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From our recording studio in Brooklyn, we make audio that celebrates human creativity, history and the spaces we live to learn about.

The fables, icons, and innovations which helped shape Florence into the “living museum” it is today.

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Blood, Magic and Misfits 

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Florence

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“This is the fairest picture on our planet, the most enchanting to look upon, the most satisfying to the eye and the spirit."
- Mark Twain

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You’re heading toward Piazza Le Cure, a neighborhood so-named for the curandaie, the folks who in olden times would “cure” linens through repeated washes in the Mugnone River.  It’s known mostly for its outdoor market, which takes place upstairs every morning, Monday through Saturday.

It’s also known for being the site where, in 1520, the Madonna reportedly appeared in an oak tree at a dying man’s request, and demanded that a Church be built at that very site.  I’m not sure that they gave in to this demand, though they did install a plaque on the 500th Anniversary of the event.  

Of a different kind of interest, though, is this underpass, which is considered -- by me, at least -- the best place for street art in the city.  Each time I come down here, there’s a whole new network of paintings, a refreshing antidote when you’ve had quite enough of hearing about artists who died ten lifetimes ago.  

For twenty years, this place has been maintained by the “angel of the underpass,” a Sicilian man who goes by the name of Totò Dinamite.  Totò would scrub the floors of this place every morning, spending countless hours playing harmonica, sometimes hosting concerts with passersby.  I can’t be sure if he’s around anymore, but if you see him, tell him thanks.

24-15 Piazza delle Cure \|||// You’re heading toward Piazza Le Cure, a neighborhood so-named for the curandaie, the folks who in olden times would “cure” linens through repeated washes in the Mugnone River.  It’s known mostly for its outdoor market, which takes place upstairs every morning, Monday through Saturday.

It’s also known for being the site where, in 1520, the Madonna reportedly appeared in an oak tree at a dying man’s request, and demanded that a Church be built at that very site.  I’m not sure that they gave in to this demand, though they did install a plaque on the 500th Anniversary of the event.  

Of a different kind of interest, though, is this underpass, which is considered -- by me, at least -- the best place for street art in the city.  Each time I come down here, there’s a whole new network of paintings, a refreshing antidote when you’ve had quite enough of hearing about artists who died ten lifetimes ago.  

For twenty years, this place has been maintained by the “angel of the underpass,” a Sicilian man who goes by the name of Totò Dinamite.  Totò would scrub the floors of this place every morning, spending countless hours playing harmonica, sometimes hosting concerts with passersby.  I can’t be sure if he’s around anymore, but if you see him, tell him thanks.

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Le Cure Street Art

Tour Item

Tracing the limits of the city center, the diminutive Mugnone River is popular amongst dog walkers and those in search of quiet.  It is also the site of one of the more playful tales from Giovanni Boccaccio’s legendary DECAMERON.

One great part of being in Florence is just imagining the boring places where your heroes might have whiled away their days, and in the case of Giovanni Boccaccio, the Mugnone is one such place.  Born either in Florence or nearby in Certaldo, perhaps out of wedlock, but to a wealthy father, Boccaccio spent the early part of his life just figuring it out. His dad brought him to Naples and had him try his hand at banking and law, which bored him out of his mind.  When his father went broke and he returned to Tuscany in 1341 to ultimately try his hand at writing. 

Though it’s not clear as to whether or not he spent the bubonic plague in Florence or Ravenna, Boccaccio’s DECAMERON provides a snapshot of life during the most fatal pandemic in human history.  To give an idea: at his return from Naples, Florence boasted a population of 110,000.  By the time he had completed his first draft of the DECAMERON, it had withered to 50,000.  And though the Decameron starts from a point of despair, with ten kids surrounded by grotesque horrors, it evolves into a sort of hymn for the future, as they flee the city to take refuge in the countryside, passing ten nights dancing, swimming, and sharing the stories of which the DECAMERON is comprised.  

This, the Mugnone, is the location of the third story told on the eighth day. It’s a lighthearted tale about a stupid guy, Calandrino, a greedy wifebeater who was pranked by his friends into thinking that he had found the heliotrope, or bloodstone, the key to invisibility, amongst the river rocks.  

This is a story about hubris, about avarice, about getting what you deserve, and at the start of the COVID pandemic, reading it brought me a bit of joy.  Walking along the Mugnone, despite the dog crap and beer bottles, it’s easy to find yourself transported to the 14th-century, walking with stupid Calandrino as he combs the rocks for the heliotrope, hoping to find the key to disappear.  Though, out here, so far from the madness in the city center, there’s hardly any need.

118 Via XX Settembre \|||// Tracing the limits of the city center, the diminutive Mugnone River is popular amongst dog walkers and those in search of quiet.  It is also the site of one of the more playful tales from Giovanni Boccaccio’s legendary DECAMERON.

One great part of being in Florence is just imagining the boring places where your heroes might have whiled away their days, and in the case of Giovanni Boccaccio, the Mugnone is one such place.  Born either in Florence or nearby in Certaldo, perhaps out of wedlock, but to a wealthy father, Boccaccio spent the early part of his life just figuring it out. His dad brought him to Naples and had him try his hand at banking and law, which bored him out of his mind.  When his father went broke and he returned to Tuscany in 1341 to ultimately try his hand at writing. 

Though it’s not clear as to whether or not he spent the bubonic plague in Florence or Ravenna, Boccaccio’s DECAMERON provides a snapshot of life during the most fatal pandemic in human history.  To give an idea: at his return from Naples, Florence boasted a population of 110,000.  By the time he had completed his first draft of the DECAMERON, it had withered to 50,000.  And though the Decameron starts from a point of despair, with ten kids surrounded by grotesque horrors, it evolves into a sort of hymn for the future, as they flee the city to take refuge in the countryside, passing ten nights dancing, swimming, and sharing the stories of which the DECAMERON is comprised.  

This, the Mugnone, is the location of the third story told on the eighth day. It’s a lighthearted tale about a stupid guy, Calandrino, a greedy wifebeater who was pranked by his friends into thinking that he had found the heliotrope, or bloodstone, the key to invisibility, amongst the river rocks.  

This is a story about hubris, about avarice, about getting what you deserve, and at the start of the COVID pandemic, reading it brought me a bit of joy.  Walking along the Mugnone, despite the dog crap and beer bottles, it’s easy to find yourself transported to the 14th-century, walking with stupid Calandrino as he combs the rocks for the heliotrope, hoping to find the key to disappear.  Though, out here, so far from the madness in the city center, there’s hardly any need.

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Along Boccaccio's Mugnone

In the shadow of a dour sculpture of Girolamo Savonarola, this final resting place of three compelling Renaissance figures now stands as an unintended testament to the eternal nature of love.

You’re standing on the site of what was originally a 12th-century monastery, where in the adjacent convent the infamous friar and politician Girolama Savonarola lived from 1489 until he was burned to death in 1498.  Feel free to check out the church itself, renovated by Michelozzi in 1437 at the behest of Cosimo Medici, featuring a 14th-century crucifix by Fra Angelico and 16th-century side chapels by Giambologna.  

What we’re here for, however, is the plaque on your left, behind the severe, hooded statue of Savonarola.  This is the burial place of Giovanni Pico della Mirandola, author of the so-called “Manifesto of the Renaissance” and founder of Christian Kabbalism; he wrote the first printed book to be banned by the Church and ended up renouncing everything as a follower of Savonarola, whom he knew personally.  
When Mirandola died suddenly in 1494, Savonarola sermonized his devoted follower, but denied him entry to Heaven for reasons unmentioned at the time.  Interestingly, Mirandola was interred beneath the bones of the poet Polizano, a good friend of the author who died two months prior during the first outbreak of syphilis in Europe.  

Clouding this whole situation further, forty-eight years later, the poet and musician Girolamo Benivieni had his remains mixed with those of Pico della Mirandola, with the following inscription: Here lies Giovanni Mirandola, the rest is also known by the Tagus and the Ganges and perhaps even the Antipodes.  He died in 1494, lived 32 years.  Girolamo (Hieronymus, in Latin) Benivieni, so that after death the separation of places does not separate the bones of those whose souls in life joined Love, he arranged to be buried in the earth below. He died in 1542, lived 89 years and 6 months.
  
To be clear, we can’t be sure of what went on, or with whom.  While homosexuality was officially punishable by death throughout Europe at the time, the Florentines of the Renaissance openly embraced a “Neoplatonic” conception of love between men.  Whether spiritual, physical, or both, this proclamation of love strikes me as a beautiful counterpoint to the eternally dour Savonarola perched before it.

14 Piazza di San Marco \|||// In the shadow of a dour sculpture of Girolamo Savonarola, this final resting place of three compelling Renaissance figures now stands as an unintended testament to the eternal nature of love.

You’re standing on the site of what was originally a 12th-century monastery, where in the adjacent convent the infamous friar and politician Girolama Savonarola lived from 1489 until he was burned to death in 1498.  Feel free to check out the church itself, renovated by Michelozzi in 1437 at the behest of Cosimo Medici, featuring a 14th-century crucifix by Fra Angelico and 16th-century side chapels by Giambologna.  

What we’re here for, however, is the plaque on your left, behind the severe, hooded statue of Savonarola.  This is the burial place of Giovanni Pico della Mirandola, author of the so-called “Manifesto of the Renaissance” and founder of Christian Kabbalism; he wrote the first printed book to be banned by the Church and ended up renouncing everything as a follower of Savonarola, whom he knew personally.  
When Mirandola died suddenly in 1494, Savonarola sermonized his devoted follower, but denied him entry to Heaven for reasons unmentioned at the time.  Interestingly, Mirandola was interred beneath the bones of the poet Polizano, a good friend of the author who died two months prior during the first outbreak of syphilis in Europe.  

Clouding this whole situation further, forty-eight years later, the poet and musician Girolamo Benivieni had his remains mixed with those of Pico della Mirandola, with the following inscription: Here lies Giovanni Mirandola, the rest is also known by the Tagus and the Ganges and perhaps even the Antipodes.  He died in 1494, lived 32 years.  Girolamo (Hieronymus, in Latin) Benivieni, so that after death the separation of places does not separate the bones of those whose souls in life joined Love, he arranged to be buried in the earth below. He died in 1542, lived 89 years and 6 months.
  
To be clear, we can’t be sure of what went on, or with whom.  While homosexuality was officially punishable by death throughout Europe at the time, the Florentines of the Renaissance openly embraced a “Neoplatonic” conception of love between men.  Whether spiritual, physical, or both, this proclamation of love strikes me as a beautiful counterpoint to the eternally dour Savonarola perched before it.

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The Tomb of Pico della Mirandola

This is Ferdinando I de’ Medici, crowned Grand Duke of Florence in 1587. Hi. Famed sculptor Giambologna immortalized Ferdinando with this, his last work, which was placed in clear view of the Duomo a year before the Duke died in 1609.  Check out the strange feature on the back of the statue, under the words Maiestate Tantum (Great Majesty, in Latin): concentric circles of worker bees, symbolizing the Florentines crowded around their leader, Ferdinando, here represented, strangely, as a Queen Bee.  They’re meant to be impossible to count, if you’re interested in trying.  It’s a thing people do, I guess.

Follow Ferdinando’s gaze to the brick palazzo and you’ll find a window on the second floor, far right that has remained open for some four centuries. Why?  We must turn to a myth dating back to the 16th century, when this was known as the Palazzo Grifoni.  Here, a young woman bid farewell to her lover as he went off to war, and sat there every day for the remainder of her life, waiting for the man’s return.  He never did.  Upon her death, when a servant tried to close the window, art flew off the walls, furniture toppled, and chaos reigned until the window was reopened.  

As for the identity of the woman, some believe it to be Lisabetta Capponi, matron of the house and purported lover of Ferdinando I.  Others insist it’s Bianca Cappello (whose portrait inspired Gothic novelist Horace Walpole to coin the term “serendipity”, for those etymology fans out there). Though Cappello never lived at the palace, and was actually married to Ferdinando’s older brother, it is believed that Ferdinando I poisoned both in order to assume his role of Grand Duke, and that Cappello’s ghost roams the premises to this day.  Whichever story you choose to believe, one thing is fact: the window has remained open ever since.

8 Piazza della Santissima Annunziata \|||// This is Ferdinando I de’ Medici, crowned Grand Duke of Florence in 1587. Hi. Famed sculptor Giambologna immortalized Ferdinando with this, his last work, which was placed in clear view of the Duomo a year before the Duke died in 1609.  Check out the strange feature on the back of the statue, under the words Maiestate Tantum (Great Majesty, in Latin): concentric circles of worker bees, symbolizing the Florentines crowded around their leader, Ferdinando, here represented, strangely, as a Queen Bee.  They’re meant to be impossible to count, if you’re interested in trying.  It’s a thing people do, I guess.

Follow Ferdinando’s gaze to the brick palazzo and you’ll find a window on the second floor, far right that has remained open for some four centuries. Why?  We must turn to a myth dating back to the 16th century, when this was known as the Palazzo Grifoni.  Here, a young woman bid farewell to her lover as he went off to war, and sat there every day for the remainder of her life, waiting for the man’s return.  He never did.  Upon her death, when a servant tried to close the window, art flew off the walls, furniture toppled, and chaos reigned until the window was reopened.  

As for the identity of the woman, some believe it to be Lisabetta Capponi, matron of the house and purported lover of Ferdinando I.  Others insist it’s Bianca Cappello (whose portrait inspired Gothic novelist Horace Walpole to coin the term “serendipity”, for those etymology fans out there). Though Cappello never lived at the palace, and was actually married to Ferdinando’s older brother, it is believed that Ferdinando I poisoned both in order to assume his role of Grand Duke, and that Cappello’s ghost roams the premises to this day.  Whichever story you choose to believe, one thing is fact: the window has remained open ever since.

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The Cursed Window of Palazzo Budini Gattai

From the late 300s through the early 400s, if you needed to resuscitate your dead in Florence, Saint Zenobius, or San Zenobi, was your guy.  He reportedly cured the most permanent affliction for several, and most famously a little boy run over by a cart -- which reminds me, keep your eye out for bikers where you’re standing.  The first Bishop of Florence himself finally perished from this earth around 417AD.  Though his remains were originally placed in the city’s old cathedral, San Lorenzo, on January 26th, 429 (or thereabouts) they were transferred to this site, what was originally the Chiesa di Santa Reparata.  According to legend, in lugging his coffin across town, someone accidentally bumped it into a dead elm.  Despite the cold, the tree blossomed on contact and everyone rejoiced.  Once it died again, years later, it was turned into a crucifix, and, by at least 1333, this column took its place.  Now, every year, the city pays its respects to San Zanobi every January 26th by placing flowers at the base of the column.

A few feet away, just outside of the northwest “Cornacchini” door of the Duomo, you’ll see a statue of a lion also belonging to an interesting myth.  It seems back in the 15th century, a nobleman named Anselmo had a recurring dream in which a lion would eat him alive.  Finally, confronting his fears, he approached this statue and stuck his hand in its mouth.  He was stung by a scorpion hiding inside, and dropped dead right there on the spot.  It’s all highly unlikely -- the scorpions in Europe aren’t poisonous, just to start -- but you never know.

6 Piazza di San Giovanni \|||// From the late 300s through the early 400s, if you needed to resuscitate your dead in Florence, Saint Zenobius, or San Zenobi, was your guy.  He reportedly cured the most permanent affliction for several, and most famously a little boy run over by a cart -- which reminds me, keep your eye out for bikers where you’re standing.  The first Bishop of Florence himself finally perished from this earth around 417AD.  Though his remains were originally placed in the city’s old cathedral, San Lorenzo, on January 26th, 429 (or thereabouts) they were transferred to this site, what was originally the Chiesa di Santa Reparata.  According to legend, in lugging his coffin across town, someone accidentally bumped it into a dead elm.  Despite the cold, the tree blossomed on contact and everyone rejoiced.  Once it died again, years later, it was turned into a crucifix, and, by at least 1333, this column took its place.  Now, every year, the city pays its respects to San Zanobi every January 26th by placing flowers at the base of the column.

A few feet away, just outside of the northwest “Cornacchini” door of the Duomo, you’ll see a statue of a lion also belonging to an interesting myth.  It seems back in the 15th century, a nobleman named Anselmo had a recurring dream in which a lion would eat him alive.  Finally, confronting his fears, he approached this statue and stuck his hand in its mouth.  He was stung by a scorpion hiding inside, and dropped dead right there on the spot.  It’s all highly unlikely -- the scorpions in Europe aren’t poisonous, just to start -- but you never know.

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The Column of San Zanobi

The unassuming stone head embedded into this church bell tower is known as La Berta, yet another in a long list of Florentine legends dating back to the Middle Ages.  Forever associated with the controversial doctor and astrologer Cecco d’Ascoli, this site provides us with an insight into the fear and violence at the heart of the Medieval Inquisition in Italy during the 14th Century.

It’s easy to miss, but there’s a lady watching you from above, frozen in time.  

The boring explanation is that she stands in tribute to a grocer who donated all of her possessions to buy the bell in that belltower, which would alert her colleagues of opening and closing time.  Simple enough.
Far more interesting, however, is the Curse of Cecco d’Ascoli, a poet, professor at the University of Bologna, and astrologer.  
During the Great Inquisition, Cecco was accused of heresy for trying to determine the true birth of Christ by interpreting his horoscope, and on this day, a Friday, was being led toward Piazza Santa Croce to be executed.  He stopped in front of this church, begging onlookers for a simple glass of water.  

A woman in the window above reminded the crowd, however, that this man was an alchemist, and a simple glass of water could allow such a person to commune with the devil!  Thus saved from untold misfortune, the crowd rejected the man’s last request.  
His plan foiled, Cecco d’Ascoli cast a spell on the merciless woman, turning her head into stone, just as you see it there, and on September 26th, 1327, Cecco d’Ascoli, whether a man of science or man of the dark arts, would be the first professor to be burned at the stake by The Inquisition.

35 Via de' Cerretani \|||// The unassuming stone head embedded into this church bell tower is known as La Berta, yet another in a long list of Florentine legends dating back to the Middle Ages.  Forever associated with the controversial doctor and astrologer Cecco d’Ascoli, this site provides us with an insight into the fear and violence at the heart of the Medieval Inquisition in Italy during the 14th Century.

It’s easy to miss, but there’s a lady watching you from above, frozen in time.  

The boring explanation is that she stands in tribute to a grocer who donated all of her possessions to buy the bell in that belltower, which would alert her colleagues of opening and closing time.  Simple enough.
Far more interesting, however, is the Curse of Cecco d’Ascoli, a poet, professor at the University of Bologna, and astrologer.  
During the Great Inquisition, Cecco was accused of heresy for trying to determine the true birth of Christ by interpreting his horoscope, and on this day, a Friday, was being led toward Piazza Santa Croce to be executed.  He stopped in front of this church, begging onlookers for a simple glass of water.  

A woman in the window above reminded the crowd, however, that this man was an alchemist, and a simple glass of water could allow such a person to commune with the devil!  Thus saved from untold misfortune, the crowd rejected the man’s last request.  
His plan foiled, Cecco d’Ascoli cast a spell on the merciless woman, turning her head into stone, just as you see it there, and on September 26th, 1327, Cecco d’Ascoli, whether a man of science or man of the dark arts, would be the first professor to be burned at the stake by The Inquisition.

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La Berta: The Petrified Head of Santa Maria Maggiore

1300 was a year that changed the course of history for Florence, and you might argue that it all started where you are standing now, looking out at that beautiful column imported from the ancient Roman baths of Caracalla.
  
Florence was long split into two factions: the Guelphs, made up of merchants who supported the Pope, and the Ghibellines, largely nobles who sided with the Holy Roman Emperor.  In 1289, the former defeated the latter in war, and the Ghibellines were expelled from Florence, leaving only Guelphs behind.  

On Candelmaggio, May Day, in 1300, folks crowded into this very piazza to celebrate the arrival of summer.  It seems some members of the Donati Family came looking for a fight and started shoving people around, injuring a member of the Cerchi in the process.  These two powerful families, after years of strife, finally came to blows, forever dividing the Guelphs into two sub-factions. The ensuant brawl between the families led to the expulsion of the Guelfi bianchi, or “White” Guelphs, who were believed to be named after a woman named Bianca of the Cancellieri family from Pistoia.  In Florence, it was with this faction the Cerchi had formed an alliance.
  
It’s interesting and a bit confusing to note that amongst the expelled was a Mr. Dante Alighieri, who was married to Gemma Donati, despite his love for Beatrice. Dante was also an outspoken member of the White Guelphs, and blamed the Donati Family for his exile and Florence’s downfall.  In his Purgatory, Dante indirectly references Gemma’s cousin, Corso (who was still living at the time of its publication, by the way), as the  “guiltiest of all dragged by a beast’s tail to the valley where one can not be forgiven.”  Awkward.

This is all to consider: if the fight hadn’t broken out here in Piazza Trinita, if Gemma’s family hadn’t caused such drama, would Dante have been banished?  If he hadn’t been banished, would he have been so driven to write the Commedia?  If he hadn’t written the Commedia, would the Florentine vernacular it utilized have become so widespread, leading to the standardization of Italian in the 19th-century?  You might say, then, that here in this square on May 1st, 1300, one scuffle changed the course of history as we know it.

1R Piazza di Santa Trinita \|||// 1300 was a year that changed the course of history for Florence, and you might argue that it all started where you are standing now, looking out at that beautiful column imported from the ancient Roman baths of Caracalla.
  
Florence was long split into two factions: the Guelphs, made up of merchants who supported the Pope, and the Ghibellines, largely nobles who sided with the Holy Roman Emperor.  In 1289, the former defeated the latter in war, and the Ghibellines were expelled from Florence, leaving only Guelphs behind.  

On Candelmaggio, May Day, in 1300, folks crowded into this very piazza to celebrate the arrival of summer.  It seems some members of the Donati Family came looking for a fight and started shoving people around, injuring a member of the Cerchi in the process.  These two powerful families, after years of strife, finally came to blows, forever dividing the Guelphs into two sub-factions. The ensuant brawl between the families led to the expulsion of the Guelfi bianchi, or “White” Guelphs, who were believed to be named after a woman named Bianca of the Cancellieri family from Pistoia.  In Florence, it was with this faction the Cerchi had formed an alliance.
  
It’s interesting and a bit confusing to note that amongst the expelled was a Mr. Dante Alighieri, who was married to Gemma Donati, despite his love for Beatrice. Dante was also an outspoken member of the White Guelphs, and blamed the Donati Family for his exile and Florence’s downfall.  In his Purgatory, Dante indirectly references Gemma’s cousin, Corso (who was still living at the time of its publication, by the way), as the  “guiltiest of all dragged by a beast’s tail to the valley where one can not be forgiven.”  Awkward.

This is all to consider: if the fight hadn’t broken out here in Piazza Trinita, if Gemma’s family hadn’t caused such drama, would Dante have been banished?  If he hadn’t been banished, would he have been so driven to write the Commedia?  If he hadn’t written the Commedia, would the Florentine vernacular it utilized have become so widespread, leading to the standardization of Italian in the 19th-century?  You might say, then, that here in this square on May 1st, 1300, one scuffle changed the course of history as we know it.

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Piazza Santa Trinita and the May Day Brawl

SantaTrinitaScoredFinal.mp3

You might have been advised, like generations of visitors before you, to come drop a coin in the mouth of the Porcellino, a copy of Pietro Tacca’s 1634 copy of a sculpture from Ancient Greece and a sort of Florentine Trevi Fountain.  They say that doing so ensures a safe return to the city, and I must say that it seems to have worked for me; your money goes to a local Catholic charity, so feel free, if you are so inclined.  

While here, though, navigate the vendors of this, the Mercato Nuovo, and find the center point of the loggia.  See the stone wheel embedded in the ground?  This, the original symbol of the Florentine Republic (recently appropriated by the contemporary far-right party Lega Nord), marks the spot where for years, soldiers would rally before war.  The Carroccio, which basically just means big wagon, was brought into battle with the soldiers; those who failed to defend it were subject to great shame.
  
By the Renaissance, then, when trade made Florence the wealthiest city on earth, the new source of extreme shame came when someone defaulted on a loan, and so the insolvent would be lashed to this spot, stripped naked, and beaten mercilessly on their bottom.  The consequence was not only physical: having your bare bits broadcast on the public channel ensured that no one would ever do business with you again.

2R Via Val di Lamona \|||// You might have been advised, like generations of visitors before you, to come drop a coin in the mouth of the Porcellino, a copy of Pietro Tacca’s 1634 copy of a sculpture from Ancient Greece and a sort of Florentine Trevi Fountain.  They say that doing so ensures a safe return to the city, and I must say that it seems to have worked for me; your money goes to a local Catholic charity, so feel free, if you are so inclined.  

While here, though, navigate the vendors of this, the Mercato Nuovo, and find the center point of the loggia.  See the stone wheel embedded in the ground?  This, the original symbol of the Florentine Republic (recently appropriated by the contemporary far-right party Lega Nord), marks the spot where for years, soldiers would rally before war.  The Carroccio, which basically just means big wagon, was brought into battle with the soldiers; those who failed to defend it were subject to great shame.
  
By the Renaissance, then, when trade made Florence the wealthiest city on earth, the new source of extreme shame came when someone defaulted on a loan, and so the insolvent would be lashed to this spot, stripped naked, and beaten mercilessly on their bottom.  The consequence was not only physical: having your bare bits broadcast on the public channel ensured that no one would ever do business with you again.

carroccio.jpg

The Stone of the Scandal

Totò Riina, the head of the Sicilian Cosa Nostra from 1982, was a man known as The Beast (La belva), as the boss of bosses (capo dei capi), for his unrivalled capacity for violence.  Where other capi tried to evade the public eye to the extent that many disbelieved in the very existence of organized crime, Riina took a different approach, executing anyone -- colleague, journalist, politician -- who got in his way.  

After being implicated in the murders of Giovanni Falcone and Paolo Borsellino, the first prosecutors in opposition to the Cosa Nostra, La belva went on a murdering spree to warn any potential informants that he wasn’t messing around.

Perhaps the most notorious of Riina’s subsequent attacks occurred here on May 27th, 1993.  That morning, having stolen a Fiat Fiorino and filling it with over 600 pounds of explosives, two of Riina’s operatives drove it to this spot, an academy of agronomy, and blew a huge hole in the ground.  

The attack sent a shockwave through Italy, damaging several invaluable paintings in the neighboring Uffizi Gallery, injuring forty-eight innocent bystanders, and killing five.  
In 2000, along with three accomplices, Riina was finally charged with a life sentence -- one of twenty-six -- for this bombing.
  
Nevertheless, from 1993 until his death in 2017, despite being kept in solitary confinement, La belva continued to head the Cosa Nostra, forever the capo dei capi.

4 Via dei Georgofili \|||// Totò Riina, the head of the Sicilian Cosa Nostra from 1982, was a man known as The Beast (La belva), as the boss of bosses (capo dei capi), for his unrivalled capacity for violence.  Where other capi tried to evade the public eye to the extent that many disbelieved in the very existence of organized crime, Riina took a different approach, executing anyone -- colleague, journalist, politician -- who got in his way.  

After being implicated in the murders of Giovanni Falcone and Paolo Borsellino, the first prosecutors in opposition to the Cosa Nostra, La belva went on a murdering spree to warn any potential informants that he wasn’t messing around.

Perhaps the most notorious of Riina’s subsequent attacks occurred here on May 27th, 1993.  That morning, having stolen a Fiat Fiorino and filling it with over 600 pounds of explosives, two of Riina’s operatives drove it to this spot, an academy of agronomy, and blew a huge hole in the ground.  

The attack sent a shockwave through Italy, damaging several invaluable paintings in the neighboring Uffizi Gallery, injuring forty-eight innocent bystanders, and killing five.  
In 2000, along with three accomplices, Riina was finally charged with a life sentence -- one of twenty-six -- for this bombing.
  
Nevertheless, from 1993 until his death in 2017, despite being kept in solitary confinement, La belva continued to head the Cosa Nostra, forever the capo dei capi.

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The Bombing of La Belva

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The National Museum of the Bargello is one of the finest collections of sculpture in the world.  As a former prison, Florence’s oldest public building was for many years soaked with the blood of the condemned. 

The Bargello Museum, as it stands since 1865, houses the largest collection of Gothic and Renaissance sculpture in the world, including Donatello’s David and Michelangelo’s Bacchus.  Check out the architecture: if you’ve visited the replica of Michelangelo’s David at the Palazzo Vecchio, it’s worth noting that that building was modeled after this one.  

Perhaps most distinguishing is the bell tower, the height of which was once a symbol of power for feudal families during the medieval period.  Originally built by the Boscoli Family, the Volognana Tower was sold to the city in 1254 and integrated into what is now the oldest public building in Florence.  As a result, it stands as the lone tower of private origin remaining in the city.

Why, then, is it not called the Boscoli Tower?  By the 16th century, the ruling Medici Family would utilize the Bargello as a sort of central police station and prison, with the courtyard serving as the site of many executions. As for the tower, it took on the name of its first prisoner, Geri da Volognano.  

Those who betrayed the Medici would be hung in the windows above for all to see; on the wall before you, artists like Sandro Botticelli -- as in “Birth of Venus” Botticelli -- were commissioned with what you might call the first “Wanted” Posters. These were graphic depictions of crimes painted as clear, and inarguably helpful reminders: don't mess with the Medici.

141r Via Ghibellina \|||// The National Museum of the Bargello is one of the finest collections of sculpture in the world.  As a former prison, Florence’s oldest public building was for many years soaked with the blood of the condemned. 

The Bargello Museum, as it stands since 1865, houses the largest collection of Gothic and Renaissance sculpture in the world, including Donatello’s David and Michelangelo’s Bacchus.  Check out the architecture: if you’ve visited the replica of Michelangelo’s David at the Palazzo Vecchio, it’s worth noting that that building was modeled after this one.  

Perhaps most distinguishing is the bell tower, the height of which was once a symbol of power for feudal families during the medieval period.  Originally built by the Boscoli Family, the Volognana Tower was sold to the city in 1254 and integrated into what is now the oldest public building in Florence.  As a result, it stands as the lone tower of private origin remaining in the city.

Why, then, is it not called the Boscoli Tower?  By the 16th century, the ruling Medici Family would utilize the Bargello as a sort of central police station and prison, with the courtyard serving as the site of many executions. As for the tower, it took on the name of its first prisoner, Geri da Volognano.  

Those who betrayed the Medici would be hung in the windows above for all to see; on the wall before you, artists like Sandro Botticelli -- as in “Birth of Venus” Botticelli -- were commissioned with what you might call the first “Wanted” Posters. These were graphic depictions of crimes painted as clear, and inarguably helpful reminders: don't mess with the Medici.

Bargello.jpg

Volognana Tower at the Bargello

On this inauspicious corner, between incarceration and execution, the condemned of the 17th century looked to this odd fresco in a last-ditch quest of redemption.

There are seemingly a million 17th-century tabernacles throughout the city, but this one, just a few feet from Michelangelo’s former home, is special for reasons beyond aesthetics.  Around the corner, at the present-day site of the Teatro Verdi, once stood the Stinche Prison. The Stinche was so-named after the inhabitants of a castle that was sacked by a major political faction called the Ghibellines in the 14th century (hence the name of the street you’re standing on). This castle, by the way, was owned by none other than the Cavalcanti family -- as in Guido Cavalcanti, legendary medieval poet and Dante’s best bud. 
 
Anyway, give a closer look to Giovanni da San Giovanni’s 1616 fresco and you’ll see a barefoot Jesus blessing a bunch of miserable prisoners.  It’s not a great work; I’m not convinced that Baroque goes well with such sober subject matter, if I’m being honest.  Nevertheless, it served a very practical purpose: as the condemned were paraded from the Stinche Prison to their execution at the Bargello, tabernacles such as this one allowed for a sort of Drive-Thru redemption.  Efficient?  Yes.  Effective?  Who’s to say?

99 Via Ghibellina \|||// On this inauspicious corner, between incarceration and execution, the condemned of the 17th century looked to this odd fresco in a last-ditch quest of redemption.

There are seemingly a million 17th-century tabernacles throughout the city, but this one, just a few feet from Michelangelo’s former home, is special for reasons beyond aesthetics.  Around the corner, at the present-day site of the Teatro Verdi, once stood the Stinche Prison. The Stinche was so-named after the inhabitants of a castle that was sacked by a major political faction called the Ghibellines in the 14th century (hence the name of the street you’re standing on). This castle, by the way, was owned by none other than the Cavalcanti family -- as in Guido Cavalcanti, legendary medieval poet and Dante’s best bud. 
 
Anyway, give a closer look to Giovanni da San Giovanni’s 1616 fresco and you’ll see a barefoot Jesus blessing a bunch of miserable prisoners.  It’s not a great work; I’m not convinced that Baroque goes well with such sober subject matter, if I’m being honest.  Nevertheless, it served a very practical purpose: as the condemned were paraded from the Stinche Prison to their execution at the Bargello, tabernacles such as this one allowed for a sort of Drive-Thru redemption.  Efficient?  Yes.  Effective?  Who’s to say?

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