Simplicity

 

When everything’s so intricate, so stylized, so heavy with decoration and pattern and ornament, the thing that stands out the most is the simple one. Maybe that’s why the Orvieto church stood out - sure, the frescoes, especially those in the capella, were rich, but the largest space was filled with the depth and ease of that green and grey, green and grey.

 

I like simplicity best – it makes breathing easy, declutters life so you can focus on one thing, whether it be the contour of the arm on Michelangelo’s David, the pasta selection at a little trattoria, or convincing your traveling companions that everyone might enjoy themselves a little more if they weren’t bickering about the most inane, childish things.

 

Solitude is simple. It’s refreshing, so calming. I took a walk along the river road a few evenings ago, and it was comfortable. I went at my own pace for once, not slowed by other walkers, nor hastened by a lecturer. There were few people on the sidewalk (which might have been facilitated by the construction in progress along said sidewalk, but that didn’t bother me). The river market was just setting up, there was a hazy orange glowing the sky, the heat was bursting with the politics, the voices of the people slick from the vote. The birds thought they’d might as well be picturesque, and silhouetted themselves against columns and pillars, even one against a sculpture of another, more patinated, larger avian fellow.

 

And I walked. That’s all I need, a little stroll once in a while to remind me that, even in Rome, especially in Rome, there is something to be said for slow thought and some concentrated breathing. Sunglasses slapped across my face, of course, so that I look more Roman, or at least less vulnerable. There is something about hiding one’s eyes that is empowering. No one knows what you’re looking at, there’s freedom, even an increased darkness that paints one’s perspective with mystery. It makes me feel Roman, independent, to see and see alone.