27 ...

The evening was winding down. Coffee had been served, and finally Donatello and Michelangelo were chatting quietly, while Mondrian was trying to answer my questions about Broadway Boogie Woogie. Having seen the painting at the Museum of Modern Art earlier in the week, I had been struck by the edges of the painted squares, rectangles and lines. 


"Your edges are not especially sharp; I mean that they could have been much more precise, yet you chose to leave them slightly rough, less defined. Common practice in the past few decades, if one wanted crisp edges, would be to tape around the area to be painted, seal the edges of the tape with a polymer medium or gel, and when that is dry, apply the paint and remove the tape. The edges are razor sharp. Why, and I suppose how, did you leave your edges a bit fuzzy?"

Mondrian leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "You must remember David, that I was working with oils, not acrylic paint. So there was that limitation – it is a little more difficult to use a method such as you describe to define edges in an oil painting. But, you are correct; it was a conscious decision. If I had wished to make crisp edges, I'd have found a way. No, that was never my aim.

"I am a painter David. Like you, I enjoy the physical properties of the paint, and I make decisions intuitively. People see the structure of my later paintings – the neo-plastic paintings – and because of the vertical and horizontal regularity of these works and perhaps after having read something about my particular nature, they assume that everything about the paintings is rigid and fastidious. That simply isn't true.

"Now I grant that it's easy to make this mistake; but in fact I love the properties of paint. I enjoy the painterly use of brushes, and I have never intended that my touch, as they say today, should be invisible.

"I used strips of paper to define the edges of shapes. And then sometimes I would later add a little 'kerf' to those edges by laying down another strip of paper and repainting. Or I might paint to the edge freehand if necessary. Either way, one can see my hand at work. After all, this is a human process, is it not?"

It was time to go. 

Noisily pushing back our chairs, we stood, stretched and left the restaurant. It was dark now, but the streetlights, restaurant windows and passing cars were enough to suggest a twinkling Roman liveliness. Pausing on the sidewalk, Mondrian lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. Traffic had quieted somewhat, and the smell of the evening air carried the promise of rain, as well as that nostalgic aroma of tobacco. Across the piazza, the empty theatre awaited its next performance, tomorrow. 

Mondrian had decided to head home straight away. I planned to accompany Donatello back to Firenze in the morning, and Michelangelo had chosen to stay here in Rome. We shook hands, exchanged good wishes and parted, and again I wondered where each of them was really going, and whether they had been here at all. Nevertheless, Donatello and I arranged a time and place to meet at the Termini in the morning.

The hotel Rex on Via Torino was just a few short blocks away. Still preoccupied, I found the nondescript entrance, climbed the few stairs to the reception desk where I picked up my key, and made my way along the hallway to the left. 

The room was almost satisfactory, if predictable. It was just a hotel and no more, a room that showed signs of wear and tear: the dark carpet was spotted in a couple of places, paint was chipped here and there, and the bathroom appeared to have been cleaned by someone who years ago had grown weary of the cleaning routine. But I was only here for a few nights, and the hotel was a short walk from the Termini - Rome's main railway station. 

My laptop woke quickly. I googled “Donatello,” found the Vasari biography, and refreshed my memory. Tomorrow’s train trip, I thought, should be very interesting.

25 ...

The doors of La Matriciana opened in 1870, here in this same location. Its name translates as 'the woman from Amatrice,' a central Italian village closer to Spoleto than to Rome. It opened a year before Rome would become the capital city of the Kingdom of Italy, three years after Canada became a nation, at the height of the Franco-Prussian War, five short years after the end of the American Civil War, and the year of the first ever international football match, this one between England and Scotland (it was a tie game at 1-1). The restaurant was here when the Costanza Theatre rose across the street, later to become the Teatro dell'Opera di Roma. Just sitting in the dining room transported one back to the 1930s, when the restaurant was last renovated. Did Mussolini dine here following a performance by Tito Schipa or Caterina Boratto? What other luminaries leaned over this very table, whispering scandalous secrets to one another?

There was something reassuring about the interior of the place. The decor said "I've seen it all, so get comfortable" and at the same time "not too comfortable, grazie." High vaulted ceilings hovered over marbled floor tiles and panels that extended several feet up the walls. Creamy stucco extended from there back to the vaults above. The spotless antipasto buffet table looked rooted to its spot, veteran of decades of use. And occasionally an enticing whiff of grilled pork or ossobuco would escape the kitchen. This particular evening was warm enough that the glass doors to the small patio on the sidewalk stood open, the chatter from the outdoor tables carried in to us by a refreshing breeze.

Mondrian wanted the stracciatella; the rest of us were content to pick and choose our antipasti. A rather stern-looking waiter took our orders for primi piatti, and we chatted aimlessly about the ancient monuments of Rome, St. Peter's, the Galleria Borghese, and the weather. Donatello and I shared a plate of seafood fettuccine. Mondrian sipped his wine, happily looking on. From the list of delectible-sounding secondi piatti, each of us chose something that no one else had ordered, promising a taste of each dish to everyone.

Piet Mondrian (arttattler.com)

Dinner with others around a table is an opportunity. It's a chance to observe people who are engaged in the most ordinary of activities, often when their guard is down. Donatello’s quiet graciousness with the boisterous Michelangelo confirmed what little I knew about him. It is said that he routinely left in his studio whatever money he could spare for the use of anyone in need. All accounts describe him as a gentle and generous early Renaissance master.

Beside him sat Michelangelo, bursting with self-importance, enjoying the food and wine unreservedly, interjecting outrageous comments but also surreptitiously absorbing the collective intelligence of the conversation – the appearance of a bull in a china shop with the cleverness of a chess master.

"A performance art piece," I continued, "often has no dance component at all. We're not talking about a particularly recent art form either. Piet can confirm that. Artists were creating performance pieces in the early 20th century ... and some argue that performance art has a lineage we can trace as far as back the Renaissance. But without a doubt, about 100 years ago now, the Dadaists, the Futurists, and others really got the ball rolling. 

Hugo Ball performs, 1916

By the 1960s, what was written or said about art had become as important as the art object itself – in effect the underlying idea became the focus of discussion, and for many, that idea was the art. As the art object fell from favour in those circles, art as concept – conceptual art – was a natural fit with performances that were transient presentations of ideas. 
Artists like Yves Klein ...

Yves Klein applies YKB (Yves Klein Blue - an ultramarine he copyrighted) to 

models whose bodies then become instruments for mark making. ca. 1960

... and Sol LeWitt, Yoko Ono, Joseph Beuys and Chris Burden and a host of others really put the spotlight on this idea." ... 

Yoko Ono, Cut Piece, 1965

www.telegraph.co.uk

24 ...

"Either a great deal, or very little," I said, "depending on a number of things. What we saw this evening is art, it is certainly performance, and because of the composer, the musicians, the conductor of the orchestra, and especially because of the outstanding performances by the dancers, I think this is art of the highest calibre."

"Well said David, but would you also call this 'performance art," asked Donatello. “What, exactly, is performance art?”

"I suppose I would call this ballet both performance and art, but not performance art. Defining that is difficult, for me at least.”

Michelangelo’s face seemed to be changing hue by the second, blossoming now from crimson to violet. Restraint was simply too much to ask of him. “What a lot of crap. Donato is simply far too kind and polite to call a spade a spade. This dance tonight was certainly beautiful, clearly the descendant of the Italian dances that Catherine de Medici took with her from Italy when she married the frog king.” The others squirmed and nervously returned to the prosecco, hoping that Michelangelo could be encouraged to lower his volume. Undaunted and oblivious, the great man continued.

“Yes, this ballet is high art. But the rest? These video things and studious prancings and posturings by over-educated, over-privileged young poseurs who know nothing of real life? Performance art? Pah!” And with that he drained his glass and signaled to the waiter for more wine.

“Calma, per favore, Michelangelo,” pleaded Donatello. “Relax, my young friend. More than most, you should be able to sympathize with artistic innovation. Both of us have made revolutionary changes in sculpture, and you have changed painting forever. Then too, there is your poetry. Surely you can summon the patience to listen a little, and perhaps learn something about this performance art. Have another drink, and be quiet.” He smiled affectionately at Michelangelo. “Please go on, David.”

                                Isadora Duncan in 1899

                                                                                                 Martha Graham, ca. 1930

“Modern dance and performance can be confusing, especially when they are performed by a well known ballet company. The lines blur; the definitions get fuzzy. I think we should start by agreeing that there is always good art and bad art. In the case of performance art, some decisions have been made as to which pieces are good and which are bad; but with newer performances, the jury may still be out. Maybe it would be a good idea to talk a little about the history of this sort of thing. But you mustn't hold me too firmly to what I can tell you, because you'll be listening to the ramblings of a very amateur art historian.

"Classical ballet is a kind of fixed discipline, with Italian origins, as Michelangelo correctly pointed out. It is one that has managed to adapt to the introduction of new material over the years, but also retains the fairly rigid core of defined steps, jumps and movements that continue to be recognized all over the world. My partner, for example, makes a point of taking a professional class in each major city she visits, if she might be away from home long enough to miss one of her regular classes there. Everywhere she goes, regardless of the language spoken locally, the classes are presented in French, the traditional language of ballet, and with only minor differences – how may jumps, for example – the classes are the same everywhere, based on the defined steps and movements that every ballet dancer must master, and continually practice."

The waiter arrived with two bottles of Brunello as we all rose to visit the antipasto buffet, made our selections and returned to our table. 

Trattoria La Matriciana has a long and distinguished reputation, in this same location. 

It's doors first opened here in 1870.