B is for Borromini

I always tend to root for the underdog. So while this entry could just as easily gone to Bernini, the other and better known Baroque architect, or just been devoted to Baroque in general, thereby avoiding the whole rivalry thing entirely, I’m going to go ahead and give it to Borominni.

Why? Because he seems to be stuck in Bernini’s shadow or, more accurately, lost in the glare of the other’s genius. Bernini is all over Rome with a profile only exceeded by Michelangelo. Around the Vatican he’s credited with the baldichino over the altar at St Peter’s Basilica (more on that later), the angels standing sentry across the Ponte St. Angelo, and the mammoth colonnade of St Peter’s Square. As a sculptor, his masterpieces include Apollo & Daphne , Pluto & Persephone (both at the Borghese Gallery, where they don’t allow cameras) and St. Teresa in Ecstacy, a stunning work with a swooning Teresa and a very smug angel, looking like he knows exactly what changes he has put her through. His fountains alone include the 4 River’s Fountain in Piazza Navonna, the Sunken Boat at the base of the Spanish Steps and everybody’s favorite, that little fountain with the turtles on the edge of the old Jewish Ghetto.

After my second trip to Rome (there’s really no point in talking about my first trip. It was back in the 70’s and mostly I remember that we did see the Vatican and the Forum but mostly drank a lot of red wine and stayed at a pensione run by Mama Germana a tiny and aged Italian nonna whose knowledge of the English language began and ended with “Hey, sonuvabitcha.”) where was I, oh yeah, after my second trip to Rome I was well aware of Bernini. I don’t think I heard Boromini’s name until my third or, more likely, my fourth. He was a stonecutter’s son, born in the north of Italy and originally worked as a decorative sculptor, adding rosettes and cherub faces to larger works. He eventually made his way to Rome where his uncle got him a job working for the latter’s father-in-law, the architect Carlos Maderno, who was finishing up St. Peter’s Basilica.

Maderno was up in years and in poor health. His fingers were painfully swollen from gout and he suffered terribly from kidney stones. Borromini quickly became Maderno’s right hand man and in the process made the transition from sculptor to architect. When Maderno passed, Borromini was certain that he would be appointed chief architect of St Peter’s. Instead, Pope Urban VIII appointed a young and talented sculptor whose career the newly elected Pope had taken an interest in shepharding toward architecture, Bernini.

While both were serious, uncompromising artisans, the two were a study in contrasts. Bernini was poised, commercially and professionally astute (to a fault), and socially adept. It was said that the pope was so taken by his conversational gifts, that Bernini had permission to visit Urban whenever he pleased. The two would talk late into the night, usually until the Pope fell asleep, leaving Bernini to lock up and let himself out. Boromini on the other hand was morose and prickly, focused entirely on work and a loner. He was known to dress entirely in black with a dash of red piping in his shoes.

While Boromini was disheartened by the slight, he stayed on, in part due to Bernini’s entreaties to do so. In spite of his success as a sculptor, the latter was fairly new to the art and craft of architecture. The first joint work was the previously mentioned baldichino over the main altar in the basilica. While the initial design was Bernini’s, his plan for the top was deemed unworkable because it was simply too heavy. The work as it is seen today bears a lighter more graceful canopy that is generally accepted by art historians as being the work of Boromini but still, as at the time of its completion, the piece is described as Bernini’s baldichino. Bernini never acknowledged the contributions of the other, not the first or last time in his career that such a charge was leveled. Boromini was said to have commented that he didn’t begrudge Bernini taking the fee in its entirety but he could not forgive him taking all the honor. Either way, Boromini left the basilica.

Enough with the history, what’s the appeal? Well, Borromini’s buildings are beautiful. Graceful and flowing and all the things that granite and concrete aren’t. San Carlo of Quatro Fontana is a prime example. This tiny church (it’s been dubbed San Carlito by the locals) was one of his first commissions and one that he tinkered with throughout his life. Somebody somewhere referred to architecture as “frozen music” and this building demonstrates how apt that metaphor is. Even covered with soot, the façade is a marvel of curves and scallops. The small cloister inside appears simple enough. The fact that the square is really an octagon is almost lost in its quietness. The church itself has no side aisles, nave, or transept; just a simple ellipse. The domed ceiling is coffered to suggest a honeycomb, a subtle nod to the bees that dominate the family crest of Pope Urban VIII. The dominant color is white with occasional accents. The Bernini church down the street is similar in shape but its extensive use of gold paint makes it look almost cheesy by comparison.

Besides the artistry, there is something satisfying about the fact that you have to go looking to find these churches, sometimes realizing that you’ve been walking past them for weeks without realizing they were there. I mentioned in my last entry that this was the case with San Carlito. Its narrow marble sidewalk coupled with a busy intersection kept my attention everywhere but up until one time I happened to be walking on the other side of the street, looked over and…there it was. Similarly, the steeple to St Ivo’s rises above the Pantheon neighborhood, it’s spiral design mimicking a bumblebee’s flight, but you won’t notice it if you don’t look up.
That’s one of the marvels of Rome. There is so much within a relatively small city. Any block or alley seems to hold something of interest, whether it’s an old and weathered wall fountain, a marble foot about the size of a Cooper Mini, or a mammoth Gothic cathedral where, when nobodies looking, you can lay your hands on a Michelangelo (I am not suggesting that anyone do that. I’m just saying…). The city, like the artist, has an amazing ability to surprise but you’ve got to keep your eyes open and look other ways besides straight ahead.

(Not all of Borromini’s works were small and out of the way. He was commissioned to do extensive work at San Giovanni Laterano, one of the Vatican basilicas. Likewise, the church of Sant’Agnese in Angone is a prominent feature of the Piazza Navonn

a where it sits across from Bernini’s Four Rivers Fountain. Some tour guides point out that the figure in the fountain recoiling from Borromini’s church in either terror of disgust is another indication of the rivalry between the two but the church was actually started three years after the fountain was finished. (OK, in all honesty I’ve never heard a tour guide tell the apocryphal story as true. We just bring up the false story so that we can dispute it with the truth. Makes us look smart.)

Lastly, there is something ironic and tragic in the fact that Borromini was able to find in the typically unyielding materials of his craft what he was unable to find in his own life and relationships. While his buildings are almost immediately recognizable by their graceful curves and gentle prods to look closer, his personality was anything but gentle and graceful. Resentful, stubborn, and brittle, by the end of his life he had distanced almost anyone who had come close to being a friend. He had also managed to get himself fired from almost every job he was working on. In August 1 1667, he propped a sword against his bed and threw himself upon it. He lingered for a day and died. He’s buried at San Giovanni, in the tomb of his mentor Carlos Maderno. There’s no grave marker, just a small plaque...and a blog entry here.