On a journey, following a star. To meet the Child, here in the foreground.

But this is just the end of a story that starts in the Far East: a journey of nine months, as the apocryphal Gospels tell us.

In the three lunettes of the frame, we can follow the procession of the Magi.

In the top left, the three wise men, dressed in gold, are gazing at the star from a mountain peak overlooking the sea.

I wonder: is it possible that, in spite of their precious robes, they too felt the bewilderment and uncertainty of the journey? That, in spite of the lavish procession, they felt alone? That, once at their destination, they longed to return home?

The sea breeze accompanied my journey. I left Alexandria to arrive in a small town on the Ligurian coast. I was 25.

When I arrived in Italy, everything was new: the language, the culture, the traditions. The homesickness I felt for my birthplace was replaced by the nostalgia for the person I was when I lived there, with my life, with my loved ones.

And there they are, in the central lunette, the Magi crossing the idyllic landscape to enter Jerusalem. The cultivated land and the blossoming trees are painted in great detail. I can smell the scent of my land, the embrace of the warm air.

The journey of the three wise men has become an exotic hunting trip, with cheetahs sitting on horseback. After meeting Herod in his palace, the Magi ask him:

“Where is He who has been born king of the Jews? For we saw His star in the east, and have come to worship Him”.

Then Herod summoned the Wise Men secretly and learned from them the precise time the star had appeared and sending them to Bethlehem, he said, “Go and make careful search for the child; and when you have found Him, report to me, that I too may come and worship Him.”

In the top right, finally, the Magi enter Bethlehem, then continue down to where the Child, Mary and her husband are.

The star, almost close enough to touch, now shines above Joseph’s head.

The three wise men from the East are represented as the three ages of man. During different stages of their lives, they have all been able to face their challenges.

According to tradition, the Magi were wise astronomers. For them, travel was a source of knowledge and renewal, which is how it was for me. Understanding Italian society, language and culture became an urgent need.

Through words I have become more complete as a person, freer: this is what mastering a new language meant to me.

When I became an Italian citizen, I started to travel through Europe with my children. These journeys were so different from the one that brought me to Italy many years ago. Today I am no longer afraid. For me, every journey means acquiring new treasures, meeting new people.

Gentile da Fabriano, the artist who painted this precious panel, travelled a lot too. Unlike other painters from his time, who preferred to set up a workshop, he was a travelling painter from a young age. He moved about continuously between the Marche, Lombardy and Venice. Then, finally, he reached Florence. Here he found a new way to make art, which he embraced with an open, curious mind, although he remained faithful to his late-Gothic artistic roots. Thus, for example, he enjoyed playing with illusions of depth, created by the horses in the foreground, but at the same time, he maintained as main points of view as there are episodes narrated in the painting, in order to show off his exuberant decorative and descriptive tastes.

Opening up to new things while remaining true to ourselves and preserving a living link with our roots is what I have done with my three children. As they have grown up, they have enjoyed the freedom of this country, but also the solid nature of their roots.

This ability to open up to the new, while maintaining a sense of their origins has been the result of my being with them. A large undertaking, made up of small things.

In the morning, in our house, we wake at dawn, and each one of us pray in silence.

In the Koran, there is a verse that says: “WA KOL RABI ZEDNI ELMA”, “My Lord, increase me in knowledge”.

In the early days in Italy, prayer was not enough to placate my worries or to make me feel less lonely. Knowledge led me to pray in a way that was more mature, more aware.

And it is talking about prayer that I realize how there is a great unity in this painting, given by the prevalence of gold. The inclusion of raised parts adds three-dimensionality to the scene, in the same way that the use of gold leaf is important to add a realistic depiction of the rich fabrics: Gentile da Fabriano pays particular attention to the taste and fashion of the period, probably at the request of Palla Strozzi, the rich Florentine banker, but also educated man of letters, who commissioned this panel and is depicted here, behind the youngest of the Magi.

On a symbolic level, however, gold refers to divine light and defines a holy space. The presence of God brings harmony even where there is diversity.

True wealth does not lie in the material value of gold, but in faith, in knowledge and in the journey.

“And having been warned in a dream not to return to Herod, they departed for their own country by another way".

The Magi went home “by another way” because their lives had changed.

My life also changed, and today I am surprised to see, in the center of the bottom predella, these small figures fleeing to safety, towards my land, Egypt.

Text by Zeinab Kabil

Voice by Laura Curino

The three wise men from the East are represented as the three ages of man. During different stages of their lives, they have all been able to face their challenges.

According to tradition, the Magi were wise astronomers. For them, travel was a source of knowledge and renewal, which is how it was for me. Understanding Italian society, language and culture became an urgent need.

Through words I have become more complete as a person, freer: this is what mastering a new language meant to me.

When I became an Italian citizen, I started to travel through Europe with my children. These journeys were so different from the one that brought me to Italy many years ago. Today I am no longer afraid. For me, every journey means acquiring new treasures, meeting new people.

Gentile da Fabriano, the artist who painted this precious panel, travelled a lot too. Unlike other painters from his time, who preferred to set up a workshop, he was a travelling painter from a young age. He moved about continuously between the Marche, Lombardy and Venice. Then, finally, he reached Florence. Here he found a new way to make art, which he embraced with an open, curious mind, although he remained faithful to his late-Gothic artistic roots. Thus, for example, he enjoyed playing with illusions of depth, created by the horses in the foreground, but at the same time, he maintained as main points of view as there are episodes narrated in the painting, in order to show off his exuberant decorative and descriptive tastes.

Opening up to new things while remaining true to ourselves and preserving a living link with our roots is what I have done with my three children. As they have grown up, they have enjoyed the freedom of this country, but also the solid nature of their roots.

This ability to open up to the new, while maintaining a sense of their origins has been the result of my being with them. A large undertaking, made up of small things.

In the morning, in our house, we wake at dawn, and each one of us pray in silence.

In the Koran, there is a verse that says: “WA KOL RABI ZEDNI ELMA”, “My Lord, increase me in knowledge”.

In the early days in Italy, prayer was not enough to placate my worries or to make me feel less lonely. Knowledge led me to pray in a way that was more mature, more aware.

And it is talking about prayer that I realize how there is a great unity in this painting, given by the prevalence of gold. The inclusion of raised parts adds three-dimensionality to the scene, in the same way that the use of gold leaf is important to add a realistic depiction of the rich fabrics: Gentile da Fabriano pays particular attention to the taste and fashion of the period, probably at the request of Palla Strozzi, the rich Florentine banker, but also educated man of letters, who commissioned this panel and is depicted here, behind the youngest of the Magi.

On a symbolic level, however, gold refers to divine light and defines a holy space. The presence of God brings harmony even where there is diversity.

True wealth does not lie in the material value of gold, but in faith, in knowledge and in the journey.

“And having been warned in a dream not to return to Herod, they departed for their own country by another way".

The Magi went home “by another way” because their lives had changed.

My life also changed, and today I am surprised to see, in the center of the bottom predella, these small figures fleeing to safety, towards my land, Egypt.

Text by Zeinab Kabil

Voice by Laura Curino

رأينا النجم العظيم يسطع بين بقية النجوم ويطغي عليها حتى كادت هذه الأخيرة تحتفي عن الأعين

في رحلةً وراء النجم للقاء الطفل هنا وفي المقدمة

غير أن هذه نهاية القصة فقط، فهي قصة تبدأ من الشرق البعيد: تسعة أشهر من السفر، هكذا وصَلَتنَا من الأناجيل

في القسم الأعلى للأقواس الثلاثة من إطار اللوحة نرى، بل نتتبع موكب الملوك المجوس

في الأعلى من اليسار، نلاحظ الحكماء الثلاثة بملابسهم الذهبية في لحظة تأمل للنجم من أعلى الجبل المطل على البحر

أتساءل: هل من المعقول أن يغيب اليقين في تلك الرحلة ويغيب حتى هؤلاء عن الوعي بالرغم من ملابسهم الثمينة؟  هل كانت الوحدة تسيطر عليهم بالرغم من روعة المسيرة ، وهل خالجهم الحنين إلى الوطن حين وصلوا إلى وجهتهم؟

يخبرنا إنجيل الطفولة أن الملوك المجوس أضاعوا النجمة عند وصولهم الى القدس

عندما وصلوا إلى مدينة القدس، غاب نور النجمة عنهم مؤقتًا، لذا توقفوا ونصبوا الخيام، فقال العديد من جنود الفرسان واحدهم للآخر:- والآن ما العمل؟  وبأي اتجاه علينا أن نسير؟ نحن نتجاهلهم! لأن نجمًاً كان أمامنا حتى هذا اليوم، غير أنه غاب عنا وتركنا نعاني

كان هواء البحر رفيقي في رحلتي. غادرت الإسكندرية في مصر لأصل إلى بلدة صغيرة على الساحل الليغوري. كنت آنذاك في الخامسة والعشرين من عمري

عندما وصلت إلى إيطاليا، كان كل شيء جديداً عليَّ: اللغة والثقافة والتقاليد. من هنا راودني إحساس بالضياع والضعف في مواجهة المجهول وامتلأت نفسي بخوف من الهزيمة

حنيني للبلد الذي ولدت فيه كان قد طغى على حنين ذاك الشخص الذي كُنتُهُ عندما كنت أسكن هناك، بحياتي وعواطفي وكوني وحيدة. كان يجب أن أكون قوية بما فيه الكفاية كي لا أحتاج إلى أي شخص وكي أدرك حقيقة ضرورة مواجهة جميع تيارات الحياة الإيجابية منها والسلبية في سبيل حماية عائلتي وأطفالي

في أعلى القوس الأوسط، ها هم الحكماء يعبرون ممرًا ريفيًا مبهراً في طريقهم للدخول إلى مدينة القدس. هذا الممر ملئ بالأراضي المزروعة والأشجار المزهرة التي رُسِمَت بدقة، مما يجعلني أشعر وكأنني استنشق رائحة بلادي  وأعانق  هواءه الدافئ

:تحولت رحلة الحكماء الثلاثة إلى رحلة صيد غريبة، فها هي الفهود تمتطي ظهور الخيل. التقي الملك هيرودس بالملوك المجوس وسألهم عند لقائهم به في قصره فردوا عليه قائلين

"أين المولود الجديد، ملك اليهود؟ رأينا نجمه وأتَيْنا للتعبير عن محبتنا له. "

عند سماع ذلك، شعر الملك هيرودس وجميع من معه في القدس بالاضطراب، مما دفعه إلى الاجتماع برؤساء الكهنة والكتّاب ليستفسر منهم عن المكان الذي سيولد فيه المسيح

أجابوه : «في بيت لحم في يهودا»، لأن هذا مكتوب بالنبي [.....]

بعد ذلك، استدعى هيرودس الملوك سراً ليستفسر منهم عن الوقت التي ظهر فيه النجم ثم أرسلهم إلى بيت لحم قائلاً: « اذهبوا واستفسروا جلياُ عن الطفل وعندما تجدوه، أخبروني كي آتي وأعبّر عن محبتي له

ربما خطر ببال الملوك المجوس أن يبحثوا عن الطفل بين الأقوياء، لكنهم كانوا مخطئين في ظنهم هذا. قد يكون هذا لأن النجم كان قد اختفى للحظات عن أبصارهم؟

لقد عَجِبتُ عندما اكتشفت أن بعض العلماء يرون أن الأقواس الثلاثة لا تمثل رحلة الكهنة الثلاثة فحسب، بل أيضا رحلة الأمراء المسيحيين الثلاثة الذين أنطلقوا لتحرير القدس من العثمانيين عام 1396، أي قبل بضع سنوات من قيام جنتيلي دا فابريانو برسم هذه الرائعة الفنية. إن الأحداث التاريخية في أعين الغرب كان ينبغي أن تؤدي إلى بعث جديد-  ومن هنا ترتبط بمحبة الطفل-، غير أن هذه الأحداث كانت دموية في واقع الأمر

 في الأعلى من اليمين، يدخل ملوك المجوس أخيراً إلى بيت لحم ثم ينزلون إلى المكان الذي توجد به مريم والقديس يوسف والطفل

بعد 14 سنة، إنتقلتُ أنا وعائلتي إلى فلورنسا. كان ذلك بالنسبة لي بمثابة البدء والانطلاق من جديد. ذهب البحر ولم يعد: في الأشهر الأولى كان يصعب عليَّ حتى التنفس، مما جعلني أشعر وكأن السحب تلفني فلم أعد أرى السماء. لم أكن أعرف حينها أن المجيء إلى هنا من شأنه أن يغير حياتي

ها هنا، النجم الذي كانوا قد رأوه من قبل يظهروقد سبقهم حتى استقر فوق المكان الذي كان الطفل فيه. غمرتهم فرحة عظيمة عند رؤيتهم للنجم. عندما دخلوا البيت ورأوا الطفل مع أمه مريم، انحنى الثلاثة تعبيراً عن المحبَّة ثم فتحوا صناديقهم وقدموا الهدايا من الذهب واللبان والمُر

اختتم الملوك الرهبان رحلتهم الطويلة في وصولهم أمام الطفل. أما النجم، فهو قريب جداً حتى تكاد اليد أن تطاله. ها هو يسطع الآن فوق رأس يوسف

يمثل الحكماء الثلاثة القادمون من الشرق المراحل الثلاثة لعمر الإنسان: الأكبر سِنّاً قد كشف بالفعل عن رأسه وانحنى لتقبيل قدمي يسوع، أما الأوسط  فهو يقوم بخلع تاجه استعدادا، والأصغر سنا قد ترجّل عن حصانه وترك الخادم ليحل له الحلقات

وفي المراحل المختلفة من حياتهم، كانوا جميعا قادرين على الإسهام

تقول الأعراف إن الملوك المجوس هم من المنجمين والحكماء، لذا فالرحلة بالنسبة لهم كانت مصدراً للمعرفة والتجدد كما هو الحال بالنسبة لي. كان فهم المجتمع الإيطالي واللغة والثقافة الإيطاليتين قد أصبح ضرورة ملحة للبدء بالتعرف على تفكير الناس وإثبات نفسي في عملي. مرت السنون وأصبحت امرأة مستقلة، ومن خلال الكلمة أصبحت شخصاً أكثر إكتمالاً وأكثر حرية: هذا يعني بالنسبة لي إتقان لغة جديدة

عندما أصبحت مواطنة إيطالية، بدأت بالسفر إلى أوروبا مع أطفالي، فقمت برحلات تختلف عن تلك التي دفعتني الى المجئ إلى هنا إلى إيطاليا منذ سنوات عديدة. اليوم لم أعد أخاف

كل رحلة تعني بالنسبة لي اكتساب ثروة جديدة للقاء أشخاص جدد

من ناحيته، كان جنتيلي دا فابريانو، الفنان الذي رسم هذه اللوحة الرائعة،، قد قام برحلات عديدة على عكس الفنانين الآخرين في عصره الذين فضلوا الركود والبقاء في مراسمهم. كان دا فابريانو فنانًا يحب التنقل منذ شبابه، حيث تنقل باستمرار بين مقاطعات ماركي ولومباردي والبندقية، ثم وصل أخيراً إلى فلورنسا حيث إلتقى بعالم جديد يصنع الفن الذي أقبل عليه بعقل حر وفضولي بينما ظلَّ مخلصاً لعالمه الأصلي الذي أتى منه وبقي محافظاً على فنه بالرسم على الطراز القوطي المتأخر

هكذا، وعلى سبيل المثال، كان يستمتع بالمداعبة بالإيعاز بعمق، كما نرى في رسمه للخيول في المقدمة، لكنه في الوقت نفسه كان يحتفظ بالعديد من وجهات النظر بقدر الأحداث المَروِيّة في اللوحة، بهدف الإسهاب في التفاصيل وكذلك لإبراز أسلوبه الزخرفي والهندسي. أما اللون الذهبي فهو أحد العناصر الرئيسية في هذه التحفة الفنية حيث أن استخدامه واضح وبارز وهو يمضي في النسق من الأعلى إلى الأسفل: ينبثق من العمق غير الواقعي في حافات إطار هذه اللوحة التي تعود إلى أيقونات العصور الوسطى والتي تعبّر عن المحبة، حيث يحل اللون الذهبي محل السماء وصولاً الى المنصة حيث تصبح السماء زرقاء ويقتصر استخدام اللون الذهبي على اجزاء مناطق الضوء والأنسجة من اللوحة

الانفتاح على الجديد مع الإبقاء على نفس الشخص والتمسك بالأصل: هذا ما فعلناه أنا وأولادي الثلاثة. خلال نشأتهم أحسّوا بالحرية في هذا البلد لكنهم أحسّوا أيضًا بصلابة جذورهم

هذه القدرة على الانفتاح على الجديد مع الإحساس القوي بالأصل كان ثمرة حضوري المستمر معهم، وهو عمل رائع نتاج اعمال صغيرة

في الصباح، في بيتنا، نستيقظ عند الفجر فيصلّي الجميع في صمت

كذلك في وضعيات الملوك المجوس والقديس يوسف أسمع صدى هذه الصلاة، بدءً من القديس يوسف الذي يقف على مقربة من القلب: "بسم الله الرحمن الرحيم"

يد اليسوع على رأس الملك المجوسي العجوز تبعث في نفسي شُعُوراً بالأمان والطمأنينة المنبثقة من الإيمان

في القرآن الكريم هناك آية تقول "وَقلْ رَبّي زِدني عِلْما". في الأيام الأولى لي في إيطاليا لم يكن الدعاء كافياُ لتهدئة قلقي وللتخفيف من وحدتي. لذا، ساقني العلم إلى دعاء أكثر نضجًا وأكثر وعيًا

في الحديث عن الدعاء أدرك، كما في اللوحة، أن هناك وحدة كبيرة يغلب عليها اللون الذهبي. إن إدخال أجزاء بارزة يضفي شعوراً في الأبعاد الثلاثة للمشهد، تمامًا كما أن استخدام أوراق الذهب مهم لكي يجعل ثراء اللوحة أمراً واقعيًا: جنتيلي دا فابريانو يولِّد عناية خاصة للذوق والأسلوب العصري. ربما .يرجع ذلك إلى ما طلبه منه بالا ستروتسي نفسه، وهو رجل ثري فلورنسي، وكذلك الرجل المثقف الذي كلفه بهذا العمل

.على المستوى الاكثر رمزية، - وهو ما تأثرت به بشكل خاص – هناك اللون الذهبي الذي يشير إلى النور الإلهي ويحدد الفضاء المقدس. حضور الله يبعث على الانسجام حتى عند وجود التنوع

.يجمع الله جميع الكائنات الحية على الرغم من الاختلافات الخارجية بينها، لأننا في الأساس نتشابه في التكوين، فنحن من نفس اللحم ونفس العظام. بالنسبة لي شخصياً إن التقرب من الدين يثريني أكثر فأكثرلأنه في عالم أشعر دوماً أنه فاسد وغير إنساني. لذا، إن حضور الله يمنحني الأمل في المضي قدماً

الثراء الحقيقي لا يكمن في القيمة المادية للذهب بل في الإيمان والمعرفة والتنقل

اللون الذهبي يبعث على الانسجام بين المتنوعات وفي عالم الفنان جينتيلي هناك تناغم بين متنوعات كثيرة

في هذا النسق الفلورنسي، يقوم جنتيلي دا فابريانو بإدراج صور دقيقة للغاية للنباتات والحيوانات على وجه التحديد، وهو أسلوب فني بناه خلال رحلاته في البيئة اللومباردية: الغزال في لحظة الهروب، القرود، الفهود تمتطي الخيل أثناء الصيد، طائر الجاي يهاجمه طائر جارح والكلب والخيول في المقدمة

لا يقتصر التنوع على الطبيعة فحسب، بل يشمل الملابس أيضاً، فهناك الملابس القديمة لمريم ويوسف من جهة والمعاصرة منها في ملابس الملوك المجوس والفرسان من جهة أخرى. يتكرر هذا الأمر في المرأتين اللتين تقفان خلف ماريا وفي الحشود وراء الملوك وفي مجاميع القبعات والعمائم وفي الأحرف العربية الموجودة في هالة مريم ويوسف وكذلك على حقيبة الكتف لراعي الخيل وهو يحمل سيف أحد المجوس

أما أكثر شئ مثير للدهشة في هذا التنوع فهي وجوه هؤلاء الرجال وإيماءاتهم وتعابيرهم، فاحدهم ينظر إلينا: وهو بالا ستروتسي. بعد بضع سنوات من تكليفه بهذا العمل، كان عليه مغادرة فلورنسا والذهاب إلى المنفى في بادوفا، لكنه تمكن بعد ذلك من نشر العلوم والجمال مع الفنانين والكتّاب في مدن فينيتو أيضا. إنها رحلة من رحلاته، بالرغم من أن جنتيلي لم يكن يعرف ماذا كانت الحياة تخبئ له عندما قام بتنفيذ هذا العمل عام 1423

كان الملوك المجوس قد أوحي إليهم في المنام بعدم العودة إلى هيرودس، ولكنهم عادوا الي بلادهم من "طريقٍ آخر"

In this painting, no one is alone.

This is what captured my attention as soon as I approached the Thebaid: life buzzing in what should be the desert near Thebes, in Egypt.

I can hear the voices of the many people travelling through it or living there. I can feel the wind that blows over the river, rippling its surface, and through the trees, rustling the leaves.

It is an idealized landscape, but portrayed in minute detail.

A place where nature is a friend to man, and man is a friend of nature.

Only the distant mountains look bare and desolate.

It should be a desert, yet it is a garden; it should be a place of solitude, yet it is filled with relationships. As Athanasius, Bishop of Alexandria wrote, the desert had become “a city”.

Mashhad is the name of a holy city in the north east of Iran. Here, in 817 AD, Reza, eighth Shi'ite Imam, died and an imposing mausoleum was built in his name. Since then, what was once a small village was transformed not only into a large city, but also into the most important destination for pilgrims in my country. Every year, more than 25 million Shi’ites from Iran and elsewhere walk its streets. That is why a sanctuary has been built around the mausoleum, creating a genuine city within the city.

The heart of the sanctuary is always full of people, even late at night. Pilgrims try to touch the holy enclosure with their hands. If this is not possible, with just a finger, and it is enough… Many human stories can be heard here. Relationships are formed, even among strangers. And when the people pray, a personal silence descends.

The scenery in the Thebaid, partly inhospitable, is brought to life by the relationships that populate it; it is a place not just of isolation, but also of shared exchanges. 

I think that ultimately this painting reflects the two extremes of life, and not just in religious terms. There is a space for silence and one for relationships. It is up to us to find a balance.

The disorderly scene before us is only apparently so. At first glance, the lack of a centre leaves us disorientated, but every scene has its own precise symbolic significance. The episodes shown here are taken more or less directly from literary sources; first and foremost, from a collection of hagiographic texts, known as the Lives of the Desert Fathers, which first arrived in Italy well before the 15th century and was gradually translated from Greek into Latin and then into vernacular.

The success of the Thebaid scenes, frescoed or painted on panels and representing the lives of the men (and women) who were famous for their spirituality or virtues, was determined by the increasing spread through Italy of the Lives of the Desert Fathers, which in turn was closely connected with the birth of the so-called preaching orders: the Franciscans and Dominicans. This success, however, was particularly ephemeral: the Thebaid scenes we know today – ten in total, including the one on display at the Uffizi – were mainly painted in Florence over a period of just fifty years, starting in the early decades of the 15th century. Then they disappeared as suddenly as they had appeared.

However, this was just the beginning of their story and of their journey through time: the Thebaid scenes, more often painted on panels rather than as frescoes, were uprooted from their context and, in some cases, cut and disassembled.

My friends and I were also split up. There were seven of us, we met in the first year of high school. We used to go to the mountains together. In winter, it was wonderful; we never knew how deep the snow would be, and so we would proceed in single file; whoever was in front would leave footprints for the others to follow. When we sank into the snow, our laughter would echo around the mountains. Then we would heat food on small stoves. Outside the refuge, at sunset, we would all be in a circle, laughing and eating, enjoying the natural surroundings and being together.

With the revolution and the war with Iraq, we all left or fled; all except one. For years, we lost sight of one another. Then, when each of us was settled, we were able to get back in touch.

For the past seven years, we have been meeting up every year. All except one, Ali Reza, our friend who stayed in Iran. It is great to get together, like fragments of a painting that have been reassembled.

On the banks of the river, a monk greets another who has just arrived by boat. Or is he the one getting into the boat so that they can leave together?

Water is one of the protagonists of the Thebaid. The springs, the large river and on the left, in the foreground, a strait that probably leads to the sea. Water has transformed the desert into an oasis. And it is water that has made this a habitable place.

In the sanctuary of Mashhad, nine large porticoed courtyards were built to welcome pilgrims. In many of them, there is a beautiful fountain, with taps to allow believers to purify themselves before prayer, and there is no shortage of large containers filled with cool water to quench thirst in the summer.

Everywhere you can smell the heady scent of rosewater.

Thebaid scenes realized in fresco form could be seen by many and had a narrative purpose. Those executed on panels, seen by few, were a support for meditation, since these were images that were “useful to the soul”, whose contemplation led to God. They would probably have been found in the chapter house, an emblematic place for the monastic community. It was in this space that in the evening, after dinner in the refectory, the Lives of the Desert Fathers would be read aloud by one of the brothers, and then visualized by each monk in the silence of his cell, to accompany the nighttime meditation.

I like to think that these monks lived through something similar to what I feel when I am fasting during the month of Ramadan. It is a purification that trains the brain and the heart. Like vaccination to boost the immune system. Like achieving a level of concentration that suspends hunger and thirst.

As a child, I would go to the mosque; my father would take me and we would pray with the others. I liked the fact that so many people were there; after prayer, we would talk and spend time together. Then preaching became too intolerant. I don’t like those who believe they possess the truth and don’t accept others in their diversity. For many years now, I have been praying alone.

In the Thebaid, monks have their own cell, cave or hermitage, but they live together in prayer.

The relationships between the monks are full of gestures of care. No one is in command. No one feels superior to the others.

Text by Mohammad Aletaha

Voice by Marco Paolini

On the banks of the river, a monk greets another who has just arrived by boat. Or is he the one getting into the boat so that they can leave together?

Water is one of the protagonists of the Thebaid. The springs, the large river and on the left, in the foreground, a strait that probably leads to the sea. Water has transformed the desert into an oasis. And it is water that has made this a habitable place.

In the sanctuary of Mashhad, nine large porticoed courtyards were built to welcome pilgrims. In many of them, there is a beautiful fountain, with taps to allow believers to purify themselves before prayer, and there is no shortage of large containers filled with cool water to quench thirst in the summer.

Everywhere you can smell the heady scent of rosewater.

Thebaid scenes realized in fresco form could be seen by many and had a narrative purpose. Those executed on panels, seen by few, were a support for meditation, since these were images that were “useful to the soul”, whose contemplation led to God. They would probably have been found in the chapter house, an emblematic place for the monastic community. It was in this space that in the evening, after dinner in the refectory, the Lives of the Desert Fathers would be read aloud by one of the brothers, and then visualized by each monk in the silence of his cell, to accompany the nighttime meditation.

I like to think that these monks lived through something similar to what I feel when I am fasting during the month of Ramadan. It is a purification that trains the brain and the heart. Like vaccination to boost the immune system. Like achieving a level of concentration that suspends hunger and thirst.

As a child, I would go to the mosque; my father would take me and we would pray with the others. I liked the fact that so many people were there; after prayer, we would talk and spend time together. Then preaching became too intolerant. I don’t like those who believe they possess the truth and don’t accept others in their diversity. For many years now, I have been praying alone.

In the Thebaid, monks have their own cell, cave or hermitage, but they live together in prayer.

The relationships between the monks are full of gestures of care. No one is in command. No one feels superior to the others.

Text by Mohammad Aletaha

Voice by Marco Paolini

.ین همان چیزی است که در نزدیک‌شدن به تابلوی «تبایده» (در ایتالیایی به‌معنی عزلت‌گاه) که منتسب به «بئاتو آنجلیکو» است، مرا مسحور می‌کند: لبریز از زندگی، در جایی که باید یک صحرا در نزدیکی «تبه» در مصر باشد

می‌توانم صدا‌های شخصیت‌های تابلو را حس کنم. می‌توانم باد را حس کنم که روی رودخانه می‌وزد و موج‌های کوچکی ایجاد می‌کند. هم‌چنین بادی که میان درختان، آرامش شاخه‌ها و برگ‌ها را به‌هم می‌زند.

منظره‌ای‌ست که به سبک آرمان‌گرایانه تصویر شده است اما تمام جزئیات آن به‌خوبی توصیف شده‌اند: انسان‌ها، حیوانات، ساختمان‌ها، درختان، پرچین‌ها و کوه‌ها.

جایی‌که در آن طبیعت، دوستِ انسان است و انسان، دوستِ طبیعت؛ چشمه‌هایی که از آن‌ها آب گرفته می‌شود، رودخانه‌ای بزرگ در نزدیک‌ترین نما، پوشش گیاهی انبوه، باغچه‌، که میوه می‌دهد، گوزن، که اجازه می‌دهد از او شیر گرفته شود، شیرهایی که گاری را می‌کشند، کلاغ که برای زاهدان نان می‌آورد، تمساح که دو راهب را از رودخانه عبورمی‌دهد- آن اژدها نیست! چیزی که ممکن است در نخستین نگاه به چشم بیاید-

.تنها کوه‌ها در دوردستِ تصویر، ظاهری عریان و بدون گیاه دارند

.باید یک صحرا باشد امّا، امّا یک باغ است. باید مکانی برای گوشه‌‌نشینی باشد امّا، امّا پر از «ارتباط» است

در حقیقت همهٔ این‌ها در تناقض با این موضوع هستند که شخصیت‌های تصویرشده در «تبایده»، مراکز مسکونی را رها کرده و به صحرا پناه آورده بودند تا یک زندگیِ در انزوا را پیشه کنند. اما صحرا در نهایت به «یک شهر» تبدیل شده بود. همان‌طورکه «آتانازیو»، اسقف اسکندریه، در کتاب «زندگی آنتونیوی زاهد» نوشت

مشهد نام‌ یک شهر مقدس در شمال شرقی ایران است. معنی آن «محل خاک‌سپاری شهید» است. در سال ۸۱۷ میلادی، «رضا» هشتمین امام شیعیان در این محل درگذشت که برای او آرام‌گاهی باشکوه و متمایز ساخته شد. از آن پس، محلی که روستایی کوچک بود، نه‌‌تنها به شهری بزرگ تبدیل شد، بلکه امروزه به‌عنوان مهم‌ترین زیارت‌گاه کشور من نیز محسوب می‌شود. شهری که هر سال، صدای گام‌های ۲۵ میلیون شیعهٔ ایرانی و خارجی در خیابان‌هایش طنین می‌اندازد. در تعطیلات و مراسم ویژه، جمعیّت سه برابر هم می‌شود. برای همین موضوع، به‌ویژه در سال‌های اخیر، دورتادور حرم بناهایی ساخته شده که مرقد را به «شهری در دل شهر» تبدیل کرده است

تمام خیابان‌های اصلی مشهد به مرقد امام رضا می‌رسند و از همه‌جا گنبد طلایی حرم دیده می‌شود. وقتی زائران آن‌را می‌بینند مبهوت می‌مانند و چند لحظه برای سلام‌دادن می‌ایستند. در میان آن‌ها زائرانی دیده می‌شوند که یا در حال دعا هستند، یا برای داشتن این فرصت خدا را شکر گفته، و یا گریه می‌کنند. با دیدن این صحنه‌ها است که متوجه می‌شویم برای زائران، رسیدن به این محل چقدر مهم است

درون حرم همیشه مملو از جمعیت است، حتی بعد از نیمه‌شب. زائران سعی می‌کنند دست‌شان را به ضریح مقدس برسانند، اگر امکان آن وجود نداشته باشد، سعی می‌کنند دست‌کم با انگشتان آن را لمس کنند، چون همین هم برای آن‌ها کافی است. از امام برای رفع مشکلات‌شان کمک می‌خواهند: درخواست شفا برای فامیلی بیمار، قبول‌شدن در کنکور دانشگاه برای فرزند وغیره

در این محل می‌توان داستان زندگی بسیاری از مردم را شنید. در این‌جا افراد ناشناس نیز باهم ارتباط برقرار می‌کنند. و هنگام شروع نماز، سکوت میان نمازگزاران ایجاد می‌شود درحالی‌که جمعیت بسیاری، هم‌چنان در حرکت هستند

.دورنمای «تبایده» که به‌نظر غیرمسکونی می‌آید، با روابط میان کسانی که در آن زندگی می‌کنند، زنده شده است: محلی که نه‌فقط برای گوشه‌نشینی راهبان، بلکه برای اشتراک و تبادل‌نظر هم هست

.در مجموع فکر می‌کنم این نقاشی تنها جنبهٔ مذهبی ندارد و انعکاس دو قطب زندگی می‌باشد: فضایی برای سکوت، و فضایی برای ارتباط‌برقرارکردن. این ما هستیم که باید به تعادل میان این دو، دست پیدا کنیم

بی‌نظمی صحنه‌ها که در مقابل چشمان ما صف‌آرایی می‌کنند، ظاهری است: در نخستین نگاه از زاویهٔ دید بالا، نبود یک نقطهٔ مرکزی بیننده را سردرگم می‌کند. به‌گونه‌ای که به‌نظر می‌رسد تمام شخصیت‌ها و داستان‌ها در یک سطح قرار داده شده‌اند، اما درواقع، هر صحنه، معنای دقیق سمبلیک خود را دارد. اپیزودهای کشیده‌شده تخیلی نیستند؛ کم‌وبیش به‌طورمستقیم از منابع ادبی و گه‌گاه از سرود‌های مذهبی برگرفته شده‌اند. علاوه بر این‌ها، از گردآوری متن‌های مذهبی با عنوان «زندگی پدران روحانی در صحرا» نیز اقتباس شده‌اند. متن‌های مذکور که پیش از قرن ۱۵ میلادی به ایتالیا آورده شدند، از یونانی به لاتین و نیز به زبان گفتاری ترجمه شدند. محور این متن‌ها روی وقایع زندگی راهبان و قدیسانی می‌چرخد که از شروع قرن سوم میلادی، زندگی در انزوا و دور از جامعه را انتخاب کرده بودند. گروهی که نخستین اجتماع متشکل از راهبان را در سوریه، فلسطین و به‌ویژه در مصر تشکیل داده بودند

«تبایده‌ها»، نقاشی‌های دیواری یا نقاشی روی چوب، همان‌طورکه گفته شد معرف زندگی مردان (و زنان)ی هستند که برای روحانیت و فضیلت‌شان معروف هستند. این سبک از زندگی با افزایش پراکندگی زندگیِ پدران روحانی در ایتالیا به‌وجود آمد، که به‌نوبهٔ‌خود برگرفته از فرقه‌های دومنیکن‌ها و فرانسیسکویی‌ها بود. این ماجرا، در هر صورت بی‌دوام بود: موضوعی که مرا تحت تأثیر قرار داد، این است که بیش‌تر «تبایده»‌هایی که می‌شناسیم (حدود ده «تبایده»، شامل تابلویی که در «اوفّیتزی» وجود دارد) در فلورانس و فقط در طول ۵۰ سال، (از آغاز نخستینِ دهه‌های ۱۴۰۰) خلق شدند و بعد از آن، همان‌طورکه ناگهان ظاهر شده بودند ناگهان هم ناپدید شدند

اما این تابلوها، تنها نمایان‌گر آغاز داستان و سفر آن‌ها در طول زمان هستند؛ از آن‌جا که آن‌ها نقاشی روی چوب را به‌جای نقاشی دیواری برگزیدند، دیگر به زمینهٔ اصلی «تبایده»‌ها توجه نشد و به زمینه‌های زیادی تفکیک داده شدند

***

من و دوستانم نیز از هم جدا شدیم. هفت نفر بودیم که در نخستین سال دبیرستان باهم آشنا شدیم. باهم به کوه می‌رفتیم. در برخی قسمت‌های کوه به‌دلیل صخره‌ای‌بودن، صعود بسیار مشکل بود و برای همین از میله‌هایی که در صخره‌ها قرار داده شده بود، استفاده می‌کردیم. زمستان بسیار زیبا بود، نمی‌توانستیم بفهمیم چقدر برف عمیق است، و به‌همین دلیل به‌صورت یک صف پشت‌سرهم حرکت می‌کردیم. به‌نوبت، کسی در سر صف قرار می‌گرفت تا بقیه جای پای او را دنبال کنند. وقتی کسی در برف فرومی‌رفت، صدای قهقهقهٔ ما در کوهستان می‌پیچید. هنگامی‌که به پناه‌گاه می‌رسیدیم، غذا را در گاز پیک‌نیکی گرم می‌کردیم و در غروب آفتاب، خارج از پناه‌گاه دور هم می‌نشستیم، می‌خوردیم و می‌خندیدیم. از طبیعت و دورهم‌بودن لذّت می‌بردیم

بعد از انقلاب و شروع جنگ با عراق، همهٔ ‌ما به‌جز یکی، ایران را ترک کردیم. برای مدتی ازهم خبری نداشتیم. بعدها، هنگامی‌که هرکدام از ما با محیط سازگار شدیم (یکی در آلمان، یکی در سوئد، یکی در ایتالیا و دیگری در اتریش)، موفق شدیم دوباره باهم تماس برقرار کنیم و این به‌‌وسیلهٔ تنها دوستی که در ایران باقی مانده بود، شکل گرفت. گه‌گاه هرکدام از ما که فرصتی پیدا می‌کرد، به دیدن دوستی می‌رفت اما فرصت این‌که همگی باهم‌ باشیم،‌ پیش نیامده بود. بعد، هفت سال پیش، در یک تماس تلفنی، با دوستی که مقیم اتریش است، در مورد این‌که باید کاری کرد تا بتوانیم همگی دورهم جمع شویم، صحبت به‌میان آمد

همان صحبت باعث شد که با بقیه هم در این مورد صحبت کنم و این‌چنین، هفت سال است که هر سال برای دیدار دوباره قرار ملاقات می‌گذاریم. همه باهم به‌جز یک نفر، - علی‌رضا - دوستی که در ایران مانده است. بیش‌تر از محل ملاقات، فرصت چند روزهٔ باهم‌بودن برای‌مان مهمّ است. باهم‌بودن بسیار زیباست، مانند قسمت‌های جداشدهٔ یک نقاشی که حالا به‌هم پیوسته‌اند. هربار که ‌دورهم جمع می‌شویم دوباره جوان می‌شویم. خوش‌بختانه هیچ‌کس تغییر نکرده است

***

در کنار رود، راهبی به استقبال راهب دیگری رفته که با قایق آمده است، یا این‌که شاید او برای عازم‌شدن با راهب دیگر درحال سوارشدن به قایق است؟

آب یکی از شخصیت‌های «تبایده» است. چشمه‌ها، رودخانهٔ بزرگ، و در سمت چپ در نمای نزدیک، تنگه‌ای که احتمالاً به دریا ختم می‌شود. این آب است که این صحرا را تبدیل به یک آبادی کرده و این بازهم آب است که این مکان را قابل سکونت کرده است. در صحنهٔ بالا سمت راست، جایی‌که «آنتونیو» و «پائولو»، نانی را که کلاغ آورده است، تقسیم می‌کنند هم یک چشمه وجود دارد. در کتاب «زندگی پدران روحانی» خوانده می‌شود که این محلّی است که در آن به‌خواستهٔ خداوند، «پائولو» بتواند تغذیه و سیرآب شود و هم‌چنین پناه‌گاهی داشته باشد

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در حرم مشهد مقدس ، ۹ صحن برای استقبال از زائران ساخته شده است که هرکدام‌ از این صحن‌ها با ویژگی و حال و هوایی به‌خصوص، متقاوت از دیگری است. در تعدادی از این صحن‌ها، فواره‌هایی با شیرهای آب به‌چشم می‌خورند که جهت تطهیر مؤمنان برای نماز ساخته شده‌اند. وجود «سقاخانه» یکی دیگر از ویژگی‌های این صحن‌ها است. از همهٔ این صحن‌ها، راه برای رسیدن به مرقد و ضریح مقدس وجود دارد. کف مرمر رواق‌ها پوشیده از فرش است و دیوارها آینه‌کاری شده‌اند. آن‌چه زیبایی رواق‌های حرم را دوچندان می‌کند، لوستر‌های عظیم کریستالی گوناگون و متنوعی هستند که در سقف‌ها به‌کار گرفته شده‌اند. درخشش و انعکاس نور در کریستال‌های آویزان از چل‌چراغ‌ها و لوسترها، در آینه‌کاری‌ها، در معرق‌کاری در کاشی‌کاری‌های رواق‌ها، چشم هر بیننده‌ای را مسحور می‌کند. همه‌جا بوی مست‌کنندهٔ گلاب به مشام می‌رسد

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در امتداد رودخانه، نزدیک پل، مردی یک پارچ سفالی به دوش دارد. صحنه بدون دانستن داستان این مرد، معمولی به‌نظر می‌رسد، اما به‌لطف محققان متوجه می‌شویم که این صحنه دربارهٔ اپیزودی است که در زندگی پدران روحانی آمده است. اپیزودی مربوط به موسی، معروف به «موسای اتیوپی»، که «سردستهٔ دزدان منطقه» بود اما توبه کرد. او راه راست را درپیش گرفت و یک زندگی زاهدانه را انتخاب کرد؛ این‌گونه که برای فرار از افکار خبیث ناشی از تحریک شیطان - که به‌ویژه در خواب او را عذاب می‌دادند – به‌محض این‌که شب می‌شد از اتاق خود بیرون می‌آمد و در صحرا، از اتاق این زاهد به اتاق زاهد دیگر که در خواب بودند پرسه می‌زد، و اگر متوجه می‌شد که احتیاج به آب دارند، کوزه سفالی آن‌ها را برداشته، به‌دنبال آب می‌رفت و به‌صورت پنهان، بدون آن‌که راهبان متوجه شوند چه کسی این‌کار را کرده است، کوزه پر از آب برای‌شان می‌آورد

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در ایران‌، در امتداد پیاده‌روها همیشه محفظه‌های بزرگ آب خنک وجود دارد تا هیچ‌کس احساس تشنگی نکند. این محفظه‌ها یا از طرف شهرداری گذاشته می‌شوند و یا از طرف شهروندان خیّر. این رسم رایج در میان مسلمانان شیعه، برای اپیزود جنگ کربلا است، جایی‌که امام حسین، نوهٔ پیامبر اسلام، همراه بیش از هفتاد نفر از خانواده و پیروانش به شهادت رسیدند. روایت می‌شود که «دشمنان، امام حسین و یارانش را در تنگنا قرار دادند، طوری که راه رسیدن به آب را بر آن‌ها بستند. این‌چنین، گروه از تشنگی از توان افتاد. خود امام حسین درحالی‌که قصد نوشیدن آب داشت کشته شد»

از این گذشته، روایت است که پیامبر می‌گوید: «... در روز قیامت خداوند بر سه کس نگاه نخواهد کرد؛ کسانی که مکافات سنگینی در انتظارشان است: ...»؛ که یکی از آن‌ها کسی است که «در صحرا با این‌که آب زیادی برایش باقی مانده به ره‌گذر دیگری ندهد

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«تبایده»‌هایی که روی دیوار کشیده شده‌اند، (مانند آن نقاشی که در «کمپو سنتوی پیزا» وجود دارد) برای بسیاری قابل‌مشاهده بود زیرا هدف از کشیدن آن‌ها روایت و یادگیری بود. امّا نقاشی‌های «تبایده»ٔ روی چوب، جنبهٔ مدیتیشن داشتند زیرا تصویرهای «روح‌پرور و تفکربرانگیز آن‌ها» زاهدان را به خدا نزدیک‌تر می‌کردند (به احتمال زیاد این تابلوها در سالن گردهمایی صومعه‌ها قرار داشتند. در این فضا، شب‌ها بعد از شام، قسمتی از داستان‌های زندگی پدران روحانی توسط کشیش جوانی با صدای بلند خوانده می‌شد. طوری که دیگر کشیشان، آن‌را در اتاق‌شان در سکوت گوش کنند و با آن مدیتیشن شبانه کنند)

دوست دارم این‌طور فکر کنم که آن راهبان در مدیتیشن‌هایشان همان چیزی را احساس می‌کردند که من هنگام روزه‌گرفتن در ماه رمضان احساس می‌کنم. روزه‌گرفتن برای تطهیر روح است و مغز و قلب را تمرین می‌دهد. مانند یک واکسن برای قوی‌کردن سیستم ایمنی بدن در دفاع از وسوسه‌ها، مانند دفاع بدن در مقابل ویروس‌ها و باکتری‌ها‌. مثل رسیدن به سطح تمرکزی که در آن گرسنگی و تشنگی در طول روز حس نشود

در دوران کودکی پدرم مرا به مسجد می‌برد. با دیگران نماز می‌خواندیم، بعد از نماز در صحبت‌های امام جماعت بحث سیاسی شنیده نمی‌شد. از این‌که در جمع افراد زیادی در مسجد بودیم، خوشم می‌آمد، اما بعدها، موعظه‌ها بسیار متعصبانه شدند که این، با عقاید من به‌شدت مغایر بودند و هنوز هستند. افکار کسانی را که فکر می‌کنند واقعیت را در اختیار دارند و دیگران را با تفاوت‌هایشان نمی‌پذیرند، به‌هیچ‌وجه نمی‌پسندم. دیگر سال‌هاست که به‌تنهایی نماز می‌خوانم

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در تبایده، هر زاهدی اتاق، غار و انزوای خود را دارد اما در دعاکردن باهم هستند. ارتباط میان راهبان مملو از رفتار دوستانه است. هیچ‌کس فرمان نمی‌دهد‌ و هیچ‌کس حس برتری نسبت به دیگری را ندارد

A hand on a shoulder brings comfort, even if that hand is small, slender and apparently fragile.

Here, before this heavenly vision, my gaze moves upwards towards the sky and vice versa, down towards the ground. This dual portrait of motherhood is all inside this vertical line, marking the passage from one generation to another: affection, protection, solidarity, trust, courage, from one to the other, through to the Child on his mother’s knees. This however, is not conveyed in words, but rather, in gestures and presence; it is a link that is both strong and gentle.

Now, in this room there is a mother holding her child in her lap, with another woman to protect and guide her. A look that follows affectionately, and one I know well. I am the mother of two girls but, before that, I was a daughter. Between my mother and myself, the same daily acts of care, but which were and which said much more. My mother, behind me, speaking to me as she combed my hair while I listened to her words, often repeated, often the same: advice, deep and simple thoughts about things, while my gaze was elsewhere, my mind on other things for the day, caught up in the worries of the moment.

Angels move around this apparition, carrying a golden cloth, swinging the thurible, guiding our eyes towards the group of three in the center, joined together by life.

Mary’s dress delicately outlines her body, which still seems to bear the signs of pregnancy.

In popular tradition, St Anne is the patron saint of mothers who have recently given birth. Hers is a safe presence behind Mary. In mid-air, her left hand extends into the empty space above the Child, as if to create a protective space that is easily visible to her eyes.

I am inside a grey room. It is day, but the lighting is totally artificial. I feel alone and wish there could be a hand to hold on to, to give me courage to face this moment that will change my life forever. In my head, I can still hear the words of someone suggesting that the hand I was seeking was yours, Emma.

There was so much pain, but your little hand brought us both out, into the real light.

Like the tiny hand of Jesus, resting gently on his mother’s arm, like a light caress to feel her presence and to accompany her embrace.

Depicted behind Mary, as though she were supporting the whole family, St Anne was also referred to as “metterza”, i.e., placed in the third position in relation to the figures of the Virgin and Child. This painting was commissioned by the Bonamici family, Florentine weavers, for their chapel in Sant’Ambrogio.

The panel was executed by two Florentine masters from the early 15th century: Masolino and Masaccio, two artists with different temperaments, who managed to achieve an extraordinary balance in this work.

Such close collaboration for an altarpiece is not exceptional in the world of  workshops, where several people would work side by side to fulfil a commission under the attentive eye of the master.

A hand on a shoulder means collaboration, interaction. The lives and artistic careers of Masaccio and Masolino are woven together, respecting their differences. Perhaps the younger relied on the older one, and who knows if Masolino actually extended his protection to him.

But the future is in Masaccio’s hands, as Mary’s is in hers , in the small, yet already powerful child she holds on her knee.

Motherhood is a journey with so many emotions, so many strong and conflicting feelings. You would never expect that this tiny, defenseless being could contain the strength to guide you through this new experience, as if he contained all the knowledge of life, renewed every time.

I saw you the first time through a door that had been left open. Before that, you were just a picture, pieces of paper: we filled in so many before we could complete your adoption.

You came into the room where I was waiting, with Dad, and you stopped, frightened. Every part of me was filled with emotion. I didn’t know if I could touch you. Then I dried your tears, took your little hands and whispered a song in your own language; a song I had learned especially for our meeting. You looked at me and I picked you up. At last, I could hold you and, in that moment, our lives were joined and we became a family, Sofia Zhiqun.

Text by Silvia Barlacchi

Voice by Paola Roscioli

The panel was executed by two Florentine masters from the early 15th century: Masolino and Masaccio, two artists with different temperaments, who managed to achieve an extraordinary balance in this work.

Such close collaboration for an altarpiece is not exceptional in the world of  workshops, where several people would work side by side to fulfil a commission under the attentive eye of the master.

A hand on a shoulder means collaboration, interaction. The lives and artistic careers of Masaccio and Masolino are woven together, respecting their differences. Perhaps the younger relied on the older one, and who knows if Masolino actually extended his protection to him.

But the future is in Masaccio’s hands, as Mary’s is in hers , in the small, yet already powerful child she holds on her knee.

Motherhood is a journey with so many emotions, so many strong and conflicting feelings. You would never expect that this tiny, defenseless being could contain the strength to guide you through this new experience, as if he contained all the knowledge of life, renewed every time.

I saw you the first time through a door that had been left open. Before that, you were just a picture, pieces of paper: we filled in so many before we could complete your adoption.

You came into the room where I was waiting, with Dad, and you stopped, frightened. Every part of me was filled with emotion. I didn’t know if I could touch you. Then I dried your tears, took your little hands and whispered a song in your own language; a song I had learned especially for our meeting. You looked at me and I picked you up. At last, I could hold you and, in that moment, our lives were joined and we became a family, Sofia Zhiqun.

Text by Silvia Barlacchi

Voice by Paola Roscioli

This fresco was painted for the Church of San Martino at the Spedale di Santa Maria della Scala in Florence, a location where abandoned children were taken in. Right away I think: this is why in this masterpiece the Holy Virgin Mary's arms are empty, and she wears a frown! I don't think that in this world there exists a mother who truly wants to leave her child. For sure, there must be an unspeakable reason to do so.

From 1478 to 1479, Florence was struck by a terrible plague, and many of the victims of the epidemic were buried in the monastery attached to the church.

In 1481, Botticelli was paid for the creation of an Annunciation, probably a votive offering to the Holy Virgin Mary to celebrate the end of the plague. The background filled with a quiet and beautiful nature, without any disease, could comfort people. The angel could bring them good news.

I do not believe it is by chance that the angel's point of view is the one from which to admire the entire scene. The fresco was located in the loggia in front of the church entrance, right on top of the door, and the angel was seen right in the centre by those who entered.

It was the Annunciazione, and not the Spring that struck me when I entered this room. Its light and transparent colours gave me a sense of peace; the wide-open space made me breathe.

The house of Mary overlooks this space. It is a rich household, that of a wealthy family. In the shadows of the room there is a very clean and well-made bed, too much so: I would not like to sleep on this bed. I really like instead the space between Mary and the angel, the colour and geometric shapes of the marble, the air that moves through the arches.

Natural light filters through the enclosed garden, and beyond, a landscape.

The landscape reminds me of my city, Guizhou, located in a province half of which is covered by forests. This work really makes me feel nostalgic for my country.

In China I lived with my family in a skyscraper. The apartment was large, but from our windows you could only see the windows of the skyscraper in front of you. It's unpleasant to not see an open view.

If I had a house like this, with an open and private space, it would be perfect.

However, if I were living alone, in such a big space, I would not be happy. Just as my father and mother feel the house is silent since I left.

In Florence, my partner and I live in a home with a terrace that looks out onto a large garden. It is an open space, but where no one can see us. On summer evenings, we have candlelit dinners. It is a location to be lived intimately. I feel free in this location that is truly mine.

I look at the Holy Virgin Mary in the fresco. She looks a bit sad and solitary. The canopy, the oriental-style carpet and lectern create a space of her own, where Mary can feel close to God.

Her arms, like in a dance, seem to create a space for a child who is not there yet.

The light veil touches Mary’s hair. How beautiful she is! The drapery of her cloak, folded over her arm. The white of her shirt that stands out under the sleeve. The colours of her dress, blue and red.

A door, which is not material but imaginary, has just opened in front of her. A light and a strange wind accompany the arrival of the angel. His feet have not yet touched the ground.

He has a mute expression. In the arms crossed on his chest, he holds a white lily, a symbol of purity, in a gesture of adoration. The news that he is bringing to Mary travels through the light.

In the distance between the angel and Mary, I immediately felt how remote/faraway my family is.

Every time I travel, I send a postcard to my mother. She collects them all in a box. They are important to create a memory, a story we can share; otherwise, not much would remain of these years spent far away from each other.

The postcards do not always arrive in the order in which I sent them; some get lost, but this is not important. In this world, nothing is perfect.

The angel comes to bring news about me to my family.

The angel will then leave. The door closes behind him, and Mary will be alone again.

The environment in which Mary lives is open, full of air.

The precious marble patterns of the floor make the scene even dreamier, of idyllic beauty; it does not seem real.

An ideal world, but one that is not so difficult to find. A world within reach, if only we were able to give ourselves space and time.

This home has no doors, nature is near, and there is a garden, Mary's shelter.

Outside there is no one.

In the distance, the poetry of nature.

It will soon be dusk.

Text by Diana Kong

Voice by Lucilla Giagnoni

I look at the Holy Virgin Mary in the fresco. She looks a bit sad and solitary. The canopy, the oriental-style carpet and lectern create a space of her own, where Mary can feel close to God.

Her arms, like in a dance, seem to create a space for a child who is not there yet.

The light veil touches Mary’s hair. How beautiful she is! The drapery of her cloak, folded over her arm. The white of her shirt that stands out under the sleeve. The colours of her dress, blue and red.

A door, which is not material but imaginary, has just opened in front of her. A light and a strange wind accompany the arrival of the angel. His feet have not yet touched the ground.

He has a mute expression. In the arms crossed on his chest, he holds a white lily, a symbol of purity, in a gesture of adoration. The news that he is bringing to Mary travels through the light.

In the distance between the angel and Mary, I immediately felt how remote/faraway my family is.

Every time I travel, I send a postcard to my mother. She collects them all in a box. They are important to create a memory, a story we can share; otherwise, not much would remain of these years spent far away from each other.

The postcards do not always arrive in the order in which I sent them; some get lost, but this is not important. In this world, nothing is perfect.

The angel comes to bring news about me to my family.

The angel will then leave. The door closes behind him, and Mary will be alone again.

The environment in which Mary lives is open, full of air.

The precious marble patterns of the floor make the scene even dreamier, of idyllic beauty; it does not seem real.

An ideal world, but one that is not so difficult to find. A world within reach, if only we were able to give ourselves space and time.

This home has no doors, nature is near, and there is a garden, Mary's shelter.

Outside there is no one.

In the distance, the poetry of nature.

It will soon be dusk.

Text by Diana Kong

Voice by Lucilla Giagnoni

这幅壁画由艺术家为佛罗伦萨Santa Maria Della Scala医院的San Martino教堂绘制，这里收养着那些被遗弃的孩子，这让我立刻想到为什么在壁画作品当中，玛丽亚的双臂间会有一个孩童般大小的空间，而且似乎她皱着眉头。我不相信在这个世界上会有一位母亲真的想要离开她的孩子，我想其中必定有无法言语的原因吧。

1478年至1479年间，佛罗伦萨遭遇了一场可怕的瘟疫，许多受害者被埋葬在该教堂附近的修道院中。1481年，艺术家波提切利因创作这幅《圣母领报》而获得报酬，这幅作品可能是瘟疫结束后献给玛丽亚的还愿奉献物。背景中的自然景观如此的静谧、美丽，似乎没有疾病与痛楚，可以给人们带来安慰，而天使则为他们带来好消息。

画面中天使可以俯瞰全景，我不认为它的位置是随机安放的，这幅壁画原来位于教堂入口前面的门廊，刚好在主门上方，天使所在位置对于那些进入教堂的人来说是至关重要的。

当我进入乌菲齐美术馆放置此壁画的大厅时，立刻吸引我并让我感到震惊的并不是著名的波提切利的《春天》，而是这幅壁画《圣母领报》。它的颜色是如此轻盈透明，让我感到无比的沉静，画面空间是如此开放，让我可以深深呼吸。

我们可以俯瞰玛丽亚的房间，我猜想这应该是富庶之家的房子。在昏暗的房间里，有一张非常干净整洁的床，可我并不想躺在这张床上，我似乎更喜欢玛丽亚和天使之间的那段空间，大理石的颜色和几何形状让我觉得非常有趣，就在这段空间中，空气通过拱门进入，自然光透过半封闭的花园透进房间，更远处则是迷人的自然风光。

这个场景让我立刻想起了我的家乡贵州省贵阳市，这是一座被森林覆盖了一大半的城市。在贵阳，我和家人们一起住在城市高楼中，公寓很大，但窗户外的远处却是别的高楼大厦，视野并不开阔。如果我有壁画中这样一个开放而私密的空间环境，那将是如此的完美；但如果独自一个人生活在如此大的空间里，我想应该会感到些许寂寞吧。

在佛罗伦萨，我和我的伙伴住在一个带大露台的房子里，透过露台可以俯瞰整个大花园。这是一个开放的空间，但却没有人能看到我们，在夏日黄昏，我们在烛光下共进晚餐。这是一个让我感到开放舒适、自在放松的空间。

作品中的圣母似乎有点悲伤和孤独。壁画中的蓬帐、东方风格的地毯和讲经台为玛丽亚围出了一个属于她自己的空间，让玛丽亚感觉似乎能更接近上帝。她又仿佛在舞蹈，手臂似乎是为一个尚不存在的孩子预留出一个空间。轻盈的头纱触及她的头发，玛丽亚是如此迷人，褶裥折叠在手臂间，衣袖间覆盖着半透明的白色衬纱，礼服则是迷人的蓝色和红色。

一扇门刚刚在她面前打开，这不是一道真实可见的门，而是想象出来的。天使的到来伴随着轻盈和奇异的风，天使透过圣光为玛丽亚带来消息，画面中的他连脚都还没有碰到地面。他的表情有些僵硬，在胸前交叉的双臂间插着一朵白色的百合，象征着纯洁。

看着天使和玛丽亚之间的距离，我立即感受到了与家人的距离。每一次的旅行，我都会为家里寄一张明信片，家人把它们放在一个盒子里，这对于创造我们共同的记忆非常重要，我们可以分享这些旅途中的故事。明信片并不总是按照发送的时间到达，有些会在途中丢失，但没有关系，因为在这个世界上，没有什么是完美的。

天使将我的消息带给我的家人，随后天使将会消失。门将在他的身后轻轻关上，玛丽亚将一个人待着。玛丽亚生活的环境是开放的，充满了空气。地板上珍贵的大理石和它们的图案使场景更加梦幻，更具有田园诗般的美感。

这是一个理想的世界，但又似乎不是那么难以寻到，也许是一个可以到达的世界。这所房子没有门，大自然近在咫尺，而花园则是玛丽亚的港湾。外面没有人。在远处，是大自然的诗歌。

暮光之城即将到来。

The hands are suspended in space, as if waiting for something.

The angel has just arrived. A puff of wind seems to pass through his light veil. Like conception, like life: a gasp, a breath.

He kneels, a hand outstretched towards Mary to reassure her: “I come in peace”. In his other hand, a lily, the symbol of purity.

Mary, distracted from her reading, almost turns upon herself; her gaze is turned inwards, as if listening, listening to the heartbeat. One hand says “wait”, the other is level with her heart.

It takes time to take in a piece of news; it is time that gives us the ability to take in emotions, to understand them.

The announcement will change the Virgin: life changes with a child.

The life growing inside you brings immense emotions with it. You are no longer alone; there is someone living inside you, in the perfect home, your womb.

When I was expecting my daughter, I was not alone; she lived perfectly inside me and had everything she needed through me. Wait! Wait! I’m not ready! Perhaps I am enough for you now, but later, when they separate us? When I am no longer your perfect dwelling place? What will become of me? Or you? Who will protect us? Wait!

One needs time to understand, to accept. For example, with time, I realized that in certain circumstances of my life, I was scared that when someone gave me something, they could take it away again.

Mary accepts her son, and she accepts her pain too, as foreshadowed in the image of the Pietà in the bottom of the frame.

It is difficult to accept what can be taken away.

Here, where the angel has just landed, we find ourselves in an enclosed space, in the shelter of a home.

The room where the scene takes place is rather bare. It does not look like a holy space; it is a real house, a noble dwelling, judging by the fine materials.

Gabriele, silhouetted against the rectangle of the door, is in some way outside Mary’s domestic space; at the same time, by bursting into the house, he brings the breath of God into a human space.

Mary’s womb contains divine life and breath; it is a perfect home, but with time, it will inevitably become too small. Perhaps we are all seeking the perfect house, but even the other houses where we live, not just our mother’s womb, push us out at a certain point.

I have had to move home several times during my life. I often dreamed of going into semi-demolished houses, that I would burn down and then rebuild from the foundations up. I was only at peace when I could afford a home with a room for each of my children. Now my home has a garden, full of light, color, trees and life.

Behind the angel, there is a door, with glimpses of a walled garden, which is an attribute of the Virgin, a reference to her purity, and also a magnificent imaginary view.

Botticelli has painted a young tree in the middle.

Some experts think it is an ash, a Marian plant which is lethal to snakes in the same way as the Virgin is lethal to the devil.

Other academics see it as an oak. I like to think it is. Its roots can emerge from the soil and re-enter it in more distant places, drawing ever more strength. It is considered a holy tree, linked to the family and fertility. It stands for solid protection and the strength to survive the hardest of times.

This Annunciation is from Botticelli’s later period, painted during a religious crisis triggered by the preaching of Girolamo Savonarola, the Dominican friar who played a leading role in expelling the Medici from Florence and in the establishment of the Republic in 1494. His sermons profoundly affected the artist who for years had been the leading exponent of the elegant, neo-Platonic culture promoted by the Medici and their entourage. Here, in this austere space, the figures of the Virgin and the angel are animated by a spiritual tension not found in Botticelli’s previous works.

After various vicissitudes, the painting, which had originally been painted for the Church of Cestello, arrived in the Uffizi in 1872.

That same Gallery of Paintings and Statues is where I began to work as a museum guard in 1986. But I didn’t look at the artworks; I was too much in pain.

I really became aware of the Cestello Annunciation when I was asked to choose a work, and this made me start looking at paintings and statues in a different way. I felt something in those hands, which Mary holds as if protecting her heart. The baby’s heart, the first thing detected in a scan. It’s the only thing you see, a breath, a beat... That is why I chose this painting, or it chose me, because after all, artworks reflect our emotions, they resemble us, and call on us to weave our stories with theirs.

Text by Fabiana Bianchini

Voice by Maria Paiato

Mary’s womb contains divine life and breath; it is a perfect home, but with time, it will inevitably become too small. Perhaps we are all seeking the perfect house, but even the other houses where we live, not just our mother’s womb, push us out at a certain point.

I have had to move home several times during my life. I often dreamed of going into semi-demolished houses, that I would burn down and then rebuild from the foundations up. I was only at peace when I could afford a home with a room for each of my children. Now my home has a garden, full of light, color, trees and life.

Behind the angel, there is a door, with glimpses of a walled garden, which is an attribute of the Virgin, a reference to her purity, and also a magnificent imaginary view.

Botticelli has painted a young tree in the middle.

Some experts think it is an ash, a Marian plant which is lethal to snakes in the same way as the Virgin is lethal to the devil.

Other academics see it as an oak. I like to think it is. Its roots can emerge from the soil and re-enter it in more distant places, drawing ever more strength. It is considered a holy tree, linked to the family and fertility. It stands for solid protection and the strength to survive the hardest of times.

This Annunciation is from Botticelli’s later period, painted during a religious crisis triggered by the preaching of Girolamo Savonarola, the Dominican friar who played a leading role in expelling the Medici from Florence and in the establishment of the Republic in 1494. His sermons profoundly affected the artist who for years had been the leading exponent of the elegant, neo-Platonic culture promoted by the Medici and their entourage. Here, in this austere space, the figures of the Virgin and the angel are animated by a spiritual tension not found in Botticelli’s previous works.

After various vicissitudes, the painting, which had originally been painted for the Church of Cestello, arrived in the Uffizi in 1872.

That same Gallery of Paintings and Statues is where I began to work as a museum guard in 1986. But I didn’t look at the artworks; I was too much in pain.

I really became aware of the Cestello Annunciation when I was asked to choose a work, and this made me start looking at paintings and statues in a different way. I felt something in those hands, which Mary holds as if protecting her heart. The baby’s heart, the first thing detected in a scan. It’s the only thing you see, a breath, a beat... That is why I chose this painting, or it chose me, because after all, artworks reflect our emotions, they resemble us, and call on us to weave our stories with theirs.

Text by Fabiana Bianchini

Voice by Maria Paiato

This garden is like paradise.

An earthly paradise where everything had meaning, before the arrival of man.

I tried to imagine this meadow, empty. No one has yet set foot in it.

The variety of flowers is immense. Everything is precise, perfect, unspoiled.

One is almost afraid to enter and to tread on such beauty.

Every detail contributes to the whole. Every element that contributes to the whole brings with it a story and a precise meaning.

In my eyes, all this takes on an extraordinary affinity with African spirituality: at its center is the harmony that covers everything , nature as a divinity that may be found in the trees, the plants, the river, the sun and the wind. That same wind that here, in the Spring by Botticelli, puffs out the clothes, fertilizes the plants and gives origin to life. A breath of life that permeates everything.

The Spring is considered a masterpiece of profane art, yet I find it has a strong spiritual and religious dimension.

I start to move across the meadow, stopping at the edge of the woods that become thicker and thicker, taking me back to my childhood. The slender, straight trunks of the orange trees slowly become more and more imposing as I enter, creating darkness around me. I am nine years old. It’s four in the morning; the air is cool. I can hear the noise of the water flowing, the birdsong. My uncle is holding the hand of Eugène, my youngest brother, who needs care. He starts to speak in a language I don’t know, because the ritual needs words other than everyday language.

Not everyone enters the sacred woods. That wood is a place that needs utmost silence, utmost respect, because it’s where one goes to meet the gods, because one goes there to speak with plants.

This wood, too, is a sacred space. A space ready to welcome divine presences.

A gust of wind and a celestial winged creature bursts onto the scene: Zephyr, the warm west wind. With his breath of life, he fertilizes the nymph Cloris, who is transformed into Flora. Venus appears in the center, the goddess of beauty, love and fertility. Above her, her son Cupid is flying, ready to fire off his arrow. The wave-like movement continues with the group of the three Graces, intertwined in a gentle dance, and ends with Mercury: with his winged staff, he chases off the clouds that threaten the end of spring.

The mythological characters are easily identifiable. It is the meaning of their meeting that has given rise to infinite interpretations, many of which are linked to the Medici family, who commissioned the Spring. Some academics have stressed the political interpretation of the work as a celebration of Florence flourishing under their rule.

On a level of philosophical interpretation, what it shows us is the journey to perfection of the soul, which also alludes to the Medici, patrons of the neo-platonic Academy.

Zephyr is the more irrational, sensual power of love: thanks to the mediation of Venus, it is transformed into a higher form of love, represented by the Three Graces, who symbolize the love that is given. Finally, Mercury chases away the clouds and aims for supreme perfection, that of the heavens.

My gaze returns to the meadow, to the feet of these three ethereal girls dancing.

It is such a perfect dance as to seem completed. Yet this is the point of the painting that invites me to enter.

I would enter in small steps, hesitating like I did as a child, imitating the grown-ups. At a certain point, you find yourself inside the circle. Bare feet pressing firmly down on the ground. You begin doing what the others do, and you manage it, and you become part of that circle. The dance was held once a year, when the village was lit by the full moon, and it followed a precise ritual: to implore gods, to chase out sickness and bring in health but, at the same time, to explain the roundness of the earth, the central position of human beings.

Different gestures, different contexts, but is it so far removed from the man who was lord of all things, celebrated in Florence during the 15th century?

It is not possible to remain in the sacred woods, the woods of Venus, but whatever is learned there can be taken with you.

And it is a shame for those who did not know how to walk through it...

Text by Kuassi Sessou

Voice: Marco Baliani

Music: Gabin Dabiré

My gaze returns to the meadow, to the feet of these three ethereal girls dancing.

It is such a perfect dance as to seem completed. Yet this is the point of the painting that invites me to enter.

I would enter in small steps, hesitating like I did as a child, imitating the grown-ups. At a certain point, you find yourself inside the circle. Bare feet pressing firmly down on the ground. You begin doing what the others do, and you manage it, and you become part of that circle. The dance was held once a year, when the village was lit by the full moon, and it followed a precise ritual: to implore gods, to chase out sickness and bring in health but, at the same time, to explain the roundness of the earth, the central position of human beings.

Different gestures, different contexts, but is it so far removed from the man who was lord of all things, celebrated in Florence during the 15th century?

It is not possible to remain in the sacred woods, the woods of Venus, but whatever is learned there can be taken with you.

And it is a shame for those who did not know how to walk through it...

Text by Kuassi Sessou

Voice: Marco Baliani

Music: Gabin Dabiré

Chaque détail contribue à l'ensemble. Chaque élément qui concourt à l'ensemble porte avec lui une histoire et une signification précise. A mes yeux, tout ceci a une extraordinaire affinité avec la spiritualité africaine, selon laquelle il y a l'harmonie qui revêt tout, la nature comme Dieu qu'on trouve dans toutes les choses : dans les arbres, dans les plantes, dans le fleuve, dans le soleil, dans le vent.  Le même vent qui ici, dans le Printemps de Botticelli, gonfle les vêtements, féconde les plantes, donne origine à la vie. Un souffle vital qui pénètre tout. Le Printemps est considéré comme un chef-d’œuvre de la peinture profane, mais pour moi il a une dimension spirituelle et religieuse très forte.

Je commence à parcourir la prairie et je m'arrête à la lisière de la forêt. J'élève le regard, et vois des arbres d’oranger. Du feuillage sombre, émergent des fruits et des fleurs parfumées.

Je me plonge dans la forêt, qui devient en profondeur plus épaisse, touffue, et me ramène aux souvenirs de mon enfance. Les troncs droits et fuselés des orangers, deviennent toujours plus imposants à mesure que je m’y pénètre, créant l’obscurité autour de moi. J'ai neuf ans. Il est quatre heures du matin, l'air est frais. Je sens le bruit de l'eau qui glisse, le chant des oiseaux. Mon oncle tient la main de Comlan, mon jeune frère qui a besoin de soins, et je les suis. L'oncle commence à parler des langages que je ne comprends pas, parce que le rituel demande des mots spécifiques, inhabituels et hors du commun ; des langages que seuls les initiés de niveau élevé pouvaient comprendre, et qu’on apprenait dans un espace sacré appelé «Hounkpame».

Dans la forêt sacrée n’y va pas n'importe qui. Cette forêt est une place qui exige le maximum de silence, le plus grand respect, parce qu'on va à la rencontre des dieux, parce qu'on va dialoguer avec les plantes.

Aussi cette forêt est un espace sacré. Un espace prêt à accueillir les présences divines. Un coup de vent, et ici une créature ailée céleste apparaît sur la scène, piétinant lors de son passage les robustes plantes de laurier : c’est Zéphyr, le vent chaud de l’ouest. Avec son souffle, il féconde Cloris la nymphe, qui se transforme en Flore. Pour lier les deux figures féminines c’est la petite cascade de fleurs qui sort de la bouche d'une, pour tomber dans la robe de l'autre. La Déesse du printemps commence à les répandre. Au milieu de la forêt, où entre les orangers se trouve une ouverture, Vénus apparaît, et derrière elle un grand buisson de myrte, la plante pour elle sacrée. La déesse de la beauté, l'amour et la fertilité est enveloppée dans un tissu précieux. Au-dessus d’elle, vole son fils Cupidon, les yeux bandés, prêt à tirer sa flèche. La vague de mouvement créé par les personnages se poursuit dans le groupe des trois Grâces, dont les mains sont intimement liées comme dans une danse légère, et se termine par Mercure, le messager des dieux : avec le caducée, il éloigne les nuages ​​qui menacent la fin du printemps.

La reconnaissance des personnages mythologiques est certaine. Quel est le sens de leur rencontre, en revanche, est une question qui a donné lieu à des interprétations sans fin. Aucune d'entre elles n’est décisive, mais beaucoup sont liées à la famille Médicis, les mécènes du Printemps. Certains spécialistes ont souligné l'interprétation politique de l'œuvre comme une célébration de l'épanouissement de Florence sous leur seigneurie. Par exemple, les orangers font allusion aux Médicis, qui apportent la guérison, la santé, et qui s'appelaient autrefois citrus medica (les agrumes médicaux).

De plus, la lecture philosophique, qui nous indique le chemin de la perfection de l'âme du point de vue de la pensée néo-platonique, nous ramène à la famille : Cosimo il Vecchio soutient l'Académie Néoplatonicienne depuis 1462.

Zéphyr est la force d'amour la plus irrationnelle et sensuelle et, en tant que telle, la source de la vie. Grâce à la médiation de Vénus, cet amour se transforme en une forme plus parfaite, représentée par les Trois Grâces, qui symbolisent l'amour donné et en résument les trois caractéristiques fondamentales : savoir donner, savoir recevoir, savoir rendre. Mercure éloigne enfin les nuages et pointe vers la perfection suprême, laquelle est céleste.

Mon regard revient se poser sur la prairie, sur les pieds de ces trois filles éthérées qui dansent. Elles sont si légères que leurs pas ne laisseront même pas une empreinte sur l'herbe.

Peut-être ressentent-elles une musique intérieure qui prend forme dans leurs gestes, dans l’entrelacement des mains qui créent un mouvement de vague, fluide et harmonieux.

C'est une danse tellement parfaite qu'elle semble complète. C'est aussi précisément le point du tableau qui m'invite à entrer. J'entrerais par de petites marches, en hésitant, comme je le faisais quand j'étais enfant, imitant les grandes personnes. À un moment donné, tu te trouves à l'intérieur du cercle sans savoir comment t’y être arrivé, les pieds nus appuyés fort sur le sol. Tu commences à faire comme les autres, à te déplacer comme les autres, et tu réussis à faire partie de ce cercle. Tout n'est pas clair dans cette danse, tu ne connais pas toujours la signification de chaque geste, mais tu en sens la force.

Devant ce tableau, quand je ferme les yeux, je revois les femmes de mon village quand elles sortaient du lieu sacré et s’organisaient en cercle. Cette danse a lieu une fois par an, lorsque le village est éclairé à la pleine lune.

L'espace était délimité par des lanternes en papaye et remplies d'huile de palme. Les gestes des femmes suivaient un rituel précis : implorer les divinités, chasser la maladie, donner la santé, mais en même temps expliquer la rondeur de la terre protégée par la divinité Sakpata, expliquer la centralité de l'être humain.

Des gestes différents, des contextes différents, mais est-ce si éloigné de l'homme, le seigneur de toutes les choses qu’on célébrait à Florence au XVe siècle ?

Je reviens pour scruter de nouveau la peinture. Ici aussi, je vois des cercles : la clairière est circulaire, les personnages forment un demi-cercle, Vénus est encadrée par un arc parfait. La force de la conception de Botticelli est comme une énergie qui circule d’une figure à l’autre, qui les lie.

Je me retrouve dans cet échange, parce que je l'ai vécu dans un autre espace sacré. Enfant, j'ai grandi dans le Hounkpame, une grande cour où l'on se retrouve le soir et autour d'immeubles dédiés à un dieu différent. Un lieu dédié à l’ascension spirituelle, où tout est symbole. Ici j'ai pris courage, j'ai tout appris ici. Les enseignements qui m'ont accompagné dans ma vie, même lorsque j'ai quitté le Bénin, mon pays natal.

Dans le bois sacré, les bois de Vénus, vous ne pouvez pas rester, mais ce que vous y avez appris vous accompagne dans toute votre vie.

Et c'est dommage pour ceux qui ne savaient pas le pénétrer et le parcourir.

Narration de Kuassi Sessou

Voix de Marco Baliani

Musique de Gabin Dabiré

Before my eyes, luxuriant green hills and a cool blue river rippled by the peaceful bobbing up and down of a solitary ship. The peak where I was sitting was a dark rock that extended upwards. I was watching my feet swing over the emptiness, when I heard a rumble from the other side of the hill. I raised my head and looked out over the horizon. The noise became more and more intense, when, out of a cloud of dust, I saw the disturbing, disconnected gallop of a centaur. The speed with which he reached the rock made me think that perhaps he would end up against it, but he turned with a skilful manoeuvre of his hooves. He began to skirt the stone wall with a light trot, but finding no escape route, he stopped. It was if he were seized by a wild anger, pawing, galloping and pacing like a caged animal. The striking of his hooves on the ground marked the passage of the seconds towards something inexorable, when he grabbed his bow, took an arrow from its quiver and, nocking it, pointed it towards the ground. He kept his eyes fixed on the horizon, forcing me to do the same.

Then I saw her, on the crest of the hill, moving forwards slowly and threateningly, like a cat about to pounce. The solid gold halberd in her left hand did not seem to weigh her down at all. The wind was having fun creating small silky whirlpools on her clothes, whipping them around her legs and causing her hair to dance around the milk-white skin of her face, neck, chest and shoulders. However, it was her eyes, pale grey and magnetic, that conveyed the true fascination of the woman: serene yet threatening; proud and wise, but humble. Just a few centimetres from the centaur, who suddenly appeared docile and defenceless, the enigmatic woman stared at him in silence and then, slowly, raised her right arm, extending her slender fingers towards her rival’s head, as if she wanted to caress his wild brown hair, but he withdrew, in fear. Only then did the warrior speak: “Why do you move away, centaur? Do I disgust you, perhaps? Or do you fear me?”

The centaur straightened up in an attempt to recover some dignity, but he answered nervously: “How could you ever disgust me, oh Pallas Athena? None among the stars in the heavens can compete with your beauty. No, I am afraid, my goddess, not of you, nor for my life, but for my freedom. I love to live by my instinct, and to please my senses beyond all limits. But I cannot do so, if I am not free of you. So why do you persecute me? Have I perhaps offended you?”

Athena did not answer immediately. For a few seconds, it seemed as if the world were suspended, then she spoke: “There was once a man, a philosopher and Greek scholar, my protégé. Plato was his name. I will tell you the story he told the world, Centaur. After death and before life, the soul has a moment of reminiscence in which it appears as a chariot, pulled by a pair of horses and driven by a charioteer. The black horse is lustful and instinctively moves downwards, towards reincarnation. The white horse is spiritual and moves upwards, to the Hyperuranion. It is the charioteer’s task to raise the chariot towards ideas: the more skilled he is in this undertaking, the greater the soul’s knowledge will be once it returns to life. Mine is not a persecution, Centaur. Both the black and the white horse trot around, roving inside you. What you call freedom is actually the submission of your spirituality to the passions that keep you chained to Earth and do not allow you to reach the stars, that you worship from afar. I am here not to take away your passions, but to help you to find balance; if you accept my guidance, I will be the charioteer who takes you to greatness”. I waited for the Centaur's answer but all I heard was silence. The Centaur had gently bowed his head to Athena. The goddess took his hair with a gentle strength, harnessing it in a soft, yet firm grip. She took him out from the shadow of the stone and towards the horizon, illuminated by the sun, and thus the two figures disappeared.

I stayed there, immobile, ecstatically affected by the scene I had just witnessed as an invisible presence. I quickly climbed down the rock face and began to run: I crossed the country landscapes and reached the high walls of the city and the narrow winding streets of Florence. I pushed the heavy wooden door into the master’s workshop. “Master Botticelli!” I called out loudly. He was sitting before a canvas covered by white cloth. When he heard me, he turned around, his eyebrows raised, an interrogative expression on his face. “You have no idea what I’m about to tell you”, I said. I told him about the meeting between Pallas and the Centaur, which I had seen from above. At the end of my story, my master’s eyes were wide open and he did not say a word. He simply raised the white cloth covering the mysterious canvas, revealing Pallas’ ethereal beauty and the goddess immortalized in the act of seizing the Centaur's hair between her white hands. I was open mouthed. “How can this be possible?” I asked, shocked. The master answered, thoughtfully: “Some time ago, Lorenzo de’ Medici commissioned a painting that would convey the political image of his family. Having no idea how to start, I found myself wandering over the same peak you have just told me about, in search of inspiration. That is when I saw the triumph of Athena over the Centaur. The surreal vision ended the questions that tormented me. Athena was the clearest example of a power that does not dominate, but which guides. A power that brought order back to the Centaur’s soul, just as the Medici brought peace to Florence. Thus, to the olive branch ornaments, the symbol of the goddess and of Christian peace, I added some rings with a diamond, the symbol of the Medici, those who maintain harmony in the city. I was thinking that I could create a connection between this and my last piece; do you remember the Spring?”  “And how could I forget it?” I thought. “After all, veneration of natural beauty goes hand in hand with the search for truth, don’t you think?”

He suddenly stopped and smiled at me. It looked as though he had been seized by a playful compassion for me. “I think I have been rambling a little too much. You must also have had some doubt when you went up to that peak. What could be so important as to afflict your young mind, to bother that poor Centaur and the divine Athena?”

Ignoring his condescending tone, I started to think, when the answer came to me clearly. “Sir, it is difficult to say in words what was tormenting me on the top of that precipice. For years I have been dragging a beast inside me, that’s what I call it, which pushes me to do magnificent things, because it nourishes and excites my creativity. I could not be without it. It is my sensitive, instinctive and emotional soul. But not only is my beast out of control, it seems able to overwhelm me, amplifying my feelings to excess.

I have no wish to chain or repress this creature. I would just like it to cease spiking my insides, opening bleeding wounds that cannot heal. I would like it to flow, harmoniously, like a stream, unstoppable but balanced and vital.

Athena honoured me with her presence, perhaps, because of what I aspire to become: a woman who lives her passions, but who does not let these overwhelm her. Like Athena with the centaur, I need to find the strength to guide this inner animal with the same resolute grace, or it will continue to make me suffer, as well as those around me.

My passionate monologue must have affected Botticelli, who looked at me with a touch of melancholy.

I smiled with tears in my eyes: probably, he knew something about this too.

Text by Sofia Kossiwa Sessou

Voice by Lella Costa.

Athena did not answer immediately. For a few seconds, it seemed as if the world were suspended, then she spoke: “There was once a man, a philosopher and Greek scholar, my protégé. Plato was his name. I will tell you the story he told the world, Centaur. After death and before life, the soul has a moment of reminiscence in which it appears as a chariot, pulled by a pair of horses and driven by a charioteer. The black horse is lustful and instinctively moves downwards, towards reincarnation. The white horse is spiritual and moves upwards, to the Hyperuranion. It is the charioteer’s task to raise the chariot towards ideas: the more skilled he is in this undertaking, the greater the soul’s knowledge will be once it returns to life. Mine is not a persecution, Centaur. Both the black and the white horse trot around, roving inside you. What you call freedom is actually the submission of your spirituality to the passions that keep you chained to Earth and do not allow you to reach the stars, that you worship from afar. I am here not to take away your passions, but to help you to find balance; if you accept my guidance, I will be the charioteer who takes you to greatness”. I waited for the Centaur's answer but all I heard was silence. The Centaur had gently bowed his head to Athena. The goddess took his hair with a gentle strength, harnessing it in a soft, yet firm grip. She took him out from the shadow of the stone and towards the horizon, illuminated by the sun, and thus the two figures disappeared.

I stayed there, immobile, ecstatically affected by the scene I had just witnessed as an invisible presence. I quickly climbed down the rock face and began to run: I crossed the country landscapes and reached the high walls of the city and the narrow winding streets of Florence. I pushed the heavy wooden door into the master’s workshop. “Master Botticelli!” I called out loudly. He was sitting before a canvas covered by white cloth. When he heard me, he turned around, his eyebrows raised, an interrogative expression on his face. “You have no idea what I’m about to tell you”, I said. I told him about the meeting between Pallas and the Centaur, which I had seen from above. At the end of my story, my master’s eyes were wide open and he did not say a word. He simply raised the white cloth covering the mysterious canvas, revealing Pallas’ ethereal beauty and the goddess immortalized in the act of seizing the Centaur's hair between her white hands. I was open mouthed. “How can this be possible?” I asked, shocked. The master answered, thoughtfully: “Some time ago, Lorenzo de’ Medici commissioned a painting that would convey the political image of his family. Having no idea how to start, I found myself wandering over the same peak you have just told me about, in search of inspiration. That is when I saw the triumph of Athena over the Centaur. The surreal vision ended the questions that tormented me. Athena was the clearest example of a power that does not dominate, but which guides. A power that brought order back to the Centaur’s soul, just as the Medici brought peace to Florence. Thus, to the olive branch ornaments, the symbol of the goddess and of Christian peace, I added some rings with a diamond, the symbol of the Medici, those who maintain harmony in the city. I was thinking that I could create a connection between this and my last piece; do you remember the Spring?”  “And how could I forget it?” I thought. “After all, veneration of natural beauty goes hand in hand with the search for truth, don’t you think?”

He suddenly stopped and smiled at me. It looked as though he had been seized by a playful compassion for me. “I think I have been rambling a little too much. You must also have had some doubt when you went up to that peak. What could be so important as to afflict your young mind, to bother that poor Centaur and the divine Athena?”

Ignoring his condescending tone, I started to think, when the answer came to me clearly. “Sir, it is difficult to say in words what was tormenting me on the top of that precipice. For years I have been dragging a beast inside me, that’s what I call it, which pushes me to do magnificent things, because it nourishes and excites my creativity. I could not be without it. It is my sensitive, instinctive and emotional soul. But not only is my beast out of control, it seems able to overwhelm me, amplifying my feelings to excess.

I have no wish to chain or repress this creature. I would just like it to cease spiking my insides, opening bleeding wounds that cannot heal. I would like it to flow, harmoniously, like a stream, unstoppable but balanced and vital.

Athena honoured me with her presence, perhaps, because of what I aspire to become: a woman who lives her passions, but who does not let these overwhelm her. Like Athena with the centaur, I need to find the strength to guide this inner animal with the same resolute grace, or it will continue to make me suffer, as well as those around me.

My passionate monologue must have affected Botticelli, who looked at me with a touch of melancholy.

I smiled with tears in my eyes: probably, he knew something about this too.

Text by Sofia Kossiwa Sessou

Voice by Lella Costa.

Devant moi se tenaient le vert luxuriant de la colline et le bleu frais du fleuve, ondulés par le balancement placide d'un navire solitaire. Le sommet sur lequel j’étais assise était un rocher sombre pointé vers le ciel, mais pas assez haut pour échapper aux douces rafales du vent qui jouaient gaiement avec mes cheveux. Je sentais l'oscillation de mes pieds dans le vide, quand j'entendis un grondement venir de l'autre côté de la colline. Je levai la tête et fixai mon regard sur l'horizon. Le bruit s'intensifia à chaque instant, lorsque d'un nuage de poussière apparut le galop assourdissant et déconnecté d'un Centaure. La rapidité avec laquelle il atteignit le rocher me fit croire qu’il aurait fini contre, mais il se retourna plutôt avec une habile manœuvre des pattes.

Il commença à longer le mur de pierre avec un léger trot, mais ne trouvant aucune issue de secours, il s'arrêta. Ce fut une crise de colère : la créature piaffait, se retournait et se tortillait comme une bête dans une cage. J’observai cette scène avec crainte et consternation : le Centaure ne semblait pas avoir le moindre intérêt pour moi, mais l'aura d'angoisse qui l'entourait était très contagieuse. L’activité de ses sabots sur le sol scannait les moments qui s'écoulaient pour arriver à quelque chose d'inexorable, lorsque celui-ci saisit l'arc de chasse, prit une flèche dans le carquois et la pointa au sol, gardant les yeux rivés sur l'horizon, et me poussant à faire de même.

C’est là que je la vis, au bord de la colline, avancer d'un pas lent et menaçant, comme un félin prêt à tenir une embuscade. La hallebarde dorée massive, qu'elle tenait serrée dans la main gauche, ne semblait pas elle peser. Il semblait que le vent avait trouvé un sujet plus intéressant avec lequel jouer : il se plaisait à créer avec sa robe des petits tourbillons de soie, qui enveloppaient autour des jambes de la femme ; des motifs de bagues entrelacées disparaissaient et réapparaissaient dans les plis. La brise faisait danser ses longs cheveux autour de la peau laiteuse du visage, du cou, de la poitrine et des épaules.

Chaque mouvement rendait différents les reflets rouge-dorés des mèches finement entrelacées de branches d’olive vertes et argentées, qui s’étalaient sur tout le corps : encerclaient son ventre, enveloppaient ses bras et ses seins. Mais c’était le regard, d’un gris léger et magnétique, qui rayonnait le charme de la femme : serein, mais menaçant ; fier et sage, mais humble. Elle avait l'expression cool de quelqu'un qui vient de gagner une bataille et est sur le point d’en réclamer le prix. Mais la dualité de ses propos rendait ses intentions indéchiffrables et provoquait des contradictions en moi aussi. Je ressentais de l'attirance et de la répulsion envers la femme, et la même réaction se produisait pour le Centaure, qui semblait fébrile, faisait de petits pas vers elle, mais ensuite se retirait vers le rocher. La dame mystérieuse, à quelques centimètres à peine du centaure, qui sembla soudain docile et impuissant, le fixa en silence, quand elle leva lentement son bras droit et tendit ses doigts fuselés vers la tête de son rival, comme s'elle voulait caresser doucement les cheveux bruns, mais il recula, effrayé. C’est là que la guerrière parla ; une voix élégante et vibrante me parvint : "Pourquoi bougez-vous centaure ? Vous êtes dégoûté peut-être ? Ou avez-vous peur de moi ? "

Le Centaure se redressa dans l'espoir de retrouver une certaine dignité, mais répondit avec hésitation : "Comment pouvez-vous me dégoûter, oh, Pallas Athéna ? Aucune des étoiles du firmament ne peut rivaliser avec votre beauté. Non, ma déesse, j'ai n’ai pas peur de vous, pas pour ma vie, mais pour ma liberté. J'aime vivre selon mon instinct et satisfaire mes sens au-delà de toute limite. Je veux vivre les passions sans aucune inhibition. Mais cela ne m'est pas accordé si je ne suis pas libre de vous. Pourquoi alors vous me persécutez ? Je vous ai fait mal ? "

Athéna ne répondit pas tout de suite. Dans ses yeux sages, je pouvais entrevoir son esprit prêt à élaborer une réponse. Pendant quelques secondes, il semblait que le monde s’était arrêté, puis elle parla : "Il y avait un homme, il y a quelques temps ; un philosophe et savant grec mon protégé, Platon était son nom. L'histoire qu’il racontait au monde, maintenant, je la raconte à toi, Centaure. L'âme, après la mort et avant la vie, a un moment de réminiscence dans lequel elle ressemble à un chariot tiré par un couple de chevaux et conduit par un aurige qui y tient les rênes. Le cheval noir est concupiscible et se dirige instinctivement vers le bas, à la réincarnation. Le cheval blanc est spirituel et s'élève dans le monde des idées, le Supercéleste.

L’aurige, en tant qu'esprit et tête pensante du corps, a le devoir d'élever le chariot vers les idées. Plus il en sera capable, et plus grande sera la sagesse de l'âme une fois de retour dans la vie. Mon intention n’est pas de te persécuter, Centaure : dans ta tête, trottent errants les chevaux noir et blanc. Ce que tu appelles liberté est en réalité la soumission de ta spiritualité aux passions, qui te maintiennent enchaîné sur la Terre et ne te permettent pas d'atteindre les étoiles, que tu ne vénères que de loin. Je ne suis pas ici pour te priver de tes passions, mais pour t’aider à trouver ton équilibre. Si tu acceptes mon guide, je serai pour toi l’aurige du chariot qui te portera à la grandeur".

J’attendis la réponse du Centaure, mais je j’étais entourée seulement par le silence. Le Centaure inclina docilement la tête devant Athéna. La déesse avait agrippé ses cheveux avec une force délicate, en le domptant dans une prise ferme mais douce. Elle le traîna hors de l'ombre de la pierre, vers l'horizon illuminé par le soleil. Ainsi les deux personnages, comme un couple de vieux amants, disparurent dans le néant.

Je restai immobile, en proie à l'extase de la scène à laquelle je venais de participer en tant que présence invisible. Je descendis rapidement le long du mur rocheux et je commençai à courir : je traversai les paysages ruraux, j'atteignis les hauts murs de ceinture de la ville et je parcourus les rues étroites et sinueuses de Florence. Je sentis le bruit sourd de mes pieds cogner sur le trottoir en pierre au rythme de mes pas. Je poussai la lourde porte en bois qui donnait accès à l'atelier. "Maître Botticelli !", je l’appelai à grande voix. Le peintre était assis devant une toile recouverte d'un tissu blanc. Lorsqu'il m’entendit, il tourna la tête vers moi, ses sourcils froncés dans une expression interrogative. Je remarquai qu'il avait l'air curieux et légèrement contrarié. "Vous n'avez pas idée de ce que je vais vous raconter", dis-je. Je racontai la rencontre entre Pallas et le Centaure à laquelle j'avais assisté. À la fin de l'histoire, les yeux de mon maître étaient devenus grandement ouverts et brillants. Il ne dit pas un mot, mais il souleva le tissu blanc par-dessus la mystérieuse toile, révélant la beauté éthérée de Pallas immortalisée au moment où elle capturait les cheveux du Centaure entre ses candides mains.

J’étais impressionnée. "Comment cela peut-il être possible ?", demandai-je avec un air choqué. Le maître, plein de soucis, répondit : "Il y a quelque temps, Lorenzo de 'Medici m'a commandé un tableau qui pourrait perpétuer l'image politique de la famille. N'ayant pas d'idées sur la façon de commencer le travail, je me suis retrouvé à errer sur le même sommet dont tu viens de me parler, à la recherche d'inspiration. C’est alors que j’ai assisté au triomphe d’Athéna sur le Centaure. Cette vision surréaliste a mis fin aux questionnements qui m’harcelaient : Athéna était l'exemple le plus clair d'un pouvoir qui ne domine pas, mais qui guide. Si tu la regarde attentivement, tu remarqueras que la déesse est droite, sa tête est haute, elle exprime la beauté, l’élégance, et la force. Elle n’est pas violente, mais calme, car elle a le pouvoir et sait l’utiliser. Elle a rappelé le Centaure à l’ordre, exactement, comme les Médicis ont apporté la paix à Florence. C’est pourquoi j’ai entremêlé les rameaux d'olivier, symbole de la déesse et de la paix chrétienne, avec des bagues à diamant, symbole des Médicis, ceux qui gardent l'harmonie dans la ville ...".

Je voulais qu'il insiste un peu plus sur l'étrange vision qui nous avait frappés tous deux, mais il était tellement absorbé par la description de son nouveau chef-d'œuvre, au point que l'idée d’enrayer son élan m'affligeait.

"Je pense que les couleurs étaient un coup de génie», dit-il ; "Je voulais travailler beaucoup sur le clair-sombre pour distinguer la raison des sens ; en effet, si tu le remarques, Pallas Athéna est lumineuse ; j’ai utilisé des couleurs très claires pour rendre cet effet, par exemple dans la robe blanche, semi-transparent. Même les cheveux et la hallebarde reflètent une lumière dorée.

Par ailleurs, Athéna est entourée d'un paysage en soi lumineux.

On ne peut pas en dire autant du Centaure, piégé à l’ombre du rocher ; pour lui, j'ai réservé des couleurs plus troubles, à la fois pour le manteau sombre et pour la peau d’olive. De plus, je pense avoir bien rendu l’interaction entre les deux personnages ; les mouvements sont dynamiques mais sans un usage excessif de pathos et de violence. Ils sont ... laisse-moi réfléchir au terme approprié ... voilà, harmonieux. Je pensais juste que je pouvais créer un lien entre ceci et mon dernier travail.  Souviens-toi du Printemps ?"  "Et comment l’oublier ?", pensai-je. "Après tout", dit mon maître, "la vénération de la beauté naturelle va de pair avec la recherche de la vérité, tu ne crois pas ?"

Il s’arrêta brusquement et il me sourit, comme s’il avait été pris par un coup de compassion à mon égard. "Je pense avoir tergiversé un peu trop. Revenant à la vision : elle est apparue à mes yeux en réponse à une question. Un doute devait aussi te tourmenter lorsque tu t’es aventurée sur ce sommet ; je suis curieux de savoir quoi, de si urgent, affligeait ton jeune esprit, de déranger ce pauvre Centaure et la divine Athéna ? "

Ignorant son air de suffisance, je commençais à réfléchir, lorsque la réponse m’apparut claire et livide. J’avais probablement les larmes aux yeux, car le maître me regardait avec un air perplexe ; alors je me dépêchai de parler : "Monsieur, il est difficile d'expliquer avec des mots ce qui me tourmentait au sommet de cette falaise ; ce n'est pas quelque chose de tangible ou d'observable. Depuis des années, je traîne en moi une sorte de créature animale, sauvage, qui me pousse à faire des choses merveilleuses, puisqu’elle nourrit et enivre ma créativité. Je ne pourrais jamais me passer d'elle, elle est mon âme sensible, instinctive et émotionnelle. Sans elle, je ne pourrais pas me vanter de la moindre supériorité par rapport à une machine ou à un bout de bois. Mais ma bête échappe tout contrôle, elle amplifie mes émotions de façon exagérée, transformant ma tristesse en désespoir, en rage la simple colère, la peur devient panique. Même des émotions positives se retournent contre moi : ressentir trop d'affection ou d'amour me rend vulnérable ou facilement influençable.

Je ne veux pas enchaîner ni réprimer ma créature : je sens son énergie indomptable. Elle doit s’exprimer. Je souhaiterais juste que cela cesse de nuire à mes tripes, en ouvrant des plaies saignantes que je ne peux pas guérir. Je voudrais que son feu cesse d'exploser dans ma tête avec ses langues incandescentes, qui brûlent les parois sensibles de mon esprit. Par contre, j'aimerais qu'elle soit fluide, harmonieuse, comme un ruisseau : incessant, mais équilibré et vital.

Athéna m'a honorée de sa présence, peut-être, pour ce que j'aspire à devenir : une femme qui vit de passions, mais qui ne s’en laisse pas submerger. Comme elle avec le Centaure, je dois être capable de trouver la force pour diriger cet animal intérieur avec la même grâce résolue, autrement il continuera à faire souffrir moi-même et ceux qui m'entourent. Quand j'arriverai à maîtriser ses tourbillons destructeurs, je les transformerai en esprits doux, qui me traverseront doucement, me revigoreront de leur énergie vitale, sans s'enraciner en moi, en se développant comme une infection mortelle."

Botticelli semblait touché par mon monologue passionné, et me fixait avec un regard mélancolique.

"Les effets collatéraux de la sensibilité ...", dit-il dans un murmure, si léger qu'il me fit croire, pendant une seconde, que mon maître n'était plus avec moi, ou du moins qu'il était devenu immatériel.

Je souris à nouveau avec les larmes aux yeux : il en savait probablement aussi quelque chose.

Naturellement, cet élan émotionnel ne dura pas longtemps ; Botticelli récupéra immédiatement son attitude joyeuse et ironique, bien qu’un peu arrogante, et il dit : "Ton histoire est magnifique, tu trouveras sûrement une solution au problème qui t’afflige ... Bon, tu peux dégager maintenant. Je n'ai pas pu fermer les yeux toute la nuit, et j'ai l'intention de me consacrer à un long sommeil réparateur".

Je levai les yeux regardant le ciel : "Pourquoi n’avez-vous pas dormi ? "

"J'ai eu un horrible cauchemar", répondit-il. "J'ai passé toute la nuit balader dans le rues de Florence pour éviter qu'il ne revienne."

"Que ce passait-il dans le cauchemar ?"  

Le maitre me regarda d'un air grave : "Je me mariais ...".

Ça me fit éclater de rire, et Botticelli m’incendia du regard. "Au revoir, Monsieur," dis-je entre deux sourires.

Je sortis tout de suite, avec mon esprit soulagé et la prise de conscience qu'après tout chacun a ses problèmes dans la vie.

Narration de Sofia Kossiwa Sesso

Voix de Lella Costa.

There is silence. I close my eyes, I am disorientated, confused. I drag my feet over a solid, smooth and extremely cold surface. A floor in the finest marble takes me back to a distant past, when I was a child.

I open my eyes and I am not alone: there are different generations all around me. Women, children, young and old men, crowd onto a large terrace overlooking a lake. It seems like a meeting, but it is not. There are prayers, but people are not looking at one another.

The terrace is fenced, but with an opening leading down to the lake. The doors to my house were always open to everyone too. My father was a generous, welcoming person. He used to say that there was no need to knock or ask to come in, that those who needed help were to feel welcome, listened to, understood.

The Holy Allegory by Giovanni Bellini, is one of the most mysterious works in art history.

It is an unusual painting in itself. When it was painted, at the end of the 15th century, profane allegories were widespread, but holy ones were non-existent. Like the life of every individual, this artwork is unique, without comparison.

We are in an indefinite, “suspended” time.

Who these mysterious figures are, we cannot say with any certainty. For more than a century, art historians have been racking their brains in the attempt to interpret a painting that, in the intention of the person who commissioned it, should have been understood only by a close circle of well-read people.

Of the many hypotheses proposed, the one I find most fascinating was formulated by academic Gustav Ludwig, who, in 1902, interpreted the terrace as the Garden of Eden. This is the start of the  journey into Heaven of the soul, represented by the child who is dressed and sitting on a cushion. The soul is waiting to be judged by the Virgin, the saints behind her and the allegory of Justice, represented by the woman wearing a crown, standing to Mary’s left. The two persons standing on the right are identified as saints, patrons of the soul before the celestial court. On the other side of the terrace, the landscape seems to allude to the route taken by the soul to flee vice (represented by the centaur tempting the hermit) and, finally, to arrive in Heaven thanks to virtues such as patience, humility and abstinence, as represented by the donkey, the flock of sheep and the goat.

There is nothing exotic in the scene that Bellini paints on the other side of the lake. If there is such a thing as an extraneous, “different” place, it is the terrace. And yet, this is where the passage from non-communication to communication is played out. What will happen when the figures begin to act? Will Mary raise her eyes first, triggering the event that everyone is waiting for? Or will the child on the cushion stand up?

I had trouble communicating too, but I had a power inside: the encounter with my husband. We met through letters; he knew I was Berber like him, because I lived in a small town near Agadir.

Our journey was made of many sacrifices, I grew with him.

I never stopped studying, “asking knowledge”, as we say in Arabic. The student is the “one who asks”. Along the way, I rediscovered something my father had taught me: the importance of keeping doors open. And so I became a mediator. Facilitating encounters, relationships, mutual knowledge and exchanges became my profession.

Like the clear, peaceful water of this lake, which is a chromatic link between the terrace and the bank on the opposite side, leading to the sheer rocks over the water, to the village and the castle towering over the dense woods.

Then, there are the mountains, which I often dream about at night. I dream of climbing impervious paths, which is a bit like life. But in the end, I always manage to reach my destination. And when I get to the top, I know that I have made it.

I open my eyes. Mary lifts her gaze, and the conversation begins.

Text by Samira Lahhane

Voice by Micaela Casalboni

There is nothing exotic in the scene that Bellini paints on the other side of the lake. If there is such a thing as an extraneous, “different” place, it is the terrace. And yet, this is where the passage from non-communication to communication is played out. What will happen when the figures begin to act? Will Mary raise her eyes first, triggering the event that everyone is waiting for? Or will the child on the cushion stand up?

I had trouble communicating too, but I had a power inside: the encounter with my husband. We met through letters; he knew I was Berber like him, because I lived in a small town near Agadir.

Our journey was made of many sacrifices, I grew with him.

I never stopped studying, “asking knowledge”, as we say in Arabic. The student is the “one who asks”. Along the way, I rediscovered something my father had taught me: the importance of keeping doors open. And so I became a mediator. Facilitating encounters, relationships, mutual knowledge and exchanges became my profession.

Like the clear, peaceful water of this lake, which is a chromatic link between the terrace and the bank on the opposite side, leading to the sheer rocks over the water, to the village and the castle towering over the dense woods.

Then, there are the mountains, which I often dream about at night. I dream of climbing impervious paths, which is a bit like life. But in the end, I always manage to reach my destination. And when I get to the top, I know that I have made it.

I open my eyes. Mary lifts her gaze, and the conversation begins.

Text by Samira Lahhane

Voice by Micaela Casalboni

He brought me here.

We met in the Gallery on a November afternoon, in the room where I was working. He was immersed in his thoughts, and I in mine.

Just a few tourists in the rooms and corridors, and a calm atmosphere in the shadowy autumn light.

I looked up and saw him. I had never met him, yet he was there, where he had always been.

This is what happens when there is so much beauty all around you.

Then, a second of harmony, which is like a small jolt for you... And there it was, that bent head of an old man.

A prophet? A saint? A wise man?

Like a gush of water, for me, he is my grandfather, Armando.

An elementary schoolteacher with a passion for Greek and Latin, just a few things in his backpack, including War and Peace by Tolstoy and, on the day after 8th September 1943, the long walk home, from Rome to Sicily.

As I said, it was he, with his love of beauty, who brought me here to Florence.

So why was I so struck by a painting in Lombard style? After all, the artist, Camillo Boccaccino, is almost unknown, and his city, Cremona, is not 16th-century Florence.

Why this old man’s head, out of all the masterpieces in the Uffizi?

Because for me, this face has no identity of its own, and anyone can give it some emotional tie. A slight memory that is timid and powerful at the same time.

We know almost nothing about the painting; it could be a preparatory study for an altarpiece never executed, but it looks more like a fragment.

We also know very little about the artist. Very few of his works remain: four altarpieces, of which one has been lost, and frescoes in the church of San Sigismondo and the Cathedral, both in Cremona.

And then, this portrait of an old man, with all its mystery.

A palette played out in the colour tones that art historian Mina Gregori, also Cremonese by birth, describes as: “a range of autumn fire; a bonfire of crisp, dry leaves”.

How did Boccaccino achieve these colours?

With light.

Yes, light! I’ll try to follow it.

It comes from above, lighting the receding hairline, and not by chance: the forehead is where knowledge resides.

The man is looking downwards; he frowns, as if his quiet mind had just been enlightened by a sudden thought.

His eyes are barely perceivable; they are in shadow because the light is shining straight on the thick white beard, which is almost eaten away by the darkness at the bottom.

Wrinkles, like the waves on the sea after a storm, seem to fade around the barrier of the eyebrows, and there is a worry line to mark the boundary between the forehead and the long, regular nose, almost like the tip of an arrow.

The expression is friendly, the intention gentle, like a tender, awkward St. Joseph.

He has the tenderness of the elderly on his face; the same tenderness that makes me think of my grandfather.

A memory that merges with the light, like colour merges with shadow in Camillo Boccaccino.

It’s summer. I am going into my grandparents’ house in the village. It’s a large, old house.

The silence of an early afternoon in the sun. The sound of the cicadas. An antechamber bathed in sunlight, giving cool shade to the other rooms in the home.

I move forward from the heat into the dim dining room, where there is a large table in dark wood, protected by a thick green sheet of glass. The light filters from the antechamber.

He isn’t here, though. I find him writing at his desk, strictly in pencil, in a small room invaded by warmth and silence. The blinding light is kept back by a fine embroidered curtain, white and swollen like the sails on a boat. Darkness and light. The feathery  pencil strokes and the neat handwriting of the teacher. Soft, gentle expressions such as: “You look very well today, my sweet granddaughter!”.  The smell of books with yellowing pages and lovely illustrations. A world would open up to me in those moments.

Today, this is just a memory, and it seems strange that a nameless old man’s head could unleash so many remembrances and soften my gaze over so many dormant things. 

It was my grandfather who brought me here, before this face, so that this face would take me back to him.

Text by Maria Spanò

Voice by Arianna Scommegna.

And then, this portrait of an old man, with all its mystery.

A palette played out in the colour tones that art historian Mina Gregori, also Cremonese by birth, describes as: “a range of autumn fire; a bonfire of crisp, dry leaves”.

How did Boccaccino achieve these colours?

With light.

Yes, light! I’ll try to follow it.

It comes from above, lighting the receding hairline, and not by chance: the forehead is where knowledge resides.

The man is looking downwards; he frowns, as if his quiet mind had just been enlightened by a sudden thought.

His eyes are barely perceivable; they are in shadow because the light is shining straight on the thick white beard, which is almost eaten away by the darkness at the bottom.

Wrinkles, like the waves on the sea after a storm, seem to fade around the barrier of the eyebrows, and there is a worry line to mark the boundary between the forehead and the long, regular nose, almost like the tip of an arrow.

The expression is friendly, the intention gentle, like a tender, awkward St. Joseph.

He has the tenderness of the elderly on his face; the same tenderness that makes me think of my grandfather.

A memory that merges with the light, like colour merges with shadow in Camillo Boccaccino.

It’s summer. I am going into my grandparents’ house in the village. It’s a large, old house.

The silence of an early afternoon in the sun. The sound of the cicadas. An antechamber bathed in sunlight, giving cool shade to the other rooms in the home.

I move forward from the heat into the dim dining room, where there is a large table in dark wood, protected by a thick green sheet of glass. The light filters from the antechamber.

He isn’t here, though. I find him writing at his desk, strictly in pencil, in a small room invaded by warmth and silence. The blinding light is kept back by a fine embroidered curtain, white and swollen like the sails on a boat. Darkness and light. The feathery  pencil strokes and the neat handwriting of the teacher. Soft, gentle expressions such as: “You look very well today, my sweet granddaughter!”.  The smell of books with yellowing pages and lovely illustrations. A world would open up to me in those moments.

Today, this is just a memory, and it seems strange that a nameless old man’s head could unleash so many remembrances and soften my gaze over so many dormant things. 

It was my grandfather who brought me here, before this face, so that this face would take me back to him.

Text by Maria Spanò

Voice by Arianna Scommegna.

I was born on my father’s land, in the country.

An immense estate, covering 260 hectares. One part was in the hills, the rest was green meadowland, where his livestock grazed.

There were three small communities around my father’s land. Sometimes the people who lived there would go to him to ask for a piece of land to cultivate, and my father would offer it for free. He recognized this need for land; his own was large enough to have some to give away.

When my father butchered a cow, everyone was invited. It was a great celebration; a time for meeting, when people could exchange stories, talk about problems in the community, ask for advice.

Also in this painting, executed by Ghirlandaio, there is a meadow. It opens out behind the figure of Mary, almost an empty space to emphasize her presence.

The three wise men have just placed their signs of wealth on the ground.

The youngest one is still removing his necklace, while a page gently removes his crown.

The Child raises his hand to bless the oldest king, who kisses his foot as a sign of devotion.

The crowded procession that accompanies the Magi is arranged in a circle on both sides, as if following the round shape of the painting and emphasizing the importance of Mary and the Child. 

In the background, a hut inside the ruins of a temple symbolizes the advent of the time of grace overcoming the ancient law, the Old Testament. Just like a slender bud that is finding its way.

And further away, a port. Perhaps this is where the Magi arrived to worship the Child.

Sky, land, sea... a limitless space.

In the 15th century, the episode described in the Gospel of St. Matthew became an occasion to celebrate the wealth and power of art patrons. Domenico Bigordi, known as ‘Il Ghirlandaio’, probably executed this round painting for the Tornabuoni family. The round shape of the work made it rather unsuitable for the altar of a church, and in fact it was made for the Tornabuoni to worship in their own home.

Representatives of the family are portrayed with great precision in the two men kneeling to the right, and perhaps even the Magus turned towards us. A sort of family reunion.

Then, there is Joseph, absorbed in a marvelous tender look directed towards Mary. A little apart from the others, his face resting on his hand, he contemplates his wife and child.

The figure of Joseph reminds me of my father.

He was always so protective of me. I was the youngest; the last of five children.

But he wasn’t able to protect me against the assault occurred when I was a girl, nor against my fear of possible revenge when the trial ended in my favor.

My father didn’t want me to go away, but I was sure I could no longer live in Peru. I’m the one who decided to leave, to change my life...

The day I left for Europe, my father watched me from a distance. He didn’t say goodbye; he didn’t want me to leave.

In the painting there are a few objects in the foreground, placed on a stone: a case for glasses, a saddlebag, and a water flask, just the essentials for a journey. I pick them up and leave. Without looking back.

I was just 22 when, newly graduated, I decided to face the challenges of a new world alone. I left a familiar place behind me; a wealthy, safe place, to find myself tossed around as an illegal immigrant.

When I came to Florence, it was a turning point: I joined the associations and support groups for new immigrants, became involved in local politics, began to take on new responsibilities.

In this initiatory journey, I passed under the ruins of times past, and crossed through the door of Mercy.

The Magi too, perhaps, passed that way on their return to the East. They were told by an angel not to go back to Herod and so they took a different route home.

A few months ago, I went back to my father’s house in the country. A nephew of mine was getting married. I saw how the family had grown, the children of children, the kids now adults, and many toddlers. There, once again on the large meadow around the house, we had become a great family.

The Magus in the foreground turns towards us, as if surprised by the people who continue to arrive in an endless flow of generations.

Text by Lina Callupe

Voice by Giulia Lazzarini

Then, there is Joseph, absorbed in a marvelous tender look directed towards Mary. A little apart from the others, his face resting on his hand, he contemplates his wife and child.

The figure of Joseph reminds me of my father.

He was always so protective of me. I was the youngest; the last of five children.

But he wasn’t able to protect me against the assault occurred when I was a girl, nor against my fear of possible revenge when the trial ended in my favor.

My father didn’t want me to go away, but I was sure I could no longer live in Peru. I’m the one who decided to leave, to change my life...

The day I left for Europe, my father watched me from a distance. He didn’t say goodbye; he didn’t want me to leave.

In the painting there are a few objects in the foreground, placed on a stone: a case for glasses, a saddlebag, and a water flask, just the essentials for a journey. I pick them up and leave. Without looking back.

I was just 22 when, newly graduated, I decided to face the challenges of a new world alone. I left a familiar place behind me; a wealthy, safe place, to find myself tossed around as an illegal immigrant.

When I came to Florence, it was a turning point: I joined the associations and support groups for new immigrants, became involved in local politics, began to take on new responsibilities.

In this initiatory journey, I passed under the ruins of times past, and crossed through the door of Mercy.

The Magi too, perhaps, passed that way on their return to the East. They were told by an angel not to go back to Herod and so they took a different route home.

A few months ago, I went back to my father’s house in the country. A nephew of mine was getting married. I saw how the family had grown, the children of children, the kids now adults, and many toddlers. There, once again on the large meadow around the house, we had become a great family.

The Magus in the foreground turns towards us, as if surprised by the people who continue to arrive in an endless flow of generations.

Text by Lina Callupe

Voice by Giulia Lazzarini

Nací en la tierra de mi padre, en una campiña.

Una tierra inmensa de 260 hectareas, una parte colina y todo el resto era un prado verde donde pasteaban los animales de mi padre, vacas, ovejas, cavallos. Tambien habia un grande río con un puente, un sistema de riego y una grande cisterna que recolectaba el agua necesaria para los tiempos de sequía.

Alrededor de la tierra de mi padre vivian tres pequeñas comunidades. Los habitantes de estos lugares se dirigian hacia mi padre, se presentaban ante él a solicitar un pedazo de terreno para cultivar y mi padre se los dava gratis. El reconocia esta necesidad de tierra, por que sus terrenos eran grandes y podia ofrecerlos.

Mi casa era una pequeña villa, delante de ésta habia un inmenso prado; era un lugar donde se encontraban los habitantes de las tres comunidades. Cuando mi padre sacrificaba una vaca todos estaban invitados; conocidos, parientes, amigos. Se hacia un horno de piedras y se comía sentados por el suelo, según la costumbre Inca. Era una grande fiesta, un momento para conversar, intercambiar historias, hablar de los problemas de la comunidad, pedir consejos.

Tambien en este cuadro hay un prado. Se ve detrás de la figura de Maria, casi un vacio para dar resalto a su presencia. Tal ves  Ghirlandaio, el artista que pintó este cuadro, se recordó del espacio que el gran Leonardo pintó alrededor de su Virgen de la Adoración de los Magos, que años antes habia dejado incompleta cuando viajó a Milan.

Los tres reyes sacerdotes acaban de poner todos sus signos de riqueza en el suelo.

El más joven se está quitando el collar, mientras el paje levanta suavemente la corona de la cabeza.

El niño alza la mano y da la bendición al más anciano, que le besa el piecito en señal de devoción.

El corteo lleno de gente que acompana los magos, donde Gherlandaio se exprime de la mejor manera de los detalles y de las variedades, se coloca a los dos lados formando un circulo en el quadro para dar más resalto a Maria y el Niño.

En el fondo, una cabana dentro de las ruinas de un templo que simboliza el advenimiento del tiempo de las  gracias que supera las antiguas leyes, el antiguo testamento. Como un capullo delgadito que sale.

Aún más, un puerto. Derrepente es donde los Magos han llegado para adorar el Niño.

Cielo, tierra, mar…. un espacio infinito.

En el siglo XV, desde la Adoración de los Magos de Gentile da Fabriano, el episodio descrito en el evangelio de Mateo y después en los evangelios apócrifos, se convirtió en una ocasión para celebrar los clientes. La   gran representacion de la familia de rodillas delante a la divinidad era una forma de ostentacion del poder.

Domenico Bigordi, llamado el Ghirlandaio, pintó esta ronda probablemente para la familia Tornabuoni.

De joven trabajó con el padre orfebre, para ambos el nombre Ghirlandaio nace con la maestria en la elaboración de guirlandas para peinados de mujeres. Posteriormente, Domenico abrió una tienda  de pintura con el hermano y el cuñado. Fue muy solicitado por las más importantes familias de Florencia; para los Tornabuoni, en el mismo tiempo en el cual pintó La Adoración, pintó una capilla en Santa Maria Novella.

Este trabajo, por su forma circular, no era adapta al altar de una iglesia; fue realizada para la devoción de los comisionistas en su casa privada. Se hipotizó que el hombre de los cabellos largos arrodillado a la derecha sea Lorenzo Tornabuoni, y que la pintura fue hecha con motivos del nacimiento de su primogénito Juan, que por lo tanto tendría que ser reconocido en Jesús.

Sin embargo, los representantes de la familia son retratados con grande precisión en los dos hombres arrodillados a la derecha, derrepente también en el Mago que se gira hacia nosotros. Una reunión familiar.

Algunos de los presentes miran la escena en primer plano, otros conversan entre ellos. Intercambian gestos, miradas. Cada uno de ellos es una cara, un recuerdo.

Y luego está José, absorto en esta maravillosa mirada de ternura hacia Maria. Un poco aislado, con la mano en la cara, contempla a su esposa y hijo.

En la figura de José veo a mi padre.

El siempre ha sido muy protector conmigo. Soy la mas pequeña, la ultima de los cinco hijos.

No queria que nadie me lastimara, ni siquiesa regañar.

Pero no pudo protegerme de la agresión que sufrí cuando era niña, ni de mi temor a posibles represalias cuando el proceso terminó a mi favor.

Mi padre no queria que me vaya de viaje, pero yo no podia más vivir en Perú. Fui yo que decidí irme, de cambiar vida....

El dia que viajé mi padre me miraba de lejos. No me saludó, porque no queria que me vaya.

En el cuadro, son pocas las cosas apoyadas sobre la piedra: una caja de gafas, una bolsa y una botella de agua, solo el necesario para el viaje. Le recojo y parto, sin mirar atras.

Tenia solo 22 anos, recien  graduada, he tenido que afrontar el viaje al nuevo mundo. Dejé atras un lugar familiar, seguro, tranquillo sin necesidades, para encontarme de clandestina. Estuve tan cansada de luchar para sobrevivir, que hasta desee de ser agarrada de la policia para ser reimpatriada. Luego decidí de resistir no solo por miedo, sobre todo por orgullo.

Cuando llegue a Florencia, fue mi cambio: me encontrer acogida de la familia de la senora anciana que cuidabo, conocer un nuevo idioma, comenzar a vivir. Comenzar a frecuentar los grupos de apoyo para los nuevos emigrantes, en las asociaciones de esa categoria, en la politica del lugar, comenzar a tener responsabilidades por ellos.

En este inició de viaje de mi vida he pasado tantas cosas y atravesé la puerta de las Gracias.

Tambien los Magos, derrepente, pasaron por ahi antes de partir hacia el oriente. Avisados de un ángel para no regresar donde Erodes, cambiaron el camino de regreso.

Hace algunos meses regresé a la casa de mi padre. Se casava un sobrino. Ví la familia crecida, hijos de hijos, los jovenes ya adultos y muchos niños. Ahi, en el grande prado alrededor de la casa, nos hemos vuelto una grande familia.

IIl magio  en primer plano se voltea hacia nosotros, como se fuera sorprendido de ver llegar tantas generaciones.

Texto de Lina Callupe

Voz de Giulia Lazzarini

It is dawn. Under a clear sky, a warm embrace, perhaps the last one between Andromeda and Cassiopeia, the mother who had boasted she was the most beautiful of the Nereids. In his Metamorphoses, Ovid narrates how, in order to punish her, Poseidon sent a terrible monster to raid the coast of the kingdom of Andromeda’s father, Cepheus.

The first time I saw this painting, I was struck by the monster, a dragon that looks gentle rather than scary, like those creatures that can be found inside a book of fairy tales. It could only have been painted by Piero di Cosimo, an artist of “witty and extravagant invention”.

Then, as my gaze moved over the canvas, I saw a girl tied to a tree. In the foreground, three despairing women, their faces buried in their hands, bodies hidden inside their cloaks, totally absorbed in their weeping. They are unable to look at what is happening. And I can’t look at them without a feeling of rage taking hold of me. A tragedy is taking place and no one is intervening. It is easier not to look, not to be there! Like for men, whose pose shows just a hint of distress.

I got lost in this story. I looked and searched. Only then did I notice the two figures, embracing on the hill, to the left. Perhaps two lovers or, looking closer, a mother and daughter. One abandoning herself to the other, who embraces her.

Andromeda knows that she has to die: the oracle has asked for her sacrifice to placate the ire of Poseidon and of the other nymphs. But she is unable to leave that embrace, the sweet smell of her mother, which is so reassuring…

… This embrace led me to start weaving this story into my own.  

And I suddenly thought of you, my new friend in a new town. You, who for me were like a safe presence, a warm embrace. I arrived in Florence, looking forward to opening myself up to new experiences. You arrived shortly after, in that flat on the top floor in Santo Spirito. We shared so much during that time, and even when we went our separate ways, we stayed close, even at a distance: through marriages, children, and sorrows. I knew you were there, and we understood each other, and we had much to give each other.

Yours was a warm embrace.

Andromeda had to leave the embrace of her mother. Now she is naked, tied to a tree trunk, feeling the strong ropes that tighten over her arms. Her nerves are tense with fear; her face is grey.

When I look at Andromeda, unable to react, I think of the pain that does not allow you to do anything, to think, to be present, because it is paralyzing. And when I see Andromeda with her exposed breasts, that she cannot cover or defend, I think about my pain that cannot be hidden or avoided because it is inside me.

When my father died, I felt alone. I had also lost my mother and it wasn’t fair. Suddenly, I was no longer a daughter. I felt like I had lost my roots, my past. All gone. The monster arrived suddenly, even if heralded…

Suddenly, the monster’s breath is on her.

“Where are you? Father, mother?”

Andromeda can see a group in the distance, backs turned to her. There is her father, Cepheus. At his feet, Cassiopeia, her mother, is weeping. But Andromeda is dying!

Not a look. Not a word.

I don’t know why you turned away, my friend, and why you no longer looked at me. Perhaps you couldn’t bear my pain. I stopped seeking you out.

Perseus, the young savior, flies proudly in. He can see Andromeda.

He lands elegantly on the monster’s back; his feet touch its soft flesh. A dull thud and immediately, he attacks it from behind. The monster gasps, sprays water from its nostrils… Yes!

You arrived softly, my son, and soothed everything. You look at me with your big eyes and my fears disappear; my heart is warmed, it hopes, it rejoices. Without even knowing my terror, you defeat it.

A festive atmosphere: there’s music, branches are waved, and eyes look up to the heavens in gratitude. Andromeda dances towards her hero, who looks at her with a dreamy expression. It is truly over!

Piero di Cosimo has just finished telling the story of the freeing of Andromeda. The episodes follow one another in rapid succession, they overlap. It is a narrative method that is typical of Piero, amplified by his extraordinary ability to observe and reinvent nature. He was taught this by Leonardo da Vinci, with whom Piero studied.

It was his fervent imagination that won him the commission for the large, bizarre allegorical wagons for the Medici court. In “Perseus Freeing Andromeda”, Piero uses all the experience acquired in the creation of those dramatic devices. Perseus’ feat is nothing more than a metaphor for the liberation of Florence from the monster of the Republic: the felled trunk on the shore is a clear allusion to a Medici emblem, with the laurel bough that flourishes once more.

On the hill, where Perseus offers sacrifices to the gods, the fairy-tale village lights up with gratitude, and everyone flocks there to rejoice. The relief is contagious, like happiness.

Life with my son is always a surprise and a celebration. I look at the sky and give thanks. I am still a little dazed, but when fear comes back, and disappointment is around the corner, he is there to give me hope, a smile. He needs my attention and he forces me to be there, for him. And I am there, for my savior. And I forget... And always give thanks.

Text by Viviana Fanizza

Voice by Ottavia Piccolo

Andromeda had to leave the embrace of her mother. Now she is naked, tied to a tree trunk, feeling the strong ropes that tighten over her arms. Her nerves are tense with fear; her face is grey.

When I look at Andromeda, unable to react, I think of the pain that does not allow you to do anything, to think, to be present, because it is paralyzing. And when I see Andromeda with her exposed breasts, that she cannot cover or defend, I think about my pain that cannot be hidden or avoided because it is inside me.

When my father died, I felt alone. I had also lost my mother and it wasn’t fair. Suddenly, I was no longer a daughter. I felt like I had lost my roots, my past. All gone. The monster arrived suddenly, even if heralded…

Suddenly, the monster’s breath is on her.

“Where are you? Father, mother?”

Andromeda can see a group in the distance, backs turned to her. There is her father, Cepheus. At his feet, Cassiopeia, her mother, is weeping. But Andromeda is dying!

Not a look. Not a word.

I don’t know why you turned away, my friend, and why you no longer looked at me. Perhaps you couldn’t bear my pain. I stopped seeking you out.

Perseus, the young savior, flies proudly in. He can see Andromeda.

He lands elegantly on the monster’s back; his feet touch its soft flesh. A dull thud and immediately, he attacks it from behind. The monster gasps, sprays water from its nostrils… Yes!

You arrived softly, my son, and soothed everything. You look at me with your big eyes and my fears disappear; my heart is warmed, it hopes, it rejoices. Without even knowing my terror, you defeat it.

A festive atmosphere: there’s music, branches are waved, and eyes look up to the heavens in gratitude. Andromeda dances towards her hero, who looks at her with a dreamy expression. It is truly over!

Piero di Cosimo has just finished telling the story of the freeing of Andromeda. The episodes follow one another in rapid succession, they overlap. It is a narrative method that is typical of Piero, amplified by his extraordinary ability to observe and reinvent nature. He was taught this by Leonardo da Vinci, with whom Piero studied.

It was his fervent imagination that won him the commission for the large, bizarre allegorical wagons for the Medici court. In “Perseus Freeing Andromeda”, Piero uses all the experience acquired in the creation of those dramatic devices. Perseus’ feat is nothing more than a metaphor for the liberation of Florence from the monster of the Republic: the felled trunk on the shore is a clear allusion to a Medici emblem, with the laurel bough that flourishes once more.

On the hill, where Perseus offers sacrifices to the gods, the fairy-tale village lights up with gratitude, and everyone flocks there to rejoice. The relief is contagious, like happiness.

Life with my son is always a surprise and a celebration. I look at the sky and give thanks. I am still a little dazed, but when fear comes back, and disappointment is around the corner, he is there to give me hope, a smile. He needs my attention and he forces me to be there, for him. And I am there, for my savior. And I forget... And always give thanks.

Text by Viviana Fanizza

Voice by Ottavia Piccolo

It all revolves around the Child.

Joseph looks as though he has just arrived. Joseph, with a colorful scarf around his neck, arms crossed as a mark of respect, and such a wise expression on his face, showing awareness of his own limits. With his leg, he encloses the space around the Child, as if to protect him.

His figure is bent to adapt to the shape of the round painting. He occupies the space left to him, aware of the role he has been given.

He approaches Mary and Jesus as if on tiptoe, with an attitude almost of modesty and reverence before the mystery of motherhood. He is looking in on an intimate space.

Mary is beautiful and at ease in this space. Her legs are outstretched, relaxed. A soft red cloak wraps around her, down to her feet.

Her skin is bright and her expression focused, absorbed in reading a book.

To our eyes, she is not melancholy, as many have interpreted her expression, because she is thinking of the fate of Jesus... To our eyes, Mary is a serene mother who is reading and teaching her child. The book on the ground and the one in her hands represent the passage from the old religion, founded on law, to the new one, based on love.

She is not afraid of what’s to come... She is living in the moment.

Jesus is standing, leaning against his mother. He is surrounded by the tenderness and teachings of Mary, as well as the adoration and protection of Joseph. He has just turned around; with his hand, he stops his mother's reading, his gaze moves beyond the figure of his father.

Joseph’s face is sad, hollowed and grey. The contrast between his dull complexion and the brightly colored scarf seems to reveal an inner state.

It is as if he were bowing before the force of the divine plan. He has great difficulty in accepting not so much the mystery of the child that is not his, as the consequences of this mystery. He silently promises Mary and Jesus that he will do all he can to protect them. It is as if he were saying: “I will watch you; I will watch over you, but I won’t disturb you...”

Here we are: me, you and our son, Riccardo. We three inside a circle that is like a protective boundary, enclosing our ability to find strength together, to control and manage our pain.

When he was born, the happy event turned into a tragedy in just a few seconds.

Our son was able to survive the trauma caused by that woman’s negligence, and perhaps neither you nor I were aware of just how painful the consequence of that trauma, that damned turmoil, caused by just a few seconds without oxygen would be… and here he is, our son, at the heart of the turmoil that upturned our lives.

It wasn’t easy to accept the damage done to Riccardo and even now, so many years later, I still can’t... 

The circle of pain closed itself around our lives: every time we tried to get out, even during moments of absolute happiness, such as the birth of two more children, we had to go back inside again. Travel, great school results, friends: all achieved in the shadow of pain.

Our pain is powerful, though, it is our strength.

It is the same strength that has enabled Riccardo to make such good progress, to achieve the unthinkable. He feels pain but, unlike us, he can see beyond the circle, almost stubbornly.

I want my child not to depend on me. We have created a space for him, a social life. It's our life that is closed. It revolves around him, without any room in which to breathe.

When we get home, it’s as though nothing else exists. We live in a small space; the flat is small, movement is limited, travel increasingly difficult.

I don’t think it is a coincidence that this Holy Family made me stop and think.

It was painted at the end of the 15th century by Luca Signorelli, the Renaissance artist described by various art historians as the forerunner of Michelangelo.

The figures have an almost sculpted quality, and the space around them is so compressed, so claustrophobic, that Mary and Joseph seem almost projected outside the surface of the painting. This is what my trained artist’s eye tells me. However, there is more. The idea of a circle that closes and isolates strikes a deep chord in me, as does St. Joseph’s attitude: attentive and protective, yet apart. It is not so much a question of physical distance, since all distance is cancelled out in this space. What struck me is the “difference” in Joseph compared with Mary and Jesus. It is a difference that Signorelli has portrayed in different ways: Joseph is the most constricted figure in the round form, almost as if forced inside with difficulty; his grey complexion contrasts greatly with that of his wife and child; even the fact that he has a different halo can be interpreted as a way of distinguishing him from Mary, the only one to be born without original sin, and from the Child, the Son of God.

Yet, with his entrance, Joseph is the figure that gives balance to the composition, and a kind of completion to the family.

At times, when we are sitting on the sofa, Riccardo will suddenly look up at the ceiling and smile. Perhaps he sees his angel.

He is able to see beyond.

Text by Magdy Hassan and Eliana Caputo

Voices by Marco Martinelli and Ermanna Montanari

Here we are: me, you and our son, Riccardo. We three inside a circle that is like a protective boundary, enclosing our ability to find strength together, to control and manage our pain.

When he was born, the happy event turned into a tragedy in just a few seconds.

Our son was able to survive the trauma caused by that woman’s negligence, and perhaps neither you nor I were aware of just how painful the consequence of that trauma, that damned turmoil, caused by just a few seconds without oxygen would be… and here he is, our son, at the heart of the turmoil that upturned our lives.

It wasn’t easy to accept the damage done to Riccardo and even now, so many years later, I still can’t... 

The circle of pain closed itself around our lives: every time we tried to get out, even during moments of absolute happiness, such as the birth of two more children, we had to go back inside again. Travel, great school results, friends: all achieved in the shadow of pain.

Our pain is powerful, though, it is our strength.

It is the same strength that has enabled Riccardo to make such good progress, to achieve the unthinkable. He feels pain but, unlike us, he can see beyond the circle, almost stubbornly.

I want my child not to depend on me. We have created a space for him, a social life. It's our life that is closed. It revolves around him, without any room in which to breathe.

When we get home, it’s as though nothing else exists. We live in a small space; the flat is small, movement is limited, travel increasingly difficult.

I don’t think it is a coincidence that this Holy Family made me stop and think.

It was painted at the end of the 15th century by Luca Signorelli, the Renaissance artist described by various art historians as the forerunner of Michelangelo.

The figures have an almost sculpted quality, and the space around them is so compressed, so claustrophobic, that Mary and Joseph seem almost projected outside the surface of the painting. This is what my trained artist’s eye tells me. However, there is more. The idea of a circle that closes and isolates strikes a deep chord in me, as does St. Joseph’s attitude: attentive and protective, yet apart. It is not so much a question of physical distance, since all distance is cancelled out in this space. What struck me is the “difference” in Joseph compared with Mary and Jesus. It is a difference that Signorelli has portrayed in different ways: Joseph is the most constricted figure in the round form, almost as if forced inside with difficulty; his grey complexion contrasts greatly with that of his wife and child; even the fact that he has a different halo can be interpreted as a way of distinguishing him from Mary, the only one to be born without original sin, and from the Child, the Son of God.

Yet, with his entrance, Joseph is the figure that gives balance to the composition, and a kind of completion to the family.

At times, when we are sitting on the sofa, Riccardo will suddenly look up at the ceiling and smile. Perhaps he sees his angel.

He is able to see beyond.

Text by Magdy Hassan and Eliana Caputo

Voices by Marco Martinelli and Ermanna Montanari