Collaborative Space – In Certain Places – The Gates of Paradise

Moving onwards

Passing others in close proximity

Bells overload the ears

Hammering echoing fluttering feathers as pigeons invade

Beggars blatant direct eye contact, standing directly in front of you

The silence of the bells and then a man starts the group laughing, they had approached during the bells. Appearing silent and quiet, around me

Voices are loud as the group listen

Attentive, captivated by his voice

This facade remained empty with stones . . . we call it the new gothic style . . . the most famous example is in London, the Parliament house

I am sorry to tell you these are copies . . . they were removed because of a terrible flood . . . this is the richest town with libraries, with museums . . . we have lost with the mud a thousand . . .

Grazie señor, the beggar wanders past, ignored, overlooked

It is part of our western civilisation . . . so we are at present very grateful . . . two of the ten panels were detached because of the violence of the water . . . and now they are in the Cathedral museum . . . and they portray the first ten episodes of the stories in the bible

A chuckle from his personal story added to the end of the talk, and the group moves on

Standing still, people filter past me. Spontaneous applause from a group on the steps catches the wandering people by surprise and for a fleeting moment all heads are turned in the same direction.

Sun still shading the space

A beggar approaches the tour guide. He is very clear; No, No. She chastises him and wanders away.

Music

A lady stands, hoping the space will remain between her and the camera held by her husband. Frustrated she huffs, ppphhfffff

A bike rattles by

And you wonder what holds it together

Field Notes.

Florence, June 2012

Cool quiet, dimly lit echoes through the space. Footsteps enter, on the verdegree tiled floor. Slow paces, doors and pews creaking under human weight. Deep green grey marble and cool blue white. Hushed tones, behind the rope. Back in time and space. The hushed aisles of youth, a grander ceiling. Plastic chairs stacked speaking of an administrative capacity. The turnstyle throws me through.

Archangels above circle crude symbols of the beasts. Relics of a time before, distant even to this ancient crafting. An earlier past.

Filtered light seeps through, halogen blinds.

Centuries of dirt of smoke of acrid scorching incense catching in same, different throats. No sign or line. Nothing of a modern, old age touches. Crisp cotton and lace, an uncertain, glaring concession to modernity.

Gilded saints gold reflects.

Trappings of power of wealth of the splendid Divine.

Lamb and rose and saint and beast.

Unknowable sign and signified.

The temporal shift behind these doors to another space, a third behind them all, outside beyond yet all. Watched over by these symbols, older even than the Saints, these stories. Mysterious and speaking of an older language even to these builders, their inscribers.

Behind testing knocking the mic

Music crackles

Through broken speakers

The connection bad

I try to look devout, failing

Remembering an inherited past, never here

The music stops, crackles, fails, tested.

In stops and starts.

Echoes and fills the space.

A sellable soundtrack to conversion.

Leans and stares, ear pressed to the cool mesh.