Roman Daze. Brontè Dee Jackson
considered bad luck to celebrate before the baby is actually born; the cot and baby clothes are hidden until the moment there is a baby to put in them.
I walk up the magnificent stairs of the Campidoglio to the official Town Square of Rome, avoiding the many excited Spanish teenagers who are there for the day to visit the Capitoline Museums. I wander lazily through the square, imagining how amazed those visitors will be at Rome’s magnificent squares, statutes and history, just as I still am after so many years of living here.
I am not sure exactly how to get to the entrance of the Vittoriano Museum that houses the Renoir exhibition, but I spy a delicious and fresh-looking garden that gives a magnificent view over the Forum, the Coliseum and from which I judge I will be able to see the entrance. The view over the Forum is spectacular and the garden is quiet, sun-filled and has seating, a rare treat in Rome. I walk over to the edge and on my way spy a backpacker who has taken an interest in me.
From my solo backpacking days, I can spot a man longing for company from a hundred paces. Solo backpacking is lonely – great but lonely – especially in big cities, where most other backpackers are just moving through and you don’t get the groups that stay for weeks who get to know each other. It’s also lonely seeing some of the world’s greatest monuments on your own and having no-one to go ‘wow’ with.
This is probably why sex and backpacking go hand-in-hand. Firstly, because you’re often frightened, sometimes a lot, and sex is a life-affirming activity that calms you and convinces you that you are closer to life than death. And secondly, the feeling of danger and of being alone and in a strange place increases your sex drive. Backpacking is also incredibly romantic. Meeting attractive strangers in beautiful cities, neither of you knowing anyone else, both of you only passing through, both of you with travel stories to tell, you therefore share more in common than with any other person on the planet in that moment. So I feel the interest as the backpacker comes to rest by me on the ledge, gazing out over Rome.
Since my backpacking days are long over and I have a wedding ring on my finger, I march smartly off, run down the stairs and into the museum. I feel his eyes on my back the whole way and I am surprised and flattered that I can still get this attention, even though it has been many years since I hung my backpack up.
I am so delighted that the museum is open, that the exhibition is actually on, that I can leave my bag in the cloakroom, that I can indulge in as many hours of frivolous and indulgent painting ogling as I like.
Italians know how to do galleries and museums. The setting is always magnificent – large marble staircases, huge stone columns and beautiful sculptures at every turn, and just for decoration. The building is very classical and has been modernised for the exhibition. The two-storey high columns are encased in wood and glass, the walls repaneled with light yellow wood to make false walls and barricades of glass, transforming the room into something that will better frame the exhibition.
First off, there is a film about the life of Renoir that runs continuously in a small dark theatre at the beginning of the exhibition. I feel my whole body relaxing as I experience the effects of doing something for no purpose at all except to enjoy it. What a fitting subject: a painter who had almost no public recognition in his lifetime, painted things no-one wanted, but painted solely for his own pleasure. I feel a freedom in hearing about this life which so contradicts my regimented, over-achiever, goal-oriented one, and I suddenly know why it is so important that I am here today. This is my homeopathic remedy: take one day’s dose of your worst nightmare, living without a specific purpose, and just please yourself. This should help me mange the symptoms of my disease better.
I know from experience that painting ogling is a limited activity for me and that I can only spend about two hours on my feet before they start to ache so much that I don’t care if I am looking at the Venus de Milo, I want to sit down. I also know that I have loads of energy at the beginning and spend an inordinate amount of time on introductions and ‘first attempts’ but can suffer from the Venus de Milo syndrome by the time I get to the main event, so I usually try and start where the important stuff is.
So I quickly take in two floors, then go to the nearest security guard to ask if these are all the rooms the exhibition is in, or whether there is another room with all his most famous pieces at the end. He is about sixty-five and a snappy dresser, as many older Italians are. He tells me that these two rooms are the sum of it and then goes on to try and make conversation as I am turning away. I am puzzled; most officials act as though you are disturbing them while giving birth if you ask for information. I am not used to one wanting to engage me in conversation.
I begin my tour and am absolutely entranced. I cannot get enough of the paintings. I stare at each one a long time, first up close as I admire the brushwork, then from a distance to marvel at how magnificent the image is. I also marvel at the type of images. They are mostly nudes and hugely fat, according to my standards, the category of which I fall into myself. I am so happy to see women who look like me, who have out-of-proportion bottoms, hips and thighs that are displayed so proudly, and painted so lovingly and tenderly. It makes me feel better being surrounded by these images rather than with the daily barrage of images of women who have slender hips and no-carb thighs. Life for me would just be better in general if we could have less of those images and more of Renoir’s.
I feel a presence. It is the security guard looking at me; not just looking but watching. From years of experience of being ogled at, mostly because I look different and am doing odd things like walking along on my own rather than because I am anything special to look at, I can immediately feel it. Also, women-watching seems to be the hobby of the Italian male. I used to comfort myself with the fact that one day it would all be over, that I would get old and not be worth looking at, and I could go back to enjoying walks by myself. However, it has never stopped; the men just get older.
I know the dance well. He remains just out of my direct eyesight; it would be unsophisticated to be directly in front of me. By being in my peripheral vision, when I change position he will be there, smiling and making ‘accidental’ eye contact, which means I will have to acknowledge him and which will give him an opening to start a conversation. He is patient, as I studiously avoid making eye contact with him about forty times while I work my way around the room. Sometimes he comes quite close, as though studying another painting himself, but although he is good, I am better. After years of studying the art of avoidance, I manage to blithely pretend that I miss him in my peripheral vision, over and over again.
This is important, as to openly ignore him would be rude and provoke a negative reaction. However, to confront him and ask him to stop would result in him innocently protesting he was doing nothing, though in fact he was, and could possibly result in making a scene with me at the centre of it. Although he has annoyed me by being so assiduous in his attentions that my attentions have been focused on him rather than the paintings, I know that he can only persist for so long, and I am used to winning. It is a competition of Masters.
Again, my backpacking experience comes to the fore. Years of travelling the world alone and seeing places for maybe the only time, yearning to take them in and fully experience them, memorise them and capture my own unique experience of them rather than be chatted up, sold something or given a tour I did not want, has enabled me to zone out distractions. Backpacking in a couple or with guys in your group halves these distractions. Backpacking in a group of girls, we would always designate a ‘deal with the distractions’ woman for the day, place or monument. That way, the rest of us could view it in peace. We would then change designated dealers and go through the place again. Travelling solo puts a whole load of responsibility on the individual. While for you the event is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to experience something, for them you are a desperately needed distraction or dollar.
After the guard has given up, I do the room again, this time focusing more on the paintings. I am aware that he has spoken with all the other guards in the room and now they too are watching me, but it is from a distance and I can easily zone out their presence. It is the same in any arena of Italian life, but I must admit I have not experienced it quite so intensely in a museum before. I am mostly protected these days by my husband, who makes a habit of scowling at any male in our neighbourhood, which means that when I go out by myself they never dare look at me twice.
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