Read Online The Food of Love by Anthony Capella - Free Book Online
Authors: Anthony Capella
Tags: Fiction, Literary, General, Humorous, Americans, Romance, Contemporary, Love Stories, Large Type Books, Italy, Cookery, Cooks, Cookbooks
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the greatest flowering of genius the world has ever seen. Good morning, Laura. You
look as if you’ve come hotfoot from a Bramante chapel or a
Bernini fountain, so you can be the first to tell us what you have seen of the High Renaissance so far.’
Laura thought quickly as she sorted out her books. ‘Well,’ she
said, ‘I’ve been to the Sistine chapel, obviously, and seen the
Raphaels in the Vatican, and some of Michelangelo’s architecture—’
‘Momento. Who is this Michael Angelo, please?’ Kim interrupted.
‘Oh. Er, sorry.’ In her haste she had pronounced it the
American way. “I meant Michelangelo.” This time she pronounced
it as he did, in Italian. But her teacher was still not satisfied.
‘In this room,’ he announced, ‘we won’t speak of
Michelangelo, or Titian, or Raphael, any more than we would
call Shakespeare Will, or Beethoven Ludwig. We are not yet on
first name terms with these great men, nor will we presume to be until we have studied their works for many years. We will call
them, therefore, by their proper appellations: Michelangelo
Buonarroti, Tiziano Vecellio and Raffaello Sanzio. Please,’ he gestured at Laura, ‘proceed.’
Kim Fellowes was an American, but he had lived in Rome for so
long that he was, as he said, almost a native: the staff at the
University referred to him simply as il dottore. It was to be regretted, he told the students, that his book on the Renaissance - the
same book Laura had been consulting during her futile hunt for
the church of Santa Cecilia - had had to be written in English
rather than Italian, thanks to the dictates of a publisher eager for a commercial bestseller. And a bestseller it had inevitably become: he kept the reviews, carefully laminated to protect them from
greasy fingerprints, on his desk for the students to examine. It had been acclaimed as that rare thing: a work that combined the erudition of a scholar with the sensitivity of a true artist. Everything
about Kim proclaimed his perfect taste, from the gorgeous linen
shirts he wore - Laura liked to play a kind of mental game which consisted of trying to find the right word to describe their colours: she usually resorted to words like cornflower, cranberry, or aquamarine - to his pale seersucker jacket, and the straw Panama that
kept the fierce Italian sun off his finely featured face when outdoors.
Some of her fellow students found him a hard taskmaster.
Laura was overawed by his sensitivity and intelligence, and did
everything she could to impress him.
‘So you saw the Sistine Chapel?’ he was saying. ‘And what did
you think of it?’
She hesitated. But she couldn’t bear not to tell him what she
had really thought. “I thought it was a barn.’
The other students laughed. ‘A barn?’ Kim Fellowes repeated
questioningly, knitting his fingers together and placing them on his knee.
‘Yes. I mean, it’s beautifully painted and everything, but the
paintings are so high that you have to look upwards all the time, and the room is so big and rectangular …’ She trailed off, certain she was about to be ridiculed. To her surprise, though, Kim was
nodding approvingly.
‘Laura is absolutely right. The Sistine Chapel,’ he said, looking round at the students to make sure they all understood him, ‘is
considered by many experts, including myself, to be the embodiment of all the worst excesses of the Renaissance. The colours are
gaudy, the design overpowering and the conception unharmonious.
It was commissioned purely as a status symbol by a
nouveau-riche philistine who destroyed some rather fine
Peruginos in the process. Buonarroti himself didn’t want to touch it, which is why we will be studying his drawings instead. Now
then, who can tell me what contraposto is?’
‘That man is such an asshole,’ grumbled one of Laura’s fellow students as they packed up their books after the seminar.
‘He knows what he’s talking about,’ Laura
look as if you’ve come hotfoot from a Bramante chapel or a
Bernini fountain, so you can be the first to tell us what you have seen of the High Renaissance so far.’
Laura thought quickly as she sorted out her books. ‘Well,’ she
said, ‘I’ve been to the Sistine chapel, obviously, and seen the
Raphaels in the Vatican, and some of Michelangelo’s architecture—’
‘Momento. Who is this Michael Angelo, please?’ Kim interrupted.
‘Oh. Er, sorry.’ In her haste she had pronounced it the
American way. “I meant Michelangelo.” This time she pronounced
it as he did, in Italian. But her teacher was still not satisfied.
‘In this room,’ he announced, ‘we won’t speak of
Michelangelo, or Titian, or Raphael, any more than we would
call Shakespeare Will, or Beethoven Ludwig. We are not yet on
first name terms with these great men, nor will we presume to be until we have studied their works for many years. We will call
them, therefore, by their proper appellations: Michelangelo
Buonarroti, Tiziano Vecellio and Raffaello Sanzio. Please,’ he gestured at Laura, ‘proceed.’
Kim Fellowes was an American, but he had lived in Rome for so
long that he was, as he said, almost a native: the staff at the
University referred to him simply as il dottore. It was to be regretted, he told the students, that his book on the Renaissance - the
same book Laura had been consulting during her futile hunt for
the church of Santa Cecilia - had had to be written in English
rather than Italian, thanks to the dictates of a publisher eager for a commercial bestseller. And a bestseller it had inevitably become: he kept the reviews, carefully laminated to protect them from
greasy fingerprints, on his desk for the students to examine. It had been acclaimed as that rare thing: a work that combined the erudition of a scholar with the sensitivity of a true artist. Everything
about Kim proclaimed his perfect taste, from the gorgeous linen
shirts he wore - Laura liked to play a kind of mental game which consisted of trying to find the right word to describe their colours: she usually resorted to words like cornflower, cranberry, or aquamarine - to his pale seersucker jacket, and the straw Panama that
kept the fierce Italian sun off his finely featured face when outdoors.
Some of her fellow students found him a hard taskmaster.
Laura was overawed by his sensitivity and intelligence, and did
everything she could to impress him.
‘So you saw the Sistine Chapel?’ he was saying. ‘And what did
you think of it?’
She hesitated. But she couldn’t bear not to tell him what she
had really thought. “I thought it was a barn.’
The other students laughed. ‘A barn?’ Kim Fellowes repeated
questioningly, knitting his fingers together and placing them on his knee.
‘Yes. I mean, it’s beautifully painted and everything, but the
paintings are so high that you have to look upwards all the time, and the room is so big and rectangular …’ She trailed off, certain she was about to be ridiculed. To her surprise, though, Kim was
nodding approvingly.
‘Laura is absolutely right. The Sistine Chapel,’ he said, looking round at the students to make sure they all understood him, ‘is
considered by many experts, including myself, to be the embodiment of all the worst excesses of the Renaissance. The colours are
gaudy, the design overpowering and the conception unharmonious.
It was commissioned purely as a status symbol by a
nouveau-riche philistine who destroyed some rather fine
Peruginos in the process. Buonarroti himself didn’t want to touch it, which is why we will be studying his drawings instead. Now
then, who can tell me what contraposto is?’
‘That man is such an asshole,’ grumbled one of Laura’s fellow students as they packed up their books after the seminar.
‘He knows what he’s talking about,’ Laura
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