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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 “other” side of the Arno River, affectionately called the “Diladdarno” by the Florentines for eons. It’s a touch scruffier on this side, though, decidedly younger and weirder, so if you’re tiring of the Renaissance browns and reds immediately surrounding the Duomo, I trust that you’ll find an extra splash of color over here.

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Oltrarno | The Other Side of Florence

DiladdarnoIntro2Scored.mp3

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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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For all of the talk of the Medicis, of the Bonapartes, of the Habsburgs, often overlooked in the evolution of 19th century Florence is the influence from Russia -- da, Russia. 

The Palazzo Demidoff-Amici is named for both the scientist Giovanni Battista Amici, inventor of dipleidoscope and other tele-microscope-y things I don’t fully understand, as well as Nikolai Demidoff, a wealthy industrialist who landed in this 17th century palace as Ambassador in 1822.  Thanks to Demidoff’s investment in the silk industry, the Grand Duke of Tuscany declared Nikolai the Count of San Donato in 1827.  Cash is the noblest of virtues, after all.  The Demidoff Dynasty continued to spread from there throughout Tuscany; they would later purchase a former Medici palace north of the city which features Giambologna’s Appennine Colossus and some astounding gardens.

This is also an area of great cinematic import: at the bar, just a few doors down, you’ll see a plaque commemorating it as one of the main locations of Mario Monicelli’s legendary Florentine film, Amici miei. More, just behind the Palazzo Demidoff, at Via San Niccolò #91, is the apartment where Andrej Tarkovsky, the Russian god of cinema, was hosted by the Municipality during the last part of his life, and where all of his archives are housed today.
Between these sites, the Russian Orthodox Church you may have seen along the Mugnone, the former homes of Dostoyevsky and Tchichovsky, and several of my drinking buddies, the Russian influence on Florence is subtle, but significant, so if you go next door, order a Vodka Negroni -- known as a Negroski -- and pour one out for the Soviets in your life.

7n Via dei Renai \|||// For all of the talk of the Medicis, of the Bonapartes, of the Habsburgs, often overlooked in the evolution of 19th century Florence is the influence from Russia -- da, Russia. 

The Palazzo Demidoff-Amici is named for both the scientist Giovanni Battista Amici, inventor of dipleidoscope and other tele-microscope-y things I don’t fully understand, as well as Nikolai Demidoff, a wealthy industrialist who landed in this 17th century palace as Ambassador in 1822.  Thanks to Demidoff’s investment in the silk industry, the Grand Duke of Tuscany declared Nikolai the Count of San Donato in 1827.  Cash is the noblest of virtues, after all.  The Demidoff Dynasty continued to spread from there throughout Tuscany; they would later purchase a former Medici palace north of the city which features Giambologna’s Appennine Colossus and some astounding gardens.

This is also an area of great cinematic import: at the bar, just a few doors down, you’ll see a plaque commemorating it as one of the main locations of Mario Monicelli’s legendary Florentine film, Amici miei. More, just behind the Palazzo Demidoff, at Via San Niccolò #91, is the apartment where Andrej Tarkovsky, the Russian god of cinema, was hosted by the Municipality during the last part of his life, and where all of his archives are housed today.
Between these sites, the Russian Orthodox Church you may have seen along the Mugnone, the former homes of Dostoyevsky and Tchichovsky, and several of my drinking buddies, the Russian influence on Florence is subtle, but significant, so if you go next door, order a Vodka Negroni -- known as a Negroski -- and pour one out for the Soviets in your life.

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The Russian Renaissance

Tour Item

Russians_Scored.mp3

Here, between the Poggi Ramps and San Frediano, another quiet respite from the wild city center, you’ve got one of the only plots of land within the old city wanting for architecture.  

The terracotta plaque you’re looking at commemorates Saint Francis of Assisi’s first visit to the city in 1211, at which point he visited a lazaretto -- or leper colony -- located alongside the Church of Santa Lucia dei Magnoli, which you see behind you.  You probably don’t need this Jew telling you about San Francesco, about his selflessness and modesty, but I happen to be a big fan of the guy and I think it’s great that in visiting Florence at a time when the city was already prospering, he only deemed it worthwhile to stop here to comfort lepers in need.

As for the lack of architecture, a few feet to your left, across from #16, you’ll see another plaque commemorating a grievance from Cosimo I de’ Medici about three landslides which had caused great destruction of the buildings, including the aforementioned church -- which would come to be known as Santa Lucia of the Ruins.  In turn, the sign forbids further construction on this site, dating to October, 1565.  Even to this day, neither Hard Rock Cafe, nor Pizza Hut can be found on this spot, by decree of the Medici.

35 Via de' Bardi \|||// Here, between the Poggi Ramps and San Frediano, another quiet respite from the wild city center, you’ve got one of the only plots of land within the old city wanting for architecture.  

The terracotta plaque you’re looking at commemorates Saint Francis of Assisi’s first visit to the city in 1211, at which point he visited a lazaretto -- or leper colony -- located alongside the Church of Santa Lucia dei Magnoli, which you see behind you.  You probably don’t need this Jew telling you about San Francesco, about his selflessness and modesty, but I happen to be a big fan of the guy and I think it’s great that in visiting Florence at a time when the city was already prospering, he only deemed it worthwhile to stop here to comfort lepers in need.

As for the lack of architecture, a few feet to your left, across from #16, you’ll see another plaque commemorating a grievance from Cosimo I de’ Medici about three landslides which had caused great destruction of the buildings, including the aforementioned church -- which would come to be known as Santa Lucia of the Ruins.  In turn, the sign forbids further construction on this site, dating to October, 1565.  Even to this day, neither Hard Rock Cafe, nor Pizza Hut can be found on this spot, by decree of the Medici.

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St. Francis on the Via de' Bardi

stFrancis_Scored.mp3

I’ve brought you to a supermarket?  Yes: it’s important to stay hydrated.  But also: this is the former Cinema Arlecchino, a place that has seen quite a lot in its day.

	Though it first opened as a movie theater catering to children, by the 1980s it had shed its clothes, and began catering to adults with more “exotic” tastes, something truly unimaginable today, given the touristic sheen in the area, and given its present state as a high-end supermarket.  But if you go inside, you’ll immediately notice the legacy of the original theater.  From the crude ceramic details on the columns amongst the produce, the work of Arnaldo Miniati, to the various mid-century paintings by a collection of Florentine artists, it all dates back to 1959.  If anything, it’s funny to imagine porn being projected around the colorful images of juggling clowns, but then it’s all more than a little absurd.  Feel free to go browse the goods, but remember that in Italy, if you handle the vegetables without wearing a plastic glove -- and this is not a euphemism -- you’re bound to get scowled at by someone, so do take care.

47 Via de' Bardi \|||// I’ve brought you to a supermarket?  Yes: it’s important to stay hydrated.  But also: this is the former Cinema Arlecchino, a place that has seen quite a lot in its day.

	Though it first opened as a movie theater catering to children, by the 1980s it had shed its clothes, and began catering to adults with more “exotic” tastes, something truly unimaginable today, given the touristic sheen in the area, and given its present state as a high-end supermarket.  But if you go inside, you’ll immediately notice the legacy of the original theater.  From the crude ceramic details on the columns amongst the produce, the work of Arnaldo Miniati, to the various mid-century paintings by a collection of Florentine artists, it all dates back to 1959.  If anything, it’s funny to imagine porn being projected around the colorful images of juggling clowns, but then it’s all more than a little absurd.  Feel free to go browse the goods, but remember that in Italy, if you handle the vegetables without wearing a plastic glove -- and this is not a euphemism -- you’re bound to get scowled at by someone, so do take care.

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The ex-Cinema Arlecchino

arlecchino_Scored.mp3

OK, if you stand back in the piazza, you’ll see a very modest cross atop a very modest building: that’s the Chiesa di Santa Felicita.  Good.  But what’s this portico thing cutting across it?  And what’s contained inside those windows, if not the church?

Have you seen Roberto Rosselini’s antifascist masterpiece, Paisà? Well, in one segment, shot in Florence in 1946, an American nurse and an Italian resistance fighter must cross over to this side of the river, and the only bridge to survive the war, the Ponte Vecchio, is guarded by Nazis.  With no other choice, they take the Vasari Corridor, a covered passageway that runs from the Ponte Vecchio all the way to the Pitti Palace.  Built by Giorgio Vasari in 1565, this secret route allowed Grand Duke Cosimo I to travel incognito.  As a proper christian, he included a stop at this, the 4th century Chiesa di Santa Felicita, where alongside Pontormo’s Mannerist masterpiece, The Deposition From the Cross, he was able to take in services without having to interact with the pesky masses.  

Considering that Rossellini’s film was shot in the immediate aftermath of the war, at a time when Italy was still in rubble, it makes you consider the symbolism.  Once, the corridor was adorned with art exclusive to the eyes of a Grand Duke trying to avoid sullying himself by interacting with his people.  Then, amidst the destruction of a once-regal city, emptied of all aesthetic value, the Vasari Corridor is inherited by two commoners and reduced to serving as a thoroughfare to ensure their survival.  I think that though it’s but one piece of one chapter of his film, Rossellini is using this passageway to express a fundamental feature of his vision: looking to the poor and downtrodden to push forward, to envision a new and equitable Italy at the end of the tunnel (so to speak).  Where once that tunnel could only be accessed by the Grand Duke himself, today it’s open for all.  Provided it’s not under construction.  And you’ve made an appointment in advance.

3 Piazza Santa Felicita \|||// OK, if you stand back in the piazza, you’ll see a very modest cross atop a very modest building: that’s the Chiesa di Santa Felicita.  Good.  But what’s this portico thing cutting across it?  And what’s contained inside those windows, if not the church?

Have you seen Roberto Rosselini’s antifascist masterpiece, Paisà? Well, in one segment, shot in Florence in 1946, an American nurse and an Italian resistance fighter must cross over to this side of the river, and the only bridge to survive the war, the Ponte Vecchio, is guarded by Nazis.  With no other choice, they take the Vasari Corridor, a covered passageway that runs from the Ponte Vecchio all the way to the Pitti Palace.  Built by Giorgio Vasari in 1565, this secret route allowed Grand Duke Cosimo I to travel incognito.  As a proper christian, he included a stop at this, the 4th century Chiesa di Santa Felicita, where alongside Pontormo’s Mannerist masterpiece, The Deposition From the Cross, he was able to take in services without having to interact with the pesky masses.  

Considering that Rossellini’s film was shot in the immediate aftermath of the war, at a time when Italy was still in rubble, it makes you consider the symbolism.  Once, the corridor was adorned with art exclusive to the eyes of a Grand Duke trying to avoid sullying himself by interacting with his people.  Then, amidst the destruction of a once-regal city, emptied of all aesthetic value, the Vasari Corridor is inherited by two commoners and reduced to serving as a thoroughfare to ensure their survival.  I think that though it’s but one piece of one chapter of his film, Rossellini is using this passageway to express a fundamental feature of his vision: looking to the poor and downtrodden to push forward, to envision a new and equitable Italy at the end of the tunnel (so to speak).  Where once that tunnel could only be accessed by the Grand Duke himself, today it’s open for all.  Provided it’s not under construction.  And you’ve made an appointment in advance.

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Chiesa di Santa Felicita

SantaFelicita_scored.mp3

“Usually,” said Fyodr Dostoevsky, “the tourists of all Europe throng, at the beginning of the hot weather, to the German spas. When I saw in the street well-dressed Englishwomen and even Frenchwomen, I could not conceive why these people, who had money to get away with, could voluntarily stay in such a hell.”  
Here, across the street from the magnificent Palazzo Pitti, is the modest apartment in which the Russian writer spent nine miserable months working on his novel, The Idiot.  

Having spent four and a half years imprisoned in Siberia, Dostoevsky’s reflections on the city in which he lived in 1869 are somewhat surprising, given that Florence typically enjoys a more sterling reputation amongst tourists than does Siberia. But, in considering that he was here in financial exile, too poor and unwell to return to his native country, it becomes a bit more understandable.  
By the way, Dostoevsky wasn’t the lone writer to suffer here.  It was on this spot, just a few doors down at #14, from 1943-1944, where the Jewish painter Carlo Levi wrote his autobiographical book Christ Stopped At Eboli with forged papers and a fake name, hiding all the while from the blackshirts and Nazis who patrolled the area.
  
Though Levi’s book, considered perhaps the most important Italian novel of the postwar period (to say nothing of the equally-devastating film adaptation by Francesco Rosi) is set in the godforsaken south, I think it’s important to keep these images of suffering from both authors in your mind’s eye as you’re soaking up the beauty here.  After all, to quote our Russian friend, “suffering is the sole origin of consciousness.”

91 Piazza de' Pitti \|||// “Usually,” said Fyodr Dostoevsky, “the tourists of all Europe throng, at the beginning of the hot weather, to the German spas. When I saw in the street well-dressed Englishwomen and even Frenchwomen, I could not conceive why these people, who had money to get away with, could voluntarily stay in such a hell.”  
Here, across the street from the magnificent Palazzo Pitti, is the modest apartment in which the Russian writer spent nine miserable months working on his novel, The Idiot.  

Having spent four and a half years imprisoned in Siberia, Dostoevsky’s reflections on the city in which he lived in 1869 are somewhat surprising, given that Florence typically enjoys a more sterling reputation amongst tourists than does Siberia. But, in considering that he was here in financial exile, too poor and unwell to return to his native country, it becomes a bit more understandable.  
By the way, Dostoevsky wasn’t the lone writer to suffer here.  It was on this spot, just a few doors down at #14, from 1943-1944, where the Jewish painter Carlo Levi wrote his autobiographical book Christ Stopped At Eboli with forged papers and a fake name, hiding all the while from the blackshirts and Nazis who patrolled the area.
  
Though Levi’s book, considered perhaps the most important Italian novel of the postwar period (to say nothing of the equally-devastating film adaptation by Francesco Rosi) is set in the godforsaken south, I think it’s important to keep these images of suffering from both authors in your mind’s eye as you’re soaking up the beauty here.  After all, to quote our Russian friend, “suffering is the sole origin of consciousness.”

IMG_20210524_122340.jpg

Fyodr & Carlo at The Pitti

fyodor e carlo_scored.mp3

I know what you’re thinking right now: that is one big building.  And indeed, if you’ve got a wealth fetish, the Palazzo Pitti should be the most important site on this side of the river, if not the entire city, a testament to excess in the vein of Versailles. Here, the banker Luca Pitti wanted to build the most opulent palace in the city, big enough to fit what had been the largest -- Villa Strozzi -- in its courtyard, but Mr. Pitti went broke before construction was finished.  The place is notable for its superficially modest facade, which was designed in accordance with precise mathematical models -- for example, the height of the main entrance is exactly double the width, and the height of each floor is exactly three times the width of each window (or so they tell me).  It’s also known for the lush Boboli Gardens out back, which until 1766 were only accessible to members of the Medici Family.  

One of the weirdest tendencies of the wealthy of this era was the exploitation of people with dwarfism as court jesters of sorts, called homunculi.  The most beloved of these was a man known as Nano Morgante.  Nano was the subject of several striking works here, including Bronzino’s double-sided portrait.  Even more famous is the most iconic feature of the Boboli Gardens, a grotesque fountain by Valerio Cioli featuring Nano fully nude, straddling a giant tortoise.  Here, Nano represents Bacchus, the Roman god of wine and madness.

I bring up Morgante only to note the wing before which you’re standing, known as the Teatro del Rondò di Bacco in honor of that famous fountain.  The venue, opening in the late 1700s, hosted a type of theater which would grow increasingly radical by the 1970s. This included performances by beloved Tuscan and avowed Communist actor Roberto Benigni (the guy who stood on the chairs at the Oscars), and the revolutionary American troupe the Living Theater, a bizarre juxtaposition between courtly ostentation and radical performance which would only be complicated further by the fact that the theater is now predominantly used for droll political conferences.  

Anyway, enough from me.  If the line’s not too bad and you have the time, I would strongly recommend checking out the palace, or the gardens, or both: there’s just no way to understate the grandeur of each.

28 Piazza de' Pitti \|||// I know what you’re thinking right now: that is one big building.  And indeed, if you’ve got a wealth fetish, the Palazzo Pitti should be the most important site on this side of the river, if not the entire city, a testament to excess in the vein of Versailles. Here, the banker Luca Pitti wanted to build the most opulent palace in the city, big enough to fit what had been the largest -- Villa Strozzi -- in its courtyard, but Mr. Pitti went broke before construction was finished.  The place is notable for its superficially modest facade, which was designed in accordance with precise mathematical models -- for example, the height of the main entrance is exactly double the width, and the height of each floor is exactly three times the width of each window (or so they tell me).  It’s also known for the lush Boboli Gardens out back, which until 1766 were only accessible to members of the Medici Family.  

One of the weirdest tendencies of the wealthy of this era was the exploitation of people with dwarfism as court jesters of sorts, called homunculi.  The most beloved of these was a man known as Nano Morgante.  Nano was the subject of several striking works here, including Bronzino’s double-sided portrait.  Even more famous is the most iconic feature of the Boboli Gardens, a grotesque fountain by Valerio Cioli featuring Nano fully nude, straddling a giant tortoise.  Here, Nano represents Bacchus, the Roman god of wine and madness.

I bring up Morgante only to note the wing before which you’re standing, known as the Teatro del Rondò di Bacco in honor of that famous fountain.  The venue, opening in the late 1700s, hosted a type of theater which would grow increasingly radical by the 1970s. This included performances by beloved Tuscan and avowed Communist actor Roberto Benigni (the guy who stood on the chairs at the Oscars), and the revolutionary American troupe the Living Theater, a bizarre juxtaposition between courtly ostentation and radical performance which would only be complicated further by the fact that the theater is now predominantly used for droll political conferences.  

Anyway, enough from me.  If the line’s not too bad and you have the time, I would strongly recommend checking out the palace, or the gardens, or both: there’s just no way to understate the grandeur of each.

IMG_20210524_122831.jpg

Teatro del Rondò di Bacco at the Pitti Palace

TeatroBacco_Scored.mp3

If you ever find yourself jealous of your neighbor, just imagine living on this block.  I mean, think of the coin that Luca Pitti must’ve dropped in real estate just for the showy, useless expanse of the front porch alone.  It’s no wonder, then, that he went broke halfway through construction.

In documenting the legacy of the previous generation of artists, Giorgio Vasari had presumed this palace to be initially designed by the aforementioned Brunelleschi, though it’s now believed to be executed by his relatively unknown pupil, Luca Fancelli.  Nevertheless, it retains the mathematical proportions and modest exterior of Santo Spirito, but the modesty is checked at the massive front door.

When Pitti died in 1472, the building was left incomplete, opening the door for a legacy of elite ownership.  Much work was to be done when the Spanish noblewoman Eleonora di Toledo bought the site almost eighty years later, and the aforementioned Vasari was brought in to expand the palace to more than twice its original size.  Vasari also added a hidden passageway affording Eleonora’s husband, the Grand Duke Cosimo I de’ Medici, direct and discreet passage via the Vasari Corridor all the way to the Palazzo Vecchio, where he could hold court.
The lineage would continue long after the Medici family lost power: when Napoleon controlled Italy, this was his residence, as it was for several generations of Austrian leaders.  Later, after Italy became Italy and Florence was briefly the capital up until 1871, King Vittorio Emanuale II lived here.  Finally, by 1919, in the shadow of World War I, King Vittorio Emanuele III gifted the palace to the city, which opted to convert it to Florence’s largest museum.  In turn, after Vittorio III helped secure Mussolini’s rise to power, Il Duce repaid the favor in part by commissioning those who built the new train station to also build a newer, more streamlined Royal Palace alongside it.  

This gifting of private palaces to the state may seem super kind and generous. and in the case of the Pitti, it is. Alongside this palace are the Boboli Gardens and the Uffizi Gallery -- which as a single entity is considered Italy’s most profitable museum, with revenues doubling from 2014 to 2019. But, the more Florence -- and Italy in general -- is “gifted” palaces, most with less touristic appeal than the Pitti, the more they struggle to maintain and protect these expensive, culturally valuable properties.  
Before we jump too far back to the future, though, and without the private luxury of the Vasari Corridor, let’s head toward the aforementioned Piazza Santo Spirito.

1 Piazza de' Pitti \|||// If you ever find yourself jealous of your neighbor, just imagine living on this block.  I mean, think of the coin that Luca Pitti must’ve dropped in real estate just for the showy, useless expanse of the front porch alone.  It’s no wonder, then, that he went broke halfway through construction.

In documenting the legacy of the previous generation of artists, Giorgio Vasari had presumed this palace to be initially designed by the aforementioned Brunelleschi, though it’s now believed to be executed by his relatively unknown pupil, Luca Fancelli.  Nevertheless, it retains the mathematical proportions and modest exterior of Santo Spirito, but the modesty is checked at the massive front door.

When Pitti died in 1472, the building was left incomplete, opening the door for a legacy of elite ownership.  Much work was to be done when the Spanish noblewoman Eleonora di Toledo bought the site almost eighty years later, and the aforementioned Vasari was brought in to expand the palace to more than twice its original size.  Vasari also added a hidden passageway affording Eleonora’s husband, the Grand Duke Cosimo I de’ Medici, direct and discreet passage via the Vasari Corridor all the way to the Palazzo Vecchio, where he could hold court.
The lineage would continue long after the Medici family lost power: when Napoleon controlled Italy, this was his residence, as it was for several generations of Austrian leaders.  Later, after Italy became Italy and Florence was briefly the capital up until 1871, King Vittorio Emanuale II lived here.  Finally, by 1919, in the shadow of World War I, King Vittorio Emanuele III gifted the palace to the city, which opted to convert it to Florence’s largest museum.  In turn, after Vittorio III helped secure Mussolini’s rise to power, Il Duce repaid the favor in part by commissioning those who built the new train station to also build a newer, more streamlined Royal Palace alongside it.  

This gifting of private palaces to the state may seem super kind and generous. and in the case of the Pitti, it is. Alongside this palace are the Boboli Gardens and the Uffizi Gallery -- which as a single entity is considered Italy’s most profitable museum, with revenues doubling from 2014 to 2019. But, the more Florence -- and Italy in general -- is “gifted” palaces, most with less touristic appeal than the Pitti, the more they struggle to maintain and protect these expensive, culturally valuable properties.  
Before we jump too far back to the future, though, and without the private luxury of the Vasari Corridor, let’s head toward the aforementioned Piazza Santo Spirito.

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Piteous Pitti

PittiNew1Scored.mp3

Piazza Santo Spirito is, I think, the spiritual heart of the Oltrarno.  This side of the river has always represented the rougher, more “alternative” part of the city, both in modern times, but also dating back to the 1300s, when its distance from the center left it sparsely populated largely by poor laborers.  The class divide is still evident as you walk through the piazza, no?  Or anyway it was, until the mayor of Florence banned loitering in the piazza literally the day I was set to record this.  Stupid mayor.
	
Though it lacks the pizzazz of the first churches of this tour, the Augustinian Basilica di Santo Spirito is the Renaissance incarnate.  Why?  Well, in the 1300s when it was still a convent, the earliest proponents of Humanism -- authors like Giovanni Boccaccio and Francesco Petrarca -- would meet here and develop their ideas. 

Later, it was redesigned by Filippo Brunelleschi, considered the father of Renaissance architecture.  True to the movement, Brunelleschi made this place all about proportional harmony: the cross-shaped floor plan shows the left, right, and center transepts as perfect squares exactly the same size as the choir; the height of the nave is twice its width, and so on.

A final note, still tethered to the Renaissance, is that a young guy named Michelangelo used to study nude corpses in this church as they left the convent’s infirmary.  For artistic reasons and probably not because he was a necrophile.  To show his gratitude, in 1492 at seventeen years of age, Michelangelo left the church a wooden crucifix showing a nude, frail, almost disturbingly realistic Christ, a piece which was only rediscovered in 1962.  Just in time for the new wave of tourism.

30 Piazza Santo Spirito \|||// Piazza Santo Spirito is, I think, the spiritual heart of the Oltrarno.  This side of the river has always represented the rougher, more “alternative” part of the city, both in modern times, but also dating back to the 1300s, when its distance from the center left it sparsely populated largely by poor laborers.  The class divide is still evident as you walk through the piazza, no?  Or anyway it was, until the mayor of Florence banned loitering in the piazza literally the day I was set to record this.  Stupid mayor.
	
Though it lacks the pizzazz of the first churches of this tour, the Augustinian Basilica di Santo Spirito is the Renaissance incarnate.  Why?  Well, in the 1300s when it was still a convent, the earliest proponents of Humanism -- authors like Giovanni Boccaccio and Francesco Petrarca -- would meet here and develop their ideas. 

Later, it was redesigned by Filippo Brunelleschi, considered the father of Renaissance architecture.  True to the movement, Brunelleschi made this place all about proportional harmony: the cross-shaped floor plan shows the left, right, and center transepts as perfect squares exactly the same size as the choir; the height of the nave is twice its width, and so on.

A final note, still tethered to the Renaissance, is that a young guy named Michelangelo used to study nude corpses in this church as they left the convent’s infirmary.  For artistic reasons and probably not because he was a necrophile.  To show his gratitude, in 1492 at seventeen years of age, Michelangelo left the church a wooden crucifix showing a nude, frail, almost disturbingly realistic Christ, a piece which was only rediscovered in 1962.  Just in time for the new wave of tourism.

5SantoSpirito.jpg

The Ghosts of Santo Spirito

SantoSpirito1Scored.mp3

We know by now that Florence accrued its fortune on trade, yes?  We also know that you’re not here to celebrate the wool industry of the 1500s, but rather the city’s incomparable artistic legacy (if I may be so presumptuous). For all the talk of Florentine sculpture, painting, and architecture, however, music is rarely mentioned.  But: did you know that opera was invented in Florence?  Like so many great Florentine minds of the 16th century, the group of musicians and intellectuals who called themselves the Camerata de’ Bardi was driven by the belief that everything good came from the Classics.  They in turn developed the “recitative style” in the spirit of the Ancient Greeks, which adopted the flow and intonation of ordinary speech into music.  This was first manifested by Jacopo Peri’s Dafne, composed in 1597 and considered, more or less, the first opera.  And so what does all of this have to do with this yellowish building, the Goldoni Theater?  Almost nothing!  

Originally the home of an infamous mercenary, the building on this site was converted to a monastery upon his death, and reportedly provided asylum to the father of Cosimo I de’ Medici.  By the 19th century, it was converted into a playhouse, inaugurated in 1817 with Carlo Goldoni’s play The Charitable Grouch, and as a theater favored by royalty, would host countless plays and operas throughout that century, but fell in and out of ruin throughout the 20th century.  Most importantly, my beloved Federico Fellini filmed the famous masquerade scene in I VITELLONI here in 1953, projecting the hollow decadence of a generation that had lost its way.

15 Via Santa Maria \|||// We know by now that Florence accrued its fortune on trade, yes?  We also know that you’re not here to celebrate the wool industry of the 1500s, but rather the city’s incomparable artistic legacy (if I may be so presumptuous). For all the talk of Florentine sculpture, painting, and architecture, however, music is rarely mentioned.  But: did you know that opera was invented in Florence?  Like so many great Florentine minds of the 16th century, the group of musicians and intellectuals who called themselves the Camerata de’ Bardi was driven by the belief that everything good came from the Classics.  They in turn developed the “recitative style” in the spirit of the Ancient Greeks, which adopted the flow and intonation of ordinary speech into music.  This was first manifested by Jacopo Peri’s Dafne, composed in 1597 and considered, more or less, the first opera.  And so what does all of this have to do with this yellowish building, the Goldoni Theater?  Almost nothing!  

Originally the home of an infamous mercenary, the building on this site was converted to a monastery upon his death, and reportedly provided asylum to the father of Cosimo I de’ Medici.  By the 19th century, it was converted into a playhouse, inaugurated in 1817 with Carlo Goldoni’s play The Charitable Grouch, and as a theater favored by royalty, would host countless plays and operas throughout that century, but fell in and out of ruin throughout the 20th century.  Most importantly, my beloved Federico Fellini filmed the famous masquerade scene in I VITELLONI here in 1953, projecting the hollow decadence of a generation that had lost its way.

IMG_20210524_123259 (2).jpg

Fellini & Friends at the Teatro Goldoni

Goldoni_scored.mp3

It’s February 27th, 1921.  At the railway worker’s union headquarters in the city center, Spartaco Lavagnini smokes a cigarette while working on an article for his newspaper, L’azione Communista.  Earlier that day, some anarchists had hurled a bomb into a crowd of nationalists, killing a police officer and one other; now, the Fascists are hungry for retaliation. Though his comrades beg Lavagnini to lay low for a bit, given his high profile as a party leader, Lavagnini refuses, working diligently onward.  

Sure enough, around thirty Fascists break into the union, rough Lavagnini up a bit, and then shoot him twice in the head, once in the chest, and once in the back at point-blank range. Wishing to properly humiliate the burgeoning left, the fascists place his cigarette back in his mouth, and set fire to the building. The next day, in retaliation, the leftists stab a young Fascist named Giovanni Berta on his bike and throw him off of what is now the Ponte alla Vittoria (or Victory Bridge).  This, in turn, prompts the Fascists to attack various shops throughout Florence and in the neighboring towns, asserting their power over the region.  

The people here in San Frediano set up barricades to protect themselves from the blackshirts, but these prove futile against the arms and armor of the police, and more blood is spilled throughout the neighborhood.  All told, in the course of three days, the so-called Battle of Florence would claim 16 lives, injure 300, and over 1,500 people would be arrested.
  
Jumping forward to 2013, here in Piazza Tasso, at the edge of San Frediano on the via del Leone, Florentine anarchists claimed this abandoned building as a means of combating the continuing touristification of the neighborhood.  In renovating the building, they have created a community center, library, garden, and occasional food bank, where they can support the members of the community in need of support.  Each February 27th, they hold a vigil to remember Spartaco Lavagnini and to discuss the cause and effect of those violent days.

60 Via del Leone \|||// It’s February 27th, 1921.  At the railway worker’s union headquarters in the city center, Spartaco Lavagnini smokes a cigarette while working on an article for his newspaper, L’azione Communista.  Earlier that day, some anarchists had hurled a bomb into a crowd of nationalists, killing a police officer and one other; now, the Fascists are hungry for retaliation. Though his comrades beg Lavagnini to lay low for a bit, given his high profile as a party leader, Lavagnini refuses, working diligently onward.  

Sure enough, around thirty Fascists break into the union, rough Lavagnini up a bit, and then shoot him twice in the head, once in the chest, and once in the back at point-blank range. Wishing to properly humiliate the burgeoning left, the fascists place his cigarette back in his mouth, and set fire to the building. The next day, in retaliation, the leftists stab a young Fascist named Giovanni Berta on his bike and throw him off of what is now the Ponte alla Vittoria (or Victory Bridge).  This, in turn, prompts the Fascists to attack various shops throughout Florence and in the neighboring towns, asserting their power over the region.  

The people here in San Frediano set up barricades to protect themselves from the blackshirts, but these prove futile against the arms and armor of the police, and more blood is spilled throughout the neighborhood.  All told, in the course of three days, the so-called Battle of Florence would claim 16 lives, injure 300, and over 1,500 people would be arrested.
  
Jumping forward to 2013, here in Piazza Tasso, at the edge of San Frediano on the via del Leone, Florentine anarchists claimed this abandoned building as a means of combating the continuing touristification of the neighborhood.  In renovating the building, they have created a community center, library, garden, and occasional food bank, where they can support the members of the community in need of support.  Each February 27th, they hold a vigil to remember Spartaco Lavagnini and to discuss the cause and effect of those violent days.

via_del_Leone__60_CamillaBallerini.jpg

The Anarchists of Via del Leone

Via_del_Leone_scored.mp3

With most movie theaters, you buy a ticket, take a seat, and watch your film in silence, or risk getting shushed.  Not at L’universale, one of the first movie theaters to open in Florence after World War Two. 

L’universale was infamous -- at least to the extent that a film was made about it in 2016 -- for being more an anarchistic meeting place than a theater, where people could sneak past the doorman, or bribe him with a cigarette, where people would scream at the screen and drive their Vespa into the theater when they couldn’t be hassled to look for a parking spot. 
 
Looking at it now, all blank limestone, like your Great Aunt’s condo, you’re probably wondering why I sent you here.  In fact, L’universale closed with the owner’s death in 1989, and after some time as a disco, the venue closed for good in 2007, and -- here’s a shocker -- is now just another set of luxury apartments.  Yet the spirit, I think, is still here on the Via Pisana, still a little working class, still a little lively.

 \|||// With most movie theaters, you buy a ticket, take a seat, and watch your film in silence, or risk getting shushed.  Not at L’universale, one of the first movie theaters to open in Florence after World War Two. 

L’universale was infamous -- at least to the extent that a film was made about it in 2016 -- for being more an anarchistic meeting place than a theater, where people could sneak past the doorman, or bribe him with a cigarette, where people would scream at the screen and drive their Vespa into the theater when they couldn’t be hassled to look for a parking spot. 
 
Looking at it now, all blank limestone, like your Great Aunt’s condo, you’re probably wondering why I sent you here.  In fact, L’universale closed with the owner’s death in 1989, and after some time as a disco, the venue closed for good in 2007, and -- here’s a shocker -- is now just another set of luxury apartments.  Yet the spirit, I think, is still here on the Via Pisana, still a little working class, still a little lively.

IMG_20210524_120848 (2).jpg

L'Universale

universale_Scored.mp3

Perhaps nothing represents Florence of the early 16th century better than this wall.  On one side, where you’re standing, a territory of inestimable value; on the other, a literal no-man’s land with a stench so bad they named the tower after it.  

As the Renaissance came to a close, Europe was exceptionally unstable: the Catholic Church was fighting off the rise of Protestantism, and the Italian peninsula, divided as it was, was a literal battleground for foreign leaders looking to upgrade their empires.  

With Florence at the political heart of these wars, the “Gran Maestro” of the city Giulio de’ Medici was upgraded to Pope Clement VII in 1523, and soon allied the Papal States with the Duchy of Milan, the Republic of Venice, and the Kingdom France in what was called the League of Cognac, all in direct opposition to Charles V and the Holy Roman Empire.  

When Charles V sacked Rome in 1527, however, the Pope was imprisoned, the Medici Family was exiled, and a new independent Florentine Republic was established with the aid of France.  By 1529, however, Charles V and the Pope joined forces and vowed to reclaim Florence, prompting the Florentine Republic to employ Michelangelo to better fortify the city walls to protect against the Empire’s new powerful armies.

The 14th-century wall at which you stand was fortified during this period, and this “Torre della Guardia”, or “Guard’s Tower”, helped ward off invasion from Pisa.  Though Florentines managed to fight off the Siege for 11 months, France failed to provide them the support they needed, while Michelangelo fled before his plans could be completed, and on August 10th, the Republic surrendered and the Medici Family was reinstated.

Given their function to keep bad things out, everything beyond these walls was effectively a wasteland, and Florentines would dispose of any animal carcasses or by-products they didn’t need just outside this small gate, renaming it the “Torre della Sardigna” for its horrible stench.
  
Now the home of the Tabernacle of Santa Rosa and a 17th century fresco by Rodolfo del Ghirlandaio, the tower [is] flanked on either side by Isolotto, a housing project, and La Rondinella social club, both dating back to the 1950s.  As you pass through the gate, or if you opt for a beer at the bar, you might take a moment to appreciate the sights that this tower has seen, and all the beauty it helped protect.

2 Lungarno di Santa Rosa \|||// Perhaps nothing represents Florence of the early 16th century better than this wall.  On one side, where you’re standing, a territory of inestimable value; on the other, a literal no-man’s land with a stench so bad they named the tower after it.  

As the Renaissance came to a close, Europe was exceptionally unstable: the Catholic Church was fighting off the rise of Protestantism, and the Italian peninsula, divided as it was, was a literal battleground for foreign leaders looking to upgrade their empires.  

With Florence at the political heart of these wars, the “Gran Maestro” of the city Giulio de’ Medici was upgraded to Pope Clement VII in 1523, and soon allied the Papal States with the Duchy of Milan, the Republic of Venice, and the Kingdom France in what was called the League of Cognac, all in direct opposition to Charles V and the Holy Roman Empire.  

When Charles V sacked Rome in 1527, however, the Pope was imprisoned, the Medici Family was exiled, and a new independent Florentine Republic was established with the aid of France.  By 1529, however, Charles V and the Pope joined forces and vowed to reclaim Florence, prompting the Florentine Republic to employ Michelangelo to better fortify the city walls to protect against the Empire’s new powerful armies.

The 14th-century wall at which you stand was fortified during this period, and this “Torre della Guardia”, or “Guard’s Tower”, helped ward off invasion from Pisa.  Though Florentines managed to fight off the Siege for 11 months, France failed to provide them the support they needed, while Michelangelo fled before his plans could be completed, and on August 10th, the Republic surrendered and the Medici Family was reinstated.

Given their function to keep bad things out, everything beyond these walls was effectively a wasteland, and Florentines would dispose of any animal carcasses or by-products they didn’t need just outside this small gate, renaming it the “Torre della Sardigna” for its horrible stench.
  
Now the home of the Tabernacle of Santa Rosa and a 17th century fresco by Rodolfo del Ghirlandaio, the tower [is] flanked on either side by Isolotto, a housing project, and La Rondinella social club, both dating back to the 1950s.  As you pass through the gate, or if you opt for a beer at the bar, you might take a moment to appreciate the sights that this tower has seen, and all the beauty it helped protect.

1200px-Torrino_di_santa_rosa_01.jpg

The Tower of the Sardigna

SardignaFinalScored.mp3

Oh.  Look.  A Renaissance-era palace.  This one’s called the Palazzo Rinuccini, named for yet another of Florence’s old dynastic families, and this was once one of several of their properties, one of multiple palazzi which they united by a single facade in the 18th century.  You couldn’t tell from the street, which is normally lousy with fashionable young boozers (this being, after all, the “coolest neighborhood in the world” according to Lonely Planet), but this building, modest-looking as it is, houses a truly stunning baroque theater dating back to 1753.  

The theater was built, of course, for the Rinuccini family, a name which remains relevant today only for Ottavio Rinuccini, author of the libretto to the so-called first opera, Dafne.  For a touch more on that, visit the Teatro Goldoni, if you haven’t yet.

For all the theater’s glamor, what was originally meant to be a library saw a variety of owners after the last Rinuccini heir died out in the 19th century. Ultimately, it was handed off to the city under the agreement that it would eventually be converted into a school, and indeed it was, first as an all-girl’s academy, and most recently, from 2003 onward, the second largest high school in the province, counting 1,700 students in total.  

The theater, however, remained untouched for nearly a century, with renovations starting and stopping throughout the new millenium, always lacking in funds.  And so it goes, the ebb and flow of fortune.  But you know what they say: one day you’re baroque, the next you’re broke, and the next you’re stuck in the middle of the coolest neighborhood in the world.

39n Via Santo Spirito \|||// Oh.  Look.  A Renaissance-era palace.  This one’s called the Palazzo Rinuccini, named for yet another of Florence’s old dynastic families, and this was once one of several of their properties, one of multiple palazzi which they united by a single facade in the 18th century.  You couldn’t tell from the street, which is normally lousy with fashionable young boozers (this being, after all, the “coolest neighborhood in the world” according to Lonely Planet), but this building, modest-looking as it is, houses a truly stunning baroque theater dating back to 1753.  

The theater was built, of course, for the Rinuccini family, a name which remains relevant today only for Ottavio Rinuccini, author of the libretto to the so-called first opera, Dafne.  For a touch more on that, visit the Teatro Goldoni, if you haven’t yet.

For all the theater’s glamor, what was originally meant to be a library saw a variety of owners after the last Rinuccini heir died out in the 19th century. Ultimately, it was handed off to the city under the agreement that it would eventually be converted into a school, and indeed it was, first as an all-girl’s academy, and most recently, from 2003 onward, the second largest high school in the province, counting 1,700 students in total.  

The theater, however, remained untouched for nearly a century, with renovations starting and stopping throughout the new millenium, always lacking in funds.  And so it goes, the ebb and flow of fortune.  But you know what they say: one day you’re baroque, the next you’re broke, and the next you’re stuck in the middle of the coolest neighborhood in the world.

IMG_20210524_121437.jpg

The Lost Theater at the Palazzo Rinuccini

Rinuccini_Scored.mp3

Ah, the Fontana dello Sprone, you poor thing.  Otherwise known as the Fontana del Buontalenti, here jutting out on the corner, exposed as you are, it’s bad enough that you suffer from defacement, like when you got hit by that car in 2014.  But now, it seems on top of that, we’ve been misattributing you for years!

By any name, the fountain is by every definition grotesque: not only an ornamental sculpture, it’s also quite literally monstrous, yet also playful, somewhere between beast and dream, between nature and imagination, a style of ornamentation extremely popular amongst Mannerists such as Bernardo Buontalenti.  

In fact, this particular work has long been credited to Mr. Buontalenti, a name you might recognize as one of the inventors of gelato, though he was much more than that.  As the court architect of the Medici, Buontalenti was known particularly for his theater and stage design.  This dearly beloved, extremely public spout is usually considered a Buontalenti commission, along with his more ostentatious statues on the Santa Trinità bridge behind you, both intended to jazz up the wedding between Cosimo II de’ Medici and Maria Maddalena d’Austria, whose celebration paraded through these streets in 1608. 

And yet it seems this isn’t all entirely true.  In fact, the Repertory of Civic Architecture of Florence has recently revealed that while there was a spout in place for the wedding, the fountain itself wasn’t commissioned until 1638.  So, despite the enduring attribution to Buontalenti, given that he died thirty years prior, it was more likely the work of a relatively-unknown sculptor named Francesco Generini.  You learn new things every day!
Nevertheless, it remains an important work, particularly at a time when clean water was very much a luxury.  In commissioning a public fountain like this, the benefactor was providing not only an aesthetic, but also an extremely practical gift to anyone, prince or pauper, who happened to find themselves thirsty on this corner.  From that perspective, the truly bizarre design, and the mysterious authorship of that design, seem to be of secondary concern.

63 Borgo San Jacopo \|||// Ah, the Fontana dello Sprone, you poor thing.  Otherwise known as the Fontana del Buontalenti, here jutting out on the corner, exposed as you are, it’s bad enough that you suffer from defacement, like when you got hit by that car in 2014.  But now, it seems on top of that, we’ve been misattributing you for years!

By any name, the fountain is by every definition grotesque: not only an ornamental sculpture, it’s also quite literally monstrous, yet also playful, somewhere between beast and dream, between nature and imagination, a style of ornamentation extremely popular amongst Mannerists such as Bernardo Buontalenti.  

In fact, this particular work has long been credited to Mr. Buontalenti, a name you might recognize as one of the inventors of gelato, though he was much more than that.  As the court architect of the Medici, Buontalenti was known particularly for his theater and stage design.  This dearly beloved, extremely public spout is usually considered a Buontalenti commission, along with his more ostentatious statues on the Santa Trinità bridge behind you, both intended to jazz up the wedding between Cosimo II de’ Medici and Maria Maddalena d’Austria, whose celebration paraded through these streets in 1608. 

And yet it seems this isn’t all entirely true.  In fact, the Repertory of Civic Architecture of Florence has recently revealed that while there was a spout in place for the wedding, the fountain itself wasn’t commissioned until 1638.  So, despite the enduring attribution to Buontalenti, given that he died thirty years prior, it was more likely the work of a relatively-unknown sculptor named Francesco Generini.  You learn new things every day!
Nevertheless, it remains an important work, particularly at a time when clean water was very much a luxury.  In commissioning a public fountain like this, the benefactor was providing not only an aesthetic, but also an extremely practical gift to anyone, prince or pauper, who happened to find themselves thirsty on this corner.  From that perspective, the truly bizarre design, and the mysterious authorship of that design, seem to be of secondary concern.

IMG_20210524_121758 (3).jpg

The Fontana dello Sprone

sprone_scored.mp3

Have a seat on a bench and take a look around.  Seems fairly respectable, yeah?  Though this rather triangular square was officially known as Piazza dei Sapiti, the commoners of the neighborhood always called it something a bit more colorful.  Originally named after a British man who had voluntarily demolished his own buildings to make room for this public area (for reasons beyond me), the Piazza would come to be known for its brothels, and in 2005 it officially took the name the locals had been calling it forever: Piazza della Passera (passera being a vulgar term in dialect for vagina). 
 
Literally, though, in Italian a passera is actually a sparrow. A legend persists that when some neighborhood kids found and resuscitated a dying passera in this square, the bird which they believed to be injured was actually sick with the Plague, Florence’s Patient Zero.  And so it was from here that the pandemic spread, ultimately killing some 60,000 Florentines and sending many others running for the hills.

Today, it’s actually a lovely, relaxing, unglamorous spot to have a gelato or a spritz, a great departure point for the many wonderful bars and restaurants in the area.  Just remember to think twice before engaging with the sparrows you find here.

2 Piazza della Passera \|||// Have a seat on a bench and take a look around.  Seems fairly respectable, yeah?  Though this rather triangular square was officially known as Piazza dei Sapiti, the commoners of the neighborhood always called it something a bit more colorful.  Originally named after a British man who had voluntarily demolished his own buildings to make room for this public area (for reasons beyond me), the Piazza would come to be known for its brothels, and in 2005 it officially took the name the locals had been calling it forever: Piazza della Passera (passera being a vulgar term in dialect for vagina). 
 
Literally, though, in Italian a passera is actually a sparrow. A legend persists that when some neighborhood kids found and resuscitated a dying passera in this square, the bird which they believed to be injured was actually sick with the Plague, Florence’s Patient Zero.  And so it was from here that the pandemic spread, ultimately killing some 60,000 Florentines and sending many others running for the hills.

Today, it’s actually a lovely, relaxing, unglamorous spot to have a gelato or a spritz, a great departure point for the many wonderful bars and restaurants in the area.  Just remember to think twice before engaging with the sparrows you find here.

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