Tuesday in Florence

Tuesday in Firenze 20111025. Uffizi fever today. I knew better, but I ran out of time in Toronto and wasn't able to acquire my online reservation. So this morning I shuffled off early and I stood in line, waiting, shifting from foot to foot, stretching my back, talking to the BC woman and her Japanese husband beside me, for almost two hours. What a reward! It's simply an abundance of riches, as any one piece could occupy my attention for a day. It was definitely a gallery day, cold and rainy. The second floor windowed gallery with all the "hit"s runs a "u", with exhibit rooms off these essentially three long corridors which are lined with sculptures, busts and portraits. Its my visual over-consumption on this trip to blame, as I gloss over the mosaic floors, frescoed and carved ceilings. Just a few more ta-das, and pretty details. Yawn. Not.
I'm struck by how derivative the Florentine aesthetic is in my daily life in Toronto. And as North Americans, we certainly are consuming the eyetalian ethos when we're cooking with olive oil, watching gangster movies, doing the work lunch at the Olive Garden, feeding the kids pasta, swilling at Starbucks, or picking tiles for our bathroom renovation. I see Florence in ironwork, upholstery, fabric, gardens, color palettes, stonework, linens, purses, shoes. Now I would say that I see more Florence than France in the living design of my daily life.
I'm not a Euro wannabe living in my urban flat, making those endlessly annoying comparisons to how real life should be lived, poo-poohing the acquisition of new washing machines, and scoffing the NFL. My grandparents photographed new factories and made home movies of cars on brand new roads. The wouldn't have known the difference between a croissant and a biscotti, and they liked their coffee percolated. But even their 1950s glass swan table ornament was derivative of Italian glassworks. I saw them, albeit far better designed and executed, in Murano. I just see the wisps and curls of an Italian sensibility in so much of our North American living experience, in "hugging" and cheek air kissing (nobody hugged outside family, and then barely there, before 1967!). Everybody used to shake hands, the French included! Dark sunglasses, movie stars, loafers, disco, wedding favours, suntans (I know it was coco, but she was probably with an Italian). I have this great Italian cookbook, written by a thoroughly arrogant Italian chef, who put forward the premise in every subject introduction that Italian cooking/methodology/ingredients ALWAYS preceded and exceeded any French efforts or claims. Hhmmmmmm.
So, the Uffizi, simply glorious. Round, pink, pouting, expanses of silky blushed skin and long necks, uplifting, ethereal, mythological. Even scenes of rape and pillage looked lush.
I window shopped the gold bridge for Clive, and ran into a series of old Italian guys intently discussing something with each other, only notable because they were all dressed the same and wagging their finger. I walked on to the Pitti palace. On the way back I saw another paper marbler, who was demonstrating. I had a nice talk with him. The paper stores keep catching me, and my take home wish list besides sewing again, is to marble paper and make books. More walking, rain, cappuccino, walking, looking into tiny shop windows alluringly arranged, a zuppa verdura, a gelato, people watching, more walking, another cappuccino, a nap in there somewhere. I'm coming to the end of my trip, thinking more about life ever after, wanting to see my peeps, check listing projects. Then a soft color, the profile of a building and trees on a hill, reflective Arno waters, a cappuccino, a stroll...