By uffizigalleries
The podcast currently has 31 episodes available.
GENTILE DA FABRIANO |
Adorazione dei Magi |
Uffizi, Sala 5-6 |
Versione breve | La narrazione è di Zeinab Kabil, la voce di Laura Curino |
Leggi la scheda completa dell'opera su uffizi.it
Gentile da Fabriano | Adoration of the Magi | Room 5-6
On a journey, following a star. To meet the Child, here in the foreground.
In the three lunettes of the frame, we can follow the procession of the Magi. In the top left, the three wise men 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. When I arrived in Italy, everything was new. The homesickness for my birthplace was replaced by the nostalgia for the person I was when I lived there.
In the central lunette, the Magi are crossing an idyllic landscape to enter Jerusalem. 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.
In the top right, finally, the Magi enter Bethlehem, then continue down to where the Child is. 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.
For them, as for me, travel was a source of knowledge and renewal. When I became an Italian citizen, I started to visit 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.
Gentile da Fabriano, the artist who painted this precious panel, travelled a lot too. When he reached Florence he found a new way to make art, which he embraced with an open mind, although he remained faithful to his late-Gothic artistic roots. Thus, for example, he enjoys playing with illusions of depth, but at the same time he maintains as main points of view as there are episodes narrated in the painting.
Opening up to new things while remaining true to ourselves is what I have done with my three children. As they grew up, they enjoyed the freedom of this country, but also the solid nature of their roots. In our house, we wake at dawn, and each one of us pray in silence. In the Koran, there is a verse that says: “My Lord, increase me in knowledge”. In my early days in Italy, prayer was not enough to soothe my worries. Knowledge led me to pray in a way that was more mature, aware.
And it is talking about prayer that I perceive the great unity in this painting, given by the prevalence of gold. This was probably at the request of Palla Strozzi, the rich Florentine banker who commissioned this panel and is depicted behind the youngest of the Magi.
On a symbolic level, however, gold refers to divine light and defines a holy space, bringing 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.
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 predella, these small figures fleeing to safety, towards my land, Egypt.
GENTILE DA FABRIANO |
Adorazione dei Magi |
Uffizi, Sala 5-6 |
Versione integrale | La narrazione è di Zeinab Kabil, la voce di Laura Curino |
Leggi la scheda completa dell'opera su uffizi.it
Gentile da Fabriano | Adoration of the Magi | Room 5-6
On a journey, following a star. To meet the Child, here in the foreground.
In the three lunettes of the frame, we can follow the procession of the Magi. In the top left, the three wise men 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. When I arrived in Italy, everything was new. The homesickness for my birthplace was replaced by the nostalgia for the person I was when I lived there.
In the central lunette, the Magi are crossing an idyllic landscape to enter Jerusalem. 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.
In the top right, finally, the Magi enter Bethlehem, then continue down to where the Child is. 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.
For them, as for me, travel was a source of knowledge and renewal. When I became an Italian citizen, I started to visit 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.
Gentile da Fabriano, the artist who painted this precious panel, travelled a lot too. When he reached Florence he found a new way to make art, which he embraced with an open mind, although he remained faithful to his late-Gothic artistic roots. Thus, for example, he enjoys playing with illusions of depth, but at the same time he maintains as main points of view as there are episodes narrated in the painting.
Opening up to new things while remaining true to ourselves is what I have done with my three children. As they grew up, they enjoyed the freedom of this country, but also the solid nature of their roots. In our house, we wake at dawn, and each one of us pray in silence. In the Koran, there is a verse that says: “My Lord, increase me in knowledge”. In my early days in Italy, prayer was not enough to soothe my worries. Knowledge led me to pray in a way that was more mature, aware.
And it is talking about prayer that I perceive the great unity in this painting, given by the prevalence of gold. This was probably at the request of Palla Strozzi, the rich Florentine banker who commissioned this panel and is depicted behind the youngest of the Magi.
On a symbolic level, however, gold refers to divine light and defines a holy space, bringing 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.
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 predella, these small figures fleeing to safety, towards my land, Egypt.
GENTILE DA FABRIANO |
Adorazione dei Magi |
Uffizi, Sala 5-6 |
Lingua originale (Arabo) | La narrazione e la voce sono di Zeinab Kabil |
Leggi la scheda completa dell'opera su uffizi.it
Gentile da Fabriano | Adoration of the Magi | Room 5-6
On a journey, following a star. To meet the Child, here in the foreground.
In the three lunettes of the frame, we can follow the procession of the Magi. In the top left, the three wise men 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. When I arrived in Italy, everything was new. The homesickness for my birthplace was replaced by the nostalgia for the person I was when I lived there.
In the central lunette, the Magi are crossing an idyllic landscape to enter Jerusalem. 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.
In the top right, finally, the Magi enter Bethlehem, then continue down to where the Child is. 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.
For them, as for me, travel was a source of knowledge and renewal. When I became an Italian citizen, I started to visit 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.
Gentile da Fabriano, the artist who painted this precious panel, travelled a lot too. When he reached Florence he found a new way to make art, which he embraced with an open mind, although he remained faithful to his late-Gothic artistic roots. Thus, for example, he enjoys playing with illusions of depth, but at the same time he maintains as main points of view as there are episodes narrated in the painting.
Opening up to new things while remaining true to ourselves is what I have done with my three children. As they grew up, they enjoyed the freedom of this country, but also the solid nature of their roots. In our house, we wake at dawn, and each one of us pray in silence. In the Koran, there is a verse that says: “My Lord, increase me in knowledge”. In my early days in Italy, prayer was not enough to soothe my worries. Knowledge led me to pray in a way that was more mature, aware.
And it is talking about prayer that I perceive the great unity in this painting, given by the prevalence of gold. This was probably at the request of Palla Strozzi, the rich Florentine banker who commissioned this panel and is depicted behind the youngest of the Magi.
On a symbolic level, however, gold refers to divine light and defines a holy space, bringing 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.
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 predella, these small figures fleeing to safety, towards my land, Egypt.
BEATO ANGELICO (attr.) |
Tebaide |
Uffizi, Sala 7 |
Versione breve | La narrazione è di Mohammad Aletaha, la voce di Marco Paolini |
Leggi la scheda completa dell'opera su uffizi.it
Fra Angelico (attr.) | Thebaid | Room 7
In this painting, no one is alone.
This is what struck me when I first approached the Thebaid: it should be a wasteland (the desert near Thebes, Egypt), 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 an Iranian holy city; here, an imposing mausoleum was built in the name of the Imam Reza. A once small village was transformed into the most important destination for pilgrims in my country, and a sanctuary built around the mausoleum, creating a city within the city. The heart of the sanctuary is always full of people, even late at night. Many stories can be heard here. Relationships are formed, even among strangers. But when the people pray, personal silence descends.
I think this painting reflects the two extremes of life: 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. Most episodes are taken from a collection of hagiographic texts, the Lives of the Desert Fathers, whose increasing spread through Italy determined the success of the Thebaid scenes. This success, however, was ephemeral: the Thebaids we know today, ten in total, were mainly painted in Florence over a period of just fifty years, starting in the early 15th century. Then they disappeared as suddenly as they had appeared. But this was just the beginning of their journey through time: the Thebaids, more often painted on panels rather than frescoed, were uprooted from their context, at times cut and disassembled.
My friends and I were also split up. We used to go to the mountains together. In winter, we would proceed in single file, so that whoever was in front would leave footprints for the others to follow. 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. It is great to get together, like the reassembled fragments of a painting.
Frescoed Thebaid scenes, seen by many, had a narrative purpose. Those on panels, seen by few, were a support for meditation. They were probably placed in the chapter house of monastic communities, where the Lives of the Fathers would be read aloud in the evening, and then visualized by each monk in the silence of his cell.
I like to think that these monks lived through something similar to what I feel when I am fasting for Ramadan. It is a purification that trains the brain and the heart, suspends hunger and thirst. As a child, my father would take me to the mosque and we would pray with the others. Then preaching became too intolerant. I don’t like those who believe they possess the truth. For many years now, I have been praying alone.
In the Thebaid, monks have their own cell or cave, but they live together in prayer. The relationships between them are full of gestures of care. No one is in command. No one feels superior to the others.
BEATO ANGELICO (attr.) |
Tebaide |
Uffizi, Sala 7 |
Versione integrale | La narrazione è di Mohammad Aletaha, la voce di Marco Paolini |
Leggi la scheda completa dell'opera su uffizi.it
Fra Angelico (attr.) | Thebaid | Room 7
In this painting, no one is alone.
This is what struck me when I first approached the Thebaid: it should be a wasteland (the desert near Thebes, Egypt), 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 an Iranian holy city; here, an imposing mausoleum was built in the name of the Imam Reza. A once small village was transformed into the most important destination for pilgrims in my country, and a sanctuary built around the mausoleum, creating a city within the city. The heart of the sanctuary is always full of people, even late at night. Many stories can be heard here. Relationships are formed, even among strangers. But when the people pray, personal silence descends.
I think this painting reflects the two extremes of life: 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. Most episodes are taken from a collection of hagiographic texts, the Lives of the Desert Fathers, whose increasing spread through Italy determined the success of the Thebaid scenes. This success, however, was ephemeral: the Thebaids we know today, ten in total, were mainly painted in Florence over a period of just fifty years, starting in the early 15th century. Then they disappeared as suddenly as they had appeared. But this was just the beginning of their journey through time: the Thebaids, more often painted on panels rather than frescoed, were uprooted from their context, at times cut and disassembled.
My friends and I were also split up. We used to go to the mountains together. In winter, we would proceed in single file, so that whoever was in front would leave footprints for the others to follow. 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. It is great to get together, like the reassembled fragments of a painting.
Frescoed Thebaid scenes, seen by many, had a narrative purpose. Those on panels, seen by few, were a support for meditation. They were probably placed in the chapter house of monastic communities, where the Lives of the Fathers would be read aloud in the evening, and then visualized by each monk in the silence of his cell.
I like to think that these monks lived through something similar to what I feel when I am fasting for Ramadan. It is a purification that trains the brain and the heart, suspends hunger and thirst. As a child, my father would take me to the mosque and we would pray with the others. Then preaching became too intolerant. I don’t like those who believe they possess the truth. For many years now, I have been praying alone.
In the Thebaid, monks have their own cell or cave, but they live together in prayer. The relationships between them are full of gestures of care. No one is in command. No one feels superior to the others.
BEATO ANGELICO (attr.) |
Tebaide |
Uffizi, Sala 7 |
Lingua originale (Farsi) | La narrazione e la voce sono di Mohammad Aletaha |
Leggi la scheda completa dell'opera su uffizi.it
Fra Angelico (attr.) | Thebaid | Room 7
In this painting, no one is alone.
This is what struck me when I first approached the Thebaid: it should be a wasteland (the desert near Thebes, Egypt), 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 an Iranian holy city; here, an imposing mausoleum was built in the name of the Imam Reza. A once small village was transformed into the most important destination for pilgrims in my country, and a sanctuary built around the mausoleum, creating a city within the city. The heart of the sanctuary is always full of people, even late at night. Many stories can be heard here. Relationships are formed, even among strangers. But when the people pray, personal silence descends.
I think this painting reflects the two extremes of life: 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. Most episodes are taken from a collection of hagiographic texts, the Lives of the Desert Fathers, whose increasing spread through Italy determined the success of the Thebaid scenes. This success, however, was ephemeral: the Thebaids we know today, ten in total, were mainly painted in Florence over a period of just fifty years, starting in the early 15th century. Then they disappeared as suddenly as they had appeared. But this was just the beginning of their journey through time: the Thebaids, more often painted on panels rather than frescoed, were uprooted from their context, at times cut and disassembled.
My friends and I were also split up. We used to go to the mountains together. In winter, we would proceed in single file, so that whoever was in front would leave footprints for the others to follow. 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. It is great to get together, like the reassembled fragments of a painting.
Frescoed Thebaid scenes, seen by many, had a narrative purpose. Those on panels, seen by few, were a support for meditation. They were probably placed in the chapter house of monastic communities, where the Lives of the Fathers would be read aloud in the evening, and then visualized by each monk in the silence of his cell.
I like to think that these monks lived through something similar to what I feel when I am fasting for Ramadan. It is a purification that trains the brain and the heart, suspends hunger and thirst. As a child, my father would take me to the mosque and we would pray with the others. Then preaching became too intolerant. I don’t like those who believe they possess the truth. For many years now, I have been praying alone.
In the Thebaid, monks have their own cell or cave, but they live together in prayer. The relationships between them are full of gestures of care. No one is in command. No one feels superior to the others.
MASACCIO E MASOLINO |
Sant'Anna Metterza |
Uffizi, Sala 7 |
Versione breve | La narrazione è di Silvia Barlacchi, la voce di Paola Roscioli |
Leggi la scheda completa dell'opera su uffizi.it
Masaccio and Masolino | Virgin and Child with St. Anne | Room 7
A hand on a shoulder brings comfort, however small, slender and apparently fragile. This dual portrait of motherhood is all inside a vertical line: affection, protection, solidarity, trust, courage, from one to the other, through to the Child on his mother’s lap. This however, is not conveyed in words, but in gestures and presence.
Now, in this room there is a mother holding her child, 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 said much more. My mother, behind me, speaking to me as she combed my hair: advice, deep and simple thoughts about things, while my gaze was elsewhere.
Angels move around this apparition, guiding our eyes towards the group 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 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 artificial. I feel alone and wish there could be a hand to hold on to, 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.
Depicted behind Mary, St Anne was also referred to as “metterza”, i.e. placed in the third position in relation to the figures of Mary and Child. The panel was executed by two Florentine masters from the early 15th century: Masolino and Masaccio, two artists with different temperaments, who achieved an extraordinary balance in this painting. A hand on a shoulder means collaboration, interaction. The lives and careers of Masaccio and Masolino are woven together: 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 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 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 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 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.
MASACCIO E MASOLINO |
Sant'Anna Metterza |
Uffizi, Sala 7 |
Versione integrale | La narrazione è di Silvia Barlacchi, la voce di Paola Roscioli |
Leggi la scheda completa dell'opera su uffizi.it
Masaccio and Masolino | Virgin and Child with St. Anne | Room 7
A hand on a shoulder brings comfort, however small, slender and apparently fragile. This dual portrait of motherhood is all inside a vertical line: affection, protection, solidarity, trust, courage, from one to the other, through to the Child on his mother’s lap. This however, is not conveyed in words, but in gestures and presence.
Now, in this room there is a mother holding her child, 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 said much more. My mother, behind me, speaking to me as she combed my hair: advice, deep and simple thoughts about things, while my gaze was elsewhere.
Angels move around this apparition, guiding our eyes towards the group 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 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 artificial. I feel alone and wish there could be a hand to hold on to, 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.
Depicted behind Mary, St Anne was also referred to as “metterza”, i.e. placed in the third position in relation to the figures of Mary and Child. The panel was executed by two Florentine masters from the early 15th century: Masolino and Masaccio, two artists with different temperaments, who achieved an extraordinary balance in this painting. A hand on a shoulder means collaboration, interaction. The lives and careers of Masaccio and Masolino are woven together: 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 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 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 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 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.
SANDRO BOTTICELLI |
Annunciazione |
Uffizi, Sala 10-14 |
Versione breve | La narrazione è di Diana Kong, la voce di Lucilla Giagnoni |
Leggi la scheda completa dell'opera su uffizi.it
Sandro Botticelli | Annunciation (detached fresco)| Room 10-14
This fresco was painted for the Church of San Martino at the Spedale di Santa Maria della Scala in Florence, where abandoned children were taken in. Right away I think: this is why 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; many of the victims 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 Virgin Mary for the end of the epidemic. The background filled with a quiet and beautiful nature 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 before 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 Annunciation, and not the Spring that struck me when I entered this room. Its light and transparent colors gave me a sense of peace; the wide-open space made me breathe. Mary’s home overlooks this space. It is a rich household. 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. What I love is the air that moves through the arches. Natural light filters through the enclosed garden, and beyond, a landscape.
In China I lived with my family in a large apartment, but from our windows we could only see the skyscraper in front of us. It's unpleasant to not have an open view. If I had a house like this, it would be perfect. However, if I were living alone in such a big space, I would not be happy. Just as my parents feel the house is silent since I left.
I look at the Virgin in the fresco. She looks a bit sad and solitary. The canopy, carpet and lectern create a space of her own, where she can feel close to God. Her arms seem to create a space for a child who is not there yet.
An imaginary door has just opened in front of her. A strange wind accompanies the arrival of the angel. His feet have not yet touched the ground. The news he is bringing to Mary travels through the light.
In the space between the angel and Mary, I immediately felt how distant 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 it 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, and Mary will be alone again.
The environment where Mary lives is open, full of air. The precious marble patterns of the floor make the scene even dreamier. An ideal world, but one within reach, if only we were able to give ourselves space and time.
This home has no doors. Outside there is no one. In the distance, the poetry of nature. It will soon be dusk.
SANDRO BOTTICELLI |
Annunciazione |
Uffizi, Sala 10-14 |
Lingua originale (Cinese Mandarino) | La narrazione e la voce sono di Diana Kong |
Leggi la scheda completa dell'opera su uffizi.it
Sandro Botticelli | Annunciation (detached fresco)| Room 10-14
This fresco was painted for the Church of San Martino at the Spedale di Santa Maria della Scala in Florence, where abandoned children were taken in. Right away I think: this is why 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; many of the victims 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 Virgin Mary for the end of the epidemic. The background filled with a quiet and beautiful nature 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 before 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 Annunciation, and not the Spring that struck me when I entered this room. Its light and transparent colors gave me a sense of peace; the wide-open space made me breathe. Mary’s home overlooks this space. It is a rich household. 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. What I love is the air that moves through the arches. Natural light filters through the enclosed garden, and beyond, a landscape.
In China I lived with my family in a large apartment, but from our windows we could only see the skyscraper in front of us. It's unpleasant to not have an open view. If I had a house like this, it would be perfect. However, if I were living alone in such a big space, I would not be happy. Just as my parents feel the house is silent since I left.
I look at the Virgin in the fresco. She looks a bit sad and solitary. The canopy, carpet and lectern create a space of her own, where she can feel close to God. Her arms seem to create a space for a child who is not there yet.
An imaginary door has just opened in front of her. A strange wind accompanies the arrival of the angel. His feet have not yet touched the ground. The news he is bringing to Mary travels through the light.
In the space between the angel and Mary, I immediately felt how distant 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 it 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, and Mary will be alone again.
The environment where Mary lives is open, full of air. The precious marble patterns of the floor make the scene even dreamier. An ideal world, but one within reach, if only we were able to give ourselves space and time.
This home has no doors. Outside there is no one. In the distance, the poetry of nature. It will soon be dusk.
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