The blog presents two forms, street art and tagging, the tagging is explained as an underlining political commentary. From my perspective there was a third kind of expression which was purely ego-centric. It’s not political at all but rather the embodiment of making a mark on the world to say that the person writing their name or making their scribble is more significant and important than the structure it is written on. I have a problem with that. Its one thing to use a public canvas for the sake of art and quite another to say you exist in the world. The best example of the good kind of art form was a later street scene we saw in Florence where artists drew with chalk, extraordinary reproductions of Renaissance work knowing that the street sweepers or the elements would soon take it away, a selfless street art for the sake of art and a handout worth making.
An interesting factor in Trastevere was explained to me by Alessio. Any work legally done in this historic district requires months of bureaucracy to obtain permits including painting over graffiti. It’s just simply not worth it to the merchants and building owners. The church on the other hand can get things done. In preparation for a weekend of religious festivities the very next day in the same spot looking at the Piazza Trastevere, all the walls had been cleaned or painted over.
You know the last time I was in Rome in October said Sal as we sipped our granites. There was an expose on a local politician promoting the sorting of “organics” from plastics and metals. With the cameras rolling in an interview with the fellow, the news station pointed out that one could see the sorted garbage pointlessly being mixed into one garbage truck.
Some things never change. The orange vests stopped in front of the café and emptied the garbage bins of beer bottles into a truck. The clash of sound was defining. You can’t really trust what you see on the surface here in Rome. Romulus would have been proud.
