The Unforgettable Street Artist of Rome

by Paola Fonari

A lean, bearded man is trailing a shopping trolley along the sidewalk.

‘Fausto!’ I call.

I have heard that Fausto delle Chiaie displays his work every day in Rome’s Piazza Augusto Imperatore, between Emperor Augustus’ Mausoleum and the Ara Pacis Museum, and I have come to seek him out. He turns and looks quizzically at me.

‘Brussels, 1980,’ I remind him.

‘Of course! Paola!’

In the eighties, he was living with a friend of mine in the trendy commune of Saint-Gilles, once home to the art nouveau architect Victor Horta, and now a hub for artists in Brussels. The whole third floor of my friend’s beautiful maison de maître was his studio. I remember the walls were covered with paintings of dark, macabre figures. He never sold any. And like his paintings, he seemed depressed back then. But today, under the bright afternoon sun, he seems delighted to see me.

He looks fit and well, and younger than his sixty-six years. ‘This is where I am now,’ he says, arms outstretched to his surroundings. ‘I’m just about to set up.’ He takes a shoe-box out of his shopping trolley. It’s filled with cards, each with a few words scrawled on it in various languages. There is a low wall all along the sidewalk, supporting the railings surrounding the mausoleum.

I amble with Fausto to one end. An outline of the lower half of a woman’s body is chalked on the street. The upper part of the shape disappears under barriers which surround road works.

‘This is where my show begins,’ Fausto says, and places a card on the wall just near the chalked figure. ‘Mezza nuda,’ I read. ‘Half naked.’ We stroll along the wall, and every few metres he places another card on the wall.

‘My exhibition is called ‘Roma Oggi – Rome Today,’ he tells me. ‘Some people call it arte povera – poor art.’

When all his forty-five cards are in position he goes back to his shopping trolley, and near every card, he places objects. Simple, everyday bits and pieces. On the wall above the half naked woman he puts a high-heeled silver sandal. A map of Rome, crumpled and rolled into a ball, takes its place beside ‘Two Thousand Years After’. ‘That’s how the map was when I found it,’ he says. A faded picture of Christ’s face is beside a ‘Sold’ sign. Below the face are the words ‘30 denari.’ A snipped bicycle lock is labelled ‘It was beautiful!’ Beside a severely smashed toy car, the sign says ‘Visit without rushing.’ ‘It’s a warning,’ he says. ‘People go about their business in too much of a hurry, and it’s dangerous.’ Near a ‘Tour Guide’ sign, he places a tangled jumble of earphones and a twisted piece of wire holding up a white flag. ‘You see them all the time in Rome,’ he says, ‘groups of tourists, just following their guides. They listen, but they don’t see. And here, too, most people just rush past. But I can pick out the ones who are interested – the ones who understand. They take their time, they talk to me, they ask me questions. Like you.’

It occurs to me that were he a stranger, I would probably be one of those hurrying by, dismissing his Open Air Museum as rubbish, but I feel privileged to have the artist talking me through each work and what it means to him. Every piece is meticulously linked to its sign, to Rome, and is an essential part of his social commentary.

‘This is my homage to René Magritte,’ he says, stopping beside a large square piece of cardboard on which are the words ‘Ceci n’est pas une émission de télévision’ – this is not a television programme.

‘Do you sell your work?’ I ask.

‘No, I don’t. If anyone likes a particular piece, I’ll sign it for them. But it stays here. This is my studio now. People can make contributions if they wish. Look, this is one of my favourites.’ It’s called ‘Doppelgänger’. It’s a photo of himself, standing against the wall of the Aria Pacis Museum across the road. ‘I’m part of my exhibition,’ he says. ‘Sometimes I go and stand over there for a while.’ He crosses the road to demonstrate.

I stop to look at a large gold-embossed Bible. The sign beside it says ‘Non metteteci la mano sopra – don’t put your hand on it.’ ‘It’s for the politicians, he says.

They’re a bunch of liars. All of them.’

‘Are you happy?’

‘I’m lucky. Many artists think it’s great if they put on a dozen exhibitions. I’ve been coming here every afternoon for the last twenty years. Three hundred and sixty-five times twenty. Just do the maths; that’s a lot of exhibitions.’

I ask him about a sign that says ‘Zoo.’ It doesn’t seem to belong with any particular object. ‘There’s a mouse that scuttles behind the railings at night,’ he explains. ‘He’s not here now. But I’ll draw him for you.’ He takes a card and a felt tip pen from his trolley. His fingers dance across the page, and it’s ready. ‘I’ll sign it. It’s yours.’

Having spent an hour discovering Fausto’s work, I head back to my bus, clutching my personal, original, signed mouse picture.

If You Go:

For more information (in Italian), see it.wikipedia.org
To see a photo of Fausto in his outdoor museum, see www.flickr.com

About the author:
Paola Fornari was born on an island in Lake Victoria, and was brought up in Tanzania. She has lived in almost a dozen countries over three continents, speaks five and a half languages, and describes herself as an “expatriate sin patria”. Her articles have featured in publications as diverse as “The Buenos Aires Herald”, “The Oldie”, and “Practical Fishkeeping.” Wherever she goes, she makes it her business to get involved in local activities, explore, and learn the language, thus making each new destination a real home. She currently resides in Belgium.

Falling Out With Italy’s Eternal City

by Carol Stigger

I love Rome so much I live there two months every year. But last year, Roma morphed from lover to spouse who no longer strived to satisfy, much less delight me. It suddenly wasn’t enough to span the Tiber with bridges, illuminate the ruins, and provide buses that stopped at posted stations whether they were empty or so packed that bodies and backpacks oozed from both entrata and ustica doors. I did not have an ah ha! moment, that moved my passion for Roma to the echoes of Medieval bells and memories of riso gelato. It was good while it lasted. And then it was over.

Maybe it was when I was trying to exit the Pantheon elbowing through conquering armies of school groups, stampeding tourists, pickpockets in training. Or when I tried get a glimpse of Raphael’s tomb, a touching monument graced with fresh flowers, and all I could see was the backs of tee shirts. Perhaps it was it the canned beans served at a restaurant near the train station and the waiter’s lyrical lies that he had picked them that day in his garden? Or the group from Kansas trooping through Piazza Navona pointing at St. Agnes’s church and calling it St. Peter’s, then turning to the Fountain of Four Rivers and tossing in coins rejoicing that they had found Trevi Fountain. Was it just me, the same me who must flame with passion for some author, artist, beach or vista? Had I fallen out-of-love with Roma?

So I declared a trial separation in this decade-long romance. I hunkered down in my Rome apartment on a hill over looking lines of laundry and pretended I was in Naples. I left my neighborhood only twice and briefly walking down to St. Peters to see if Roma was having a party without me. The lines to enter the church were long and weary. I suspected Roma missed the quick slap of my sandals as I had once breezed through security, the wait as brief as a ciao. I walked to Campo dei Fiori. The crowd was dense, raucous. Did Roma missed my strolls around the Renaissance palazzi, the fountain, and shadows of the brooding Bruno? Yes, Roma was pining for me, but he had changed. He would have to find another woman, one who could see beyond the crowds into his eternal heart. I must have sensed this would happen, for I had bought tickets to Spain shortening my Roman holiday by two weeks. My snap decision to blind date a new country was affirmed.

Then my friend T.J. called. “Meet me in front of Santo Spirito—we’ll have dinner.”

Santa Spirito encompasses three city blocks. The church entrance, hospital entrance, the hall of the frescos in eternal restoration process entrance, back door entrance? Where should I meet him? Under the ustica sign? Beside the mailbox? Across from the bus stop? The street is fourteen lanes of Inde 500 contenders and three pedestrian islands, so you get to play dodge car. Thoughts of Spain and tapas reminded me I was not suicidal, so I waited for a group of nuns and crossed in sanctified safety. T.J. is the softer side of Rome with his engaging smile and warm ciao, ciao. And, he knew how to rekindle my passion – a small trattoria, facing the Tiber, that has been cooking food with love and serving it with pride for more than seventy years. Everyone was speaking Italian. The bresola was va bene, the pasta carbonara was molto bene, the panna cotta smooth as a Latin lover, the espresso Arabian, and the limoncello free.

T.J. suggested we go to the fireworks at St. Peter’s Square in celebration of the 500th anniversary of the Swiss Guards. It was a balmy night and St. Peters Square is St. Peter’s Square. To my right was the molten glow of the church; to the left, a shadowy fountain; in front, an Egyptian obelisk that had been converted to Christianity with a cross on top. One star, a half moon, and a white cloud hung like a stage drop behind the obelisk.

The loud speaker crackled and T.J. translated the welcome, the thanks to the Swiss guards. “This square has seen fireworks for more than 400 years to commemorate. You may be standing where Michelangelo stood to watch fireworks” I imagined the artist’s tormented face smooth in anticipation of seeing beauty he did not have to wring from his soul for some sanctimonious pope who stiffed him.

Then darkness and silence. An explosion of lights arched, danced, and dripped to a classical number heavy on the Glorias. Then more lights danced over the obelisk and over our heads to the Hallelujah Chorus. T.J. tugged my arm. “Are you okay?” I was crying, because just then I renewed my vows with Roma. The Hallelujah Chorus ended with more explosions of arching, dancing, dripping lights.

I walked home, not wanting the evening to end. The air had grown cooler as I walked the fifteen blocks that gently slope up to my apartment. Flower markets on every corner sweetened the air. People passing greeted me “Buena sera.”

Despite non-refundable plane tickets and a non-returnable flippy red dress I’d bought for flamenco, I stood up Madrid.

The Secrets of Ancient Rome: Private Full-Day Walking Tour

If You Go:

Independent travel to Rome is exciting and rewarding if you do your homework and pack a good guidebook plus Rick Steves’ Italian Phrase Book. Figure out what you want to see before you go and how you will get from place to place. Stay in a pensione in the historical center, not in a chain hotel outside the center, so you can easily take a mid-day break. You will be in a good location to walk around the lighted piazzas and ruins late at night without worrying about finding a cab or a bus back to your hotel.

St. Peter’s is free, but the line to get into the basilica can be daunting. Try early morning or right after lunch. Another dreaded line is the one into the Vatican Museums. Sign up for a tour of the museums, which will cost a little more but will save standing in a two-hour line. Another line you will not want to endure is the one to the free restrooms outside the basilica. Facing the church, you will see the restrooms to your left. If you walk right instead of left and go through the colonnade, you will find a free Vatican restroom with little or no line.

If you are making a day of Vatican City, avoid the pricey, ho-hum restaurants on Borgo Pio. Instead, you can enjoy a reasonable, wonderful meal at La Vittoria. Cross the left colonnade, go through the underground tunnel, look to your left and  you will see the restaurant.

About the author:
Carol Stigger is a writer specializing in developing nation poverty, microfinance, and travel. She lives near Chicago with two Boston Terriers. She lives in Rome two months a year and spends her winters in India working with a community development organization. You may visit her Web site www.stiggerink.com or email her at carolstigger@sbcglobal.net.

All photos are by Carol Stigger.

by Sonu Purhar

It’s my first morning in Rome, and I feel as if I have awoken on the surface of the sun. The city’s stifling heat blasts through the hotel room’s open window and seeps through every pore of my skin. The crisp sheets I fell asleep on are now a damp, sticky mess; I’ve spent the night marinating in a pool of sweat, roasted from the inside, like an animal on a spit.

“Wake up,” I mumble to Leah, who is splayed out on the next bed like a crucifixion victim. My words are obliterated by the noise outside. The streets below the window are deafening. I can hear people yelling at each other, although this seems to be the Italians’ standard decibel of conversation. The irritating grate of big-city construction reverberates throughout my skull.

We had arrived in Rome yesterday, and in a spasm of enthusiasm Leah and I signed up for a personal guided tour of the city. As I lie stiffly in the cramped hotel bed, basting in perspiration, I dimly recall signing up for an eight o’clock walking tour. It’s now seven. I am disoriented, and the elephant tap-dancing on my head suggests a mammoth hangover. Last night Leah had insisted on commemorating our first evening in Rome with a truly Italian experience. “We’re on vacation,” she lectured me, when I pleaded exhaustion from jet lag. “We’re not going to sit around doing our knitting.” With that she shepherded me forcibly to the nearest mercado, where she bought two monstrous bottles of wine for the absurd price of seventy-six cents each and she mimed for the grocer to uncork them. He looked puzzled.

“Andiamo”, she said helpfully, the only Italian word she knows.

We spent a pleasant evening wandering the sizzling, congested alleys, progressing from demure sips to enthusiastic swigs from hobo-fashioned brown paper bags. Our reception by the Romans was exuberant: we received several grins and nods of acceptance from passerby, and more than a few hearty toasts from strangers with their own paper bags. Apparently, wandering the city in various states of drunken cheer is a right of initiation. I felt as if the city had welcomed me with open arms. I try to recapture that merriment as I peel myself off the bed. It’s eight o’clock and the tour guide is waiting for us in the lobby.

She’s a squat, busty woman with a violently garish pair of glasses so enormous they threaten to swallow her entire face. She introduces herself as Valencia, and proceeds to give us a bit of a geography lesson. “Please to imagine my body as Italia,” she instructs. “This is Roma.” She points to her left bosom with a talon-like fingernail. “This is Firenze.” Her fingers trail to her abdomen and circle her navel. “And Venizia is down…” As the fingers begin to plummet further, I snatch her wrist. I don’t want to find out where Venice is located on her rotund body.

Valencia squints suspiciously at me through her goggles. “Don’t want to be late for the Vatican!” I say brightly and I sprint across the lobby.

The Vatican is my first introduction to a European museum, which is kind of like learning to read from War and Peace. There is simply too much to absorb. Valencia schleps us around like she’s herding cattle. Leah and I soon give up on her and abandon her in one of the crowded exhibition rooms, sneaking off as she indelicately strokes a sculpture of a brawny centaur.

Leah and I do so much head swiveling, neck craning, and abrupt-reversing to catch something we missed that I soon feel like I need a chiropractor.

“I didn’t know we had to be so limber to appreciate this,” Leah says, peering under a gold-leaf bench to check out the detailing. She gets down on her knees and peeks behind the legs as if she’s on an Easter egg hunt. “I should have done more yoga.”

She’s got a point. Art is everywhere: on the walls, the ceiling, the floor, even the seating. At one point I sit on a bench to rest my feet, my hindquarters draped over a priceless masterpiece.

The museum astonished me by its opulence, yet it’s the Sistine Chapel that sends me to the moon. Even the crush of visitors doesn’t mask its elaborate grandeur. The Last Judgment, which stretches the room’s circumference, is breathtaking. I stand in the center and rotate slowly, allowing the surprisingly vibrant colors to wash over me. I feel like a player instead of a mere spectator, as if I could step onto a cloud with some muscular Adonis and feed him grapes. The painting is far too massive to fully comprehend, and there are too many details to note; I could spend all day staring at every single square inch and still not be able to wrap my mortal brain around its magnitude.

Unfortunately, my reverence is shattered when Valencia suddenly pounces on us in the center of the mob. Her glasses sparkle aggressively as she lectures us on the dangers of becoming separated. Her arms flail wildly in her distress, attracting the attention of several startled onlookers.

“I didn’t realize the Vatican was so perilous,” Leah murmurs. “Should I bring out the Mace?”

When she finally calms down, Valencia shares an interesting tidbit about Michelangelo’s fresco. He originally drew each figure nude to convey mankind’s equality in death. The Church, exercising its proclivity for condemning any suggestion of indecency, commanded him to paint over the naughty bits. Naturally he refused, so a “touch up” artist was hired to add strategically placed togas and animals and other such miscellanea. Although it brought the fresco to a G-rated level, it also destroyed the entire meaning. I can just imagine an angel lounging on a fluffy cloud somewhere on the vast canvas, cheekily holding a goblet of wine over his goodies.

An irate Michelangelo retaliated by adding something to the fresco himself: a self-portrait in the form of a rubbery, distorted human skin painted in an obscure corner. I suppose this response was meant to be a 16th century version of today’s middle finger.

After we’ve sufficiently ogled the Sistine Chapel, the three of us leave the air-conditioned Vatican for the oven outside.

“Now is ancient Roma. We have little time,” Valencia announces, and takes off at a gallop.

Valencia is unexpectedly agile. We don’t catch up to her until we’ve reached the Metro station several blocks away. In order to make my life as difficult as possible, the site of ancient Rome is on the other side of the city. Leah and I learn this only after miles of trekking after our babbling guide, who insists on detailing the history of each and every structure in our path. To add to our irritation, she half-jogs the entire way. The needlessly speedy pace is uncomfortable enough without adding the remnants of a hangover, the boiling temperature, and the swarms of tourists bumping and jostling us from all sides. By the time we arrive at the entrance to the Forum several millennia later, my heart is exploding painfully against my ribcage and every breath rips another gaping hole in my windpipe.

My first glimpse of the ancient ruins instills an odd feeling of displacement. It’s unsettling to catch sight of the looming monstrosity that is the crumbling Coliseum amid its incongruous setting. Ruthless gladiators and ferocious animals once fought to the death inside its walls, yet now I catch sight of a beaming man at the entrance selling overpriced souvenirs, as a bus laden with Armani advertisements lumbers past.

We wander through the vast Forum. It looks like an archaeological dig, with its mounds of dirt and randomly scattered monoliths. Its ancient, imposing edifices are resplendent under the sun. Despite the majestic glory surrounding me, I can’t help musing about the pathologies of the ancient Romans. I find it slightly disturbing how bloodthirsty and ruthless they must have been to enjoy watching the gory gladiator battles that were so popular.

“Yeah,” Leah agrees when I share my thoughts with her, “think of the job titles. I can just picture a teenager getting all excited because he got his first job as corpse-remover at the Colisseum.”

Of course, it was the gladiators who got the worst deal. Aside from having to entertain seventy thousand barbarians roaring for blood in the stands, they had to face each battle with the expectation that it would be their last. And as if excruciating death in the ring wasn’t enough, Valencia informs us that the pre-show often consisted of random executions during which spectators in the front rows were sometimes spattered with blood. I can’t believe people paid to see these distressing spectacles. One admission to the Coliseum: three goats and half your property. Mentally unhinging your kid: priceless.

By the time seven o’clock rolls around, Leah and I have traversed the entire Forum and are covered in fourteen hours’ worth of sweat, grime, and blood. I feel like a gladiator. Overriding Valencia’s resolved determination to lecture us about every single bit of dirt on the Forum grounds, we stop at the base of the Corinthian columns and collapse in exhaustion. After a lengthy dispute, we finally manage to convince our guide that if we don’t stop for the day, she might wake up the following morning to find herself buried under an obelisk.

“Well,” Valencia sighs, “there is much more to cover but…” A crafty look spreads across her face. “I guess Roma is not built in a day!”

Oh God, I knew that would crop up somewhere.

For More Information:

Virtual Travel to Rome: Top things to see and do
Odyssey Online: Rome
Rome articles in National Geographic

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Rome Tour with Kids: Interactive Ancient Rome Tour
Best of Christian Rome Full day from Rome

About the author:
Sonu Purhar recently graduated from Simon Fraser University. The semester she spent studying in Italy and traveling around Western Europe inspired her to write two travel articles, both of which have been published on separate travel websites. She has written several non-travel articles and is currently working on (many) writing projects.
Contact: spurhar@sfu.ca

Photo credits:
All photos are by Sonu Purhar.