Monthly Archives: January 2026

The Light of Mercy

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Preface

During our recent visit to the Boldini exhibition in Lucca a painting by Neapolitan artist Luca Postiglione (1876-1936) particularly struck me. This little story is a result of my encounter with Postiglione’s painting ‘Il Perdono’ (‘Forgiveness’)



Chapter I — The Hall of Contrasts


The convent hall was drenched in late afternoon sunlight, slanting through tall, narrow windows onto polished stone floors. Dust motes floated like golden motes of memory. Every step Sister Angela took echoed softly, her black habit swaying around her ankles, the white wimple framing a calm face of absolute serenity.
At the far end, a young woman waited. Her gown, the height of Belle Époque fashion, gleamed with silk and lace. Pearls at her throat glimmered like captured stars. Her hat, wide-brimmed and feathered, cast shadows over her tear-streaked cheeks. She clutched the delicate gloves in her hands, twisting them nervously.
She could have been the darling of a grand salon, admired for her beauty and poise. But here, in the quiet hall, she felt the weight of every careless word, every shallow laugh, every broken heart she had left behind.
Sister Angela regarded her silently for a moment, noting the tremor in her hands, the quiver of her lips. the tears threatening to spill. The contrast was striking: a girl shaped by fashion and society’s applause, standing before a woman shaped by discipline, devotion, and the quiet radiance of inner strength.
“Child,” Sister Angela said softly, “you have come far. Speak your heart.”
The young woman swallowed, words caught in her throat. “I… I have lived for vanity,” she whispered. “I sought only beauty, admiration… I hurt others… and myself.”
Sister Angela stepped closer. “Then let mercy meet you here,” she said. “Truth is the first step toward new life.”


Chapter II — Confession


The girl sank to her knees, her eyes fixed on the stone floor. She felt exposed, fragile, utterly human.
“I cannot pray,” she admitted, voice trembling. “I have no faith. Only shame.”
Sister Angela knelt beside her, resting a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Faith is not only words,” she said. “Faith is the opening of the heart, the willingness to see your faults and turn toward mercy.”
The young woman’s tears flowed freely, soaking the fine silk of her gown. How long had it been since anyone saw me like this, stripped of every mask? she thought. No applause, no jewels, no flattery—only truth.
“Do you feel it?” Sister Angela asked softly. “The weight lifting?”
“I… I feel lighter,” the girl whispered, astonished. “I thought forgiveness was a story… a word… now I feel it.”
“Yes,” said the nun – echoing the image captured in Postiglione’s ‘Il Perdono:’ (‘Forgiveness’) where a woman dressed in society fashion is moved to tears, embraced by a nun in the plain habit of her order. The contrast is perfect: worldly beauty beside spiritual purity, superficiality beside humility, sin beside mercy.


Chapter III — The Eye of Mercy


The young woman raised her tear-streaked face. This woman could scorn me, could condemn me… yet she does not.
“Why… why do you forgive me?” she asked, voice barely audible.
Sister Angela’s eyes met hers. “Because forgiveness is stronger than sin. Mercy exists beyond human justice. It is the hand extended when the heart cannot bear more.”
The girl’s inner turmoil was almost unbearable. All my life I chased admiration. I delighted in flattery. I laughed while others suffered. And now… now I am nothing, yet everything is offered to me.
“You have come contrite,” said the nun, “willing to face the truth of your soul. That is enough to begin again.”
I am forgiven… the girl thought. Not because I deserve it, but because mercy is real. I can change.


Chapter IV — Renewal


The young woman rose slowly, the hem of her gown whispering against the stone. Her movements, once stiff with anxiety and pride, now carried a tentative grace.
“I want to be better,” she admitted, almost to herself. “But how?”
Sister Angela smiled, the quiet radiance of Il Perdono reflected in her calm gaze. “Step by step. Accept the gift of forgiveness. Let it guide your choices. The world may see only silk and pearls, but inside, you will carry mercy and hope.”
For a long moment, the two stood in the golden light. The girl’s heart trembled, fragile as a butterfly, yet resolute.
I will not be defined by vanity or by shame, she thought. I will walk forward differently.


Chapter V — A Life Begun Anew


The girl left the hall, sunlight behind her and new light before her. The weight of guilt had lifted, replaced by a fragile but undeniable hope. She looked down at her gloves, at her gown, and realized they were mere ornaments compared to the treasure she now held: the knowledge that she was forgiven, and the power to live anew.
Behind her, Sister Angela returned to her duties, silent and steadfast. In that quiet hall, the echo of mercy lingered, a testament that even the most wayward souls could find a path to redemption if they accepted grace with an open heart.
The young woman breathed deeply, stepping into the world she had once only known superficially. She would not forget this moment — this embrace, this mercy, this chance at renewal.
She had glimpsed the infinite mercy of God, reflected in human form, and for the first time, she understood: forgiveness was not only a gift from others, but a light that could illuminate the darkest paths of her own heart.

A Master of ‘Swish’

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Yesterday we spent most of the day in Lucca, mainly because we both had dental appointments. Apart from that, we walked around a little, did some shopping, managed a tasty oriental kebab, sorted out our telefonini and—since the weather was gloomy—decided it was the perfect moment to visit an exhibition at the Cavallerizza, (the former riding school), which has become one of Lucca’s main venues for art shows, rather like Palazzo Blu in Pisa or Palazzo Strozzi in Florence. The exhibitions there are usually original and fascinating, and this one certainly was.


This exhibition continues a thread that began with the Puccini posters a couple of years ago, linked to the world of the Belle Époque—the “beautiful times.” That period has been everywhere lately: the great show at Palazzo Blu, the Toulouse-Lautrec display at the Innocenti in Florence, and now this one in Lucca. This time the focus is on Giovanni Boldini, the Italian painter who perhaps sums up the Belle Époque better than anyone.


Boldini is, in a sense, the Italian equivalent of John Singer Sargent: master of swish, elegance, and dazzling portraiture, especially of women in extraordinary dresses. (Boldini knew Sargent and even painted a fine portrait of him). He was lucky to live at a time when women’s fashion was perfect for painting, lucky to meet so many beautiful women, and luckier still to have affairs with some of them. His paintings capture movement, life, and glamour through long, flowing brushstrokes, a sense of speed, and a nervous, brilliant energy.


But his work is not only about fashionable society. Of course there is high life, elegance, and display, but there are also intimate portraits of young women, quiet scenes in orchards and gardens, and tender, almost enchanting countryside views, even if these are fewer. At times he moves close to Impressionism. He was influenced by the Macchiaioli, the Italian Impressionists, but only as part of his range. He could use their techniques when he wished, yet above all he remained himself: the swish, the flow, the long strokes, the elegance.


Sadly, Boldini’s eyesight deteriorated toward the end of his life. He died in the 1930s at almost ninety. After the First World War he painted very little, and in a way that suited him. I don’t think he ever really felt at home with the new fashions of the 1920s—the flappers, the short dresses, the sharp lines. There are one or two portraits with those dreadful cloche hats, but they are not what we remember him for. His true world was the Belle Époque.


We were really glad we went to this exhibition which also displayed several paintings of his contemporaries placing his own uniqueness into perspective. It was far more impressive than we expected, and we fell in love with many of the paintings. I was completely struck by one in particular—a woman just after her bath. The beauty of her body, the form, the softness… it was deeply sensual. Yes, it is sexual, but sexual with elegance and culture, not the crude vulgarity that passes for sexuality today. This was refined, sophisticated, and deeply human.


It is a wonderful exhibition, and I would recommend it to everyone. It is beautifully done and truly memorable—a perfect escape from all the gloomy things that surround us: the news, the weather, the economy, everything. It lets you plunge into the Belle Époque, even while knowing that that period itself had many problems—disease, hypocrisy, poverty, moral contradictions—most of which are not shown here.


And perhaps that is why Boldini was so loved. He gave people a way out. He gave life, movement, and elegance. He glorified women, made them radiant, modern, and beautiful. And if beauty is truth, then perhaps truth is beauty too.

Nativity Film Premiere!

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🇮🇹 Versione Italiana
È stato veramente bello vedere il film del Presepe Vivente di Granaiola del Natale scorso. In realtà ne abbiamo visto due di film. Il primo era una versione più rifinita, con musica e montaggio finale. Il secondo era più lungo, ma in molti modi ancora più interessante, perché mostrava più spezzoni di tutti coloro che hanno partecipato: i fabbricanti di candele, i calzolai, la scuola il falegname, i tessitori, i boscaioli, i taglialegna, tanti altri — e anche i tre briganti, e non ci voleva molto a indovinare chi fossero! Tutti hanno dato vita ai mestieri e ai personaggi del percorso. E naturalmente il grande culmine è stata la scena della Natività stessa.

Trovo meraviglioso che oggi abbiamo la tecnologia, proprio qui a livello locale, che permette a chiunque di registrare i momenti più memorabili del ciclo di eventi di ogni anno. Che tristezza pensare che questa tecnologia non fosse facilmente disponibile ai tempi dei nostri bisnonni, o persino dei nostri nonni — quante cose straordinarie si sarebbero potute registrare allora e che oggi sono completamente scomparse.

Dopo la proiezione dei film, nell’utile sala parrocchiale costruita accanto alla chiesa di Granaiola, abbiamo gustato ottimi rinfreschi: biroldo, dolci, torte, prosciutti e pane — e naturalmente anche vino e birra. È stato un modo stupendo per concludere una domenica in questo freddo inverno che stiamo attraversando: una serata davvero bellissima.

Spero che voi ci eravate, e se no , spero che riusciremo a farvi vedere quel film, soprattutto se avete partecipato al successo del Presepe Vivente presentato a Granaiola nel 2025.

Complimenti per il nostro direttore e produttore e tutti quelli che hanno contribuito ad un pomeriggio memorabilissimo.

🇬🇧 English Version.
It was truly wonderful to see the film of our Presepe Vivente di Granaiola. In fact, we watched two films. The first was a more polished version, with music and final editing. The second was longer, but in many ways even more interesting, because it showed more snippets of everyone who took part — the candlestick makers, shoemakers, chairmakers, weavers, loggers, woodcutters — and also the three brigands, and it wasn’t hard to guess who they were! Everyone brought the trades and characters of the trail to life. And of course, the great climax was the Nativity scene itself.

I think it’s amazing that we now have the technology, right here locally, that allows anyone to record the most memorable moments in our annual cycle of events. How sad that this technology wasn’t available in the time of our parents or even our grandparents — what incredible things could have been recorded then that are now completely lost.

After the double film show, in the very useful parish hut next to the church in Granaiola, we enjoyed generous refreshments: hot drinks, cakes, ham and bread — and of course wine and beer. It was a wonderful way to finish a Sunday in this freezing winter we are now going through: it really was a great evening.

I hope you were there, and if you weren’t, I hope we can find a way for you to see that film, especially if you took part in the Presepe Vivente.

Congratulations to the film maker and all those who made this such a memorable afternoon
.

Persian Pride

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I stand with the Iranian people who are bravely rising up against a theocracy imposed on their ancient cultural values—a system that threatens them with death not only as “enemies of the state,” but chillingly as so-called “enemies of God.”

They are not criminals. They are citizens demanding dignity, freedom, and the right to live without fear. Their struggle is a fight for humanity itself, and it deserves our full voice and unwavering solidarity.

Below are some photos in happier times, when I hitched to Iran with a schoolmate sharing the best of life —reminders of what every person, everywhere, has the right to experience.

Sono al fianco del popolo iraniano che si sta ribellando coraggiosamente a una teocrazia imposta sui suoi antichi valori culturali, un sistema che li minaccia di morte non solo in quanto “nemici dello Stato”, ma in modo agghiacciante come cosiddetti “nemici di Dio”.

Non sono criminali. Sono cittadini che rivendicano dignità, libertà e il diritto di vivere senza paura. La loro lotta è una lotta per l’umanità stessa e merita la nostra piena voce e la nostra incrollabile solidarietà.

Qui sotto alcune foto di tempi più felici, quando sono andato in Iran in autostop con un compagno di scuola condividendo il meglio della vita: promemoria di ciò che ogni persona, ovunque, ha il diritto di sperimentare.

Pilgrim’s Progress: Garfagnana Style

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Yesterday we were invited to a deeply human story: the journey of a man who, by walking and trekking , learns again how to live—and who finds happiness in the quiet folds of the Garfagnana.


The documentary. screened yesterday afternoon in the parish hall of Villa, Bagni di Lucca, is titled ‘Il Viandante’ (The Wayfarer). It’s based on Salvatore Liggeri’s book A Due Passi dal Tibet and was written and directed by Fabrizio Baroni. The film gathers the voices and faces of the local landscape: Giacomo Giustizieri, Aurora Santini, Cassandra from Granaiola, Marco Rigali, Marcella Barsotti, Giuseppe Berni, and a Dutch couple who chose Lugliano as their home, Dirk Blaauw and Stephanie Drenth.


This is not a documentary you simply watch—it is one you enter, absorb, and carry with you.


Born in Sicily, raised in Germany, and now living with his wife in a small village of the Garfagnana, Salvatore Liggeri arrived in this land almost by accident. “A choice that seemed predestined,” say Roberta Nerici and Ivano Amadei of Crasciana, promoters of the group ‘I Sentieri Ritrovati’, dedicated to rediscovering ancient paths. “Yet it was precisely here that he found meaning. This is a story of searching, of travel, of rebirth. Salvatore didn’t walk just to arrive somewhere—he walked to find himself.”


Both book and film open onto a world of towering mountains, paths swallowed by green, villages where time loosens its grip, and encounters shaped by generosity: a glass of wine, a silent smile, hands roughened by work and weather that speak without words. Salvatore meets people with humility and respect, always ready to listen, always ready to learn.
Marri of the CAI section of Barga recalls one walk with him: “That day was special not only for how far we walked, but for what we shared. In Salvatore I recognized something that unites us: the desire to walk not only with our feet, but with our hearts.”


“The film tells my journey,” says Liggeri, “through the Garfagnana and other parts of Tuscany. I speak about life in all its forms, about how to live—and also about death, about the fear of facing it and trying to understand what still remains taboo.”


The story begins in 2017. After separating from his partner and being unable to see his daughter, Salvatore sinks into depression and alcoholism. Exhausted and broken, he decides to leave and crosses Europe on foot. Years of wandering follow, until he reaches a Tibetan monastery and meets people who change his life—among them Sara, the woman he will love, and Denise, a dear friend he will later lose.


At Denise’s invitation, Salvatore comes to the Garfagnana. Here he encounters people who teach him forgotten values. Slowly he is reborn: he learns a different rhythm of living, and with it, a new form of happiness. After years of confusion and pain, he finds harmony at last. ‘Il Viandante: joins the great tradition of journey-films told as inner pilgrimages, reminiscent of works like Buñuel’s ‘The Milky Way,’ where the path becomes a mirror of the soul.


Today Liggeri lives with Sara in Bolognana. He speaks of the Serchio Valley and the Apuan Alps with tenderness, saying that for the first time in his life he truly feels at home. The film opens in Val di Luce, then moves through Florence and Lunigiana, but its heart beats in the Garfagnana, where most of it was filmed.


The photography is by Silvia Talassi; panoramic and drone footage by High Sky Record of Melissa Liggeri. Music is by Alex Gasperini, graphics by rapper Sichze and singer-songwriter Nicholas Carannante.


Introduced by Roberto Ragghianti, the film was screened to a packed hall and received with warm applause. I was struck by the beauty of the images—so many places I recognized with affection—and by the immediacy of the encounters that shape our wandering hero’s path.

The film is rich with extraordinary characters and unforgettable places, each encounter revealing something essential about life in these remote and beautiful parts. More than a story, it is a lesson: it teaches us to look more carefully, to listen more deeply, and to recognize how much wisdom can be found in simple lives and quiet places. By the end, we felt changed — more aware, more grateful, and more connected to a land and a people who have so much to teach us.


I hope that ‘Il Viandante’ will soon be shown more widely, with subtitles, so that those beyond Italy too can walk this road—and perhaps, in walking it, find something of themselves.

Befana Buffoons

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A chilly Befana afternoon at Bagni di Lucca’s stylish casino turned magical thanks to a lively young troupe! Snow White, Cinderella, Pocahontas and even Cruella de Vil had both adults laughing and kids cheering nonstop. Excellent choreography and music. It was pure festive fun! 🎭✨

Un freddo pomeriggio di Befana all’elegante casinò di Bagni di Lucca è diventato magico grazie a una vivace e giovane compagnia! Biancaneve, Cenerentola e persino Crudelia De Mon hanno fatto ridere gli adulti e applaudire senza sosta i bambini. Coreografie e musica eccellenti. È stato puro divertimento festivo! 🎭✨

Jonathan Powell: A Genius Among the Tatra Mountains (1969-2025)

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(From left: Jonathan Powell, me, and David Conway,: A historic evening at Levoca’s Indian Summer Festival, a meeting of three former King’s College, Cambridge students united by music.)


Few artists combined talent, passion, and depth like Jonathan Powell. Pianist and composer of extraordinary skill, his genius was not only in flawless technique, but in the ability to bring complex and little-known works back to life. Composers such as Kaikhosru Sorabji, known for the extreme difficulty and length of their works, were for him challenges to embrace with enthusiasm and meticulous precision. Jonathan loved exploring details, discovering rare harmonies, and resurrecting forgotten musical texts, presenting their beauty to audiences with fidelity and unique sensitivity.


Jonathan was also a man of strong principles. When Russia invaded Ukraine, he decided to suspend any performance of Russian works until further notice. Tears in his eyes, yet firm and morally consistent: a gesture demonstrating how deeply his heart and his art were connected to the world around him.


A Unique Meeting in Levoca
Our first and only meeting with Jonathan took place at the Indian Summer Festival, organized by David Conway my former Kings College Cambridge University contemporary, and his wife Nadia, extraordinary promoters of high-quality music. It was a special evening: for the first time, three former King’s College, Cambridge students came together, even though Jonathan was twenty years younger than us.



His performance was hypnotic: a continuous flow of pieces without interruption, hands moving across the keys at almost impossible speed. He asked the audience not to applaud between pieces, invoking the discipline of great artists such as Keith Jarrett or Glenn Gould, who maintained complete control over their performance conditions.


Jonathan loved to dress entirely in white, reminiscent of Klaus Kinski, reflecting his intense, slightly theatrical personality, always part of his musical and visual identity.


Family and Dedication
Jonathan often performed in duet with Irena, his wife, creating moments of great intimacy and musical perfection. They lived in a secluded house in the Tatra Mountains, near the Ukrainian border. In addition to Irena, he leaves two beloved children, inheriting not only his love but also his sensitive and creative spirit.


(A magical duet by Paderewski evoking the beauty of the Tatra Mountains and played by husband and wife team Jonathan and Irena Powell at the Levoca Indian Summer festival 2025).


David recalls how it was impossible to take your eyes off Jonathan’s hands: they moved so fast across the keys they seemed to disappear, while the music filled every corner of the hall.


Life and Humanity of a Genius
Jonathan was not just a musician. Like many geniuses, he had intense sides and deep passions, sometimes imperious, and moments of fragility that emerged in his personal messages. His momentary anger does not define him; it reminds us that even extraordinary people face human challenges.


An Immense Loss
The news of his sudden death on December 27 left us stunned and saddened. His legacy will continue to grow, through every note played, every work interpreted, and through every listener discovering his art.

A memory of his energy on stage.
Jonathan Powell remains a beacon: a musical genius, a man of great heart, a beloved husband and father. His memory lives on through the notes he left behind and in the hearts of those who listened.

“A thousand notes unsung,
fingers stilled too soon.
The world waits for what never came,
yet in silence, your music burns.”

***
ITALIAN VERSION

Da sinistra: io, David e Jonathan Powell. Una serata storica al festival Indian Summer.


Pochi artisti uniscono talento, passione e profondità come Jonathan Powell. Pianista e compositore straordinario, il suo genio non era solo nella tecnica impeccabile, ma nella capacità di far rivivere opere complesse e poco conosciute. Compositori come Kaikhosru Sorabji, noti per le difficoltà estreme delle loro opere, erano per lui sfide da affrontare con entusiasmo e precisione maniacale.


Jonathan era anche un uomo di principi forti. Quando la Russia ha invaso l’Ucraina, decise di sospendere qualsiasi esecuzione di opere russe fino a nuovo ordine. Lacrime agli occhi, fermezza e coerenza morale: un gesto che dimostrava quanto il suo cuore e la sua arte fossero profondamente legati al mondo intorno a lui


Un incontro unico a Levoccia
Il nostro primo e unico incontro con Jonathan avvenne al festival Indian Summer, organizzato da David e sua moglie Nadia, entrambi straordinari promotori di musica di qualità. Fu una serata speciale: per la prima volta, tre ex studenti del King’s College di Cambridge si ritrovavano insieme, anche se Jonathan era vent’anni più giovane di noi.

Jonathan Powell e David, dietro le quinte del festival.
La sua performance fu ipnotica: un flusso continuo di pezzi senza interruzioni, le mani correvano sui tasti in una sequenza quasi impossibile da seguire. Chiese al pubblico di non applaudire tra un pezzo e l’altro, richiamando la disciplina di grandi come Keith Jarrett o Glenn Gould. Jonathan amava vestirsi completamente di bianco, come Klaus Kinski, riflettendo la sua personalità intensa e leggermente teatrale.


Famiglia e dedizione
Jonathan suonava spesso in duetto con Irena, sua moglie, creando momenti di grande intimità e perfezione musicale. Vivevano in una casa isolata tra le montagne Tatra, vicino alla frontiera con l’Ucraina. Oltre a Irena, lascia due figli amatissimi, che hanno ereditato non solo il suo amore, ma anche il suo spirito sensibile e creativo.

Duetto magico immersi nella bellezza delle montagne Tatra. David ricorda come fosse impossibile distogliere lo sguardo dalle mani di Jonathan: si muovevano così rapidamente sui tasti che sembravano scomparire, mentre la musica riempiva ogni angolo della sala.


Vita e umanità di un genio

Jonathan non era solo un musicista. Come molti geni, aveva lati intensi e passioni profonde, talvolta imperiosi, e momenti di fragilità che emergevano nei suoi messaggi personali. La sua rabbia momentanea non definisce la sua vita: ci ricorda che anche le persone straordinarie affrontano sfide umane profonde.


Una perdita immensa
La notizia della sua morte improvvisa il 27 dicembre ci ha lasciati increduli e addolorati. La sua eredità continuerà a crescere, attraverso ogni nota suonata, ogni opera interpretata, e attraverso ogni ascoltatore che scoprirà la sua arte.

Un ricordo della sua energia sul palco.
Jonathan Powell rimane un faro: un genio musicale, un uomo di grande cuore, un marito e padre amatissimo. La sua memoria continuerà a vivere attraverso le note che ha lasciato e nei cuori di chi l’ha ascoltato.

“Mille note non cantate,
dita fermate troppo presto.
Il mondo attende ciò che non è mai arrivato,
eppure nel silenzio, la tua musica arde”


Script for a film on Cascina

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‘Càscina lies at the heart of a rich, flourishing and populous land, amid fertile fields and vineyards, stretched across a splendid plain along the ducal road from Pisa to Florence, between the River Arno and the Rinònico drainage canal.”


Thus begins Càscina and its Environs, written in 1912 by the Reverend Francesco Conti — a sentence that already contains, like a seed, the town’s geography, its vocation, and its destiny. It


Càscina stands where water, land, and roads have always converged: two miles east of Fornacette, eight from Pisa, fourteen from Livorno. A crossroads of trade and cultivation, history and survival.


The origin of the name “Càscina” remains veiled in uncertainty, suspended between legend and scholarship. Some historians trace it back to the Etruscan settlement of Càsne; others link it to the river that once bore the same name. That river appears in documents as early as 935, while the name “Càscina” itself surfaces in a parchment dated 26 June 750 AD, recording the donation of a house to the Church of Saint Mary of Càssina — a humble act marking the town’s first appearance in written history.


Four centuries later, on 27 October 1142, another parchment — preserved today in the Archbishop’s Archives of Pisa — records a decisive moment: Archbishop Balduino granted the inhabitants of the territory the right, and the duty, to build a castle and a town. Càscina was no longer merely a place; it became a fortified community.


By the Middle Ages, the town had taken on the form of a stronghold: a rectangular castle encircled by twelve towers, linked by low defensive walls and protected by a wide moat. Documents from 1270 speak of a bell tower and a fortified channel dug south of the Arno, both to defend Pisan territory and to regulate the river’s dangerous floods — a reminder that here, nature has always been both ally and threat.


In the 14th century the defenses were reinforced once more. Walls were raised, towers strengthened, and two gates constructed: one opening toward Florence, the other toward Pisa — symbols of a town poised between rival powers.


During the era of the Pisan Republic, Càscina stood loyally with the Emperor, opposing Lucca and Florence. That allegiance endured until 29 July 1364, when Florence defeated Pisa in the brutal Battle of Càscina — an event immortalized by Michelangelo Buonarroti. Though only preparatory drawings survive from his hand, the clash lives on through Vasari’s fresco in the Hall of the Five Hundred in Florence’s Palazzo Vecchio, where art preserves what history destroyed.
Under Florentine rule, Càscina did not decline. On the contrary, it grew. By 1622 the town counted 5,587 inhabitants, and by the 18th century it had become the most populous and important rural center in all of Tuscany.


Modernity arrived with violence and progress intertwined. Toward the end of the 19th century, the Pisan and Florentine gates — along with parts of the walls — were demolished to make way for the Leopolda railway linking Florence and Pisa. Later, war inflicted further wounds. The Second World War erased entire sections of the ancient defenses.


Today the historic center appears fragmented, shaped by demolitions and transformations between the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Yet fragments endure: the pentagonal Parisina Tower, the Stradina, the Piazza d’Armi, and the streets tracing the ancient walls — relics embedded within the modern town like fossils in stone.


The first monument to greet the visitor is the Civic, or Clock, Tower, rising in the western part of the old town where the Pisan gate once stood. Built of brick, it originally formed part of a militia building. Its current height of 72 feet reflects centuries of additions, visibly layered upon its surface — time made architectural.


Like many Italian towns, Càscina grew around its parish church square. Here stand the most significant civic and religious buildings: the Parish Church of Saint Mary and Saint John, the Chapel of the Sacrament, the Holy Cross Oratory, the bell tower, and the Stefanini Palace.
The parish church — the oldest in the area — already existed in the second half of the 8th century, though the present structure dates from the late 11th. Its Romanesque basilican plan, sober and harmonious, is marked by a gabled façade with blind arcades and crowned by a marble cross. On its right wall, an inscription recalls the passage of Emperor Frederick II’s troops in 1228 — history etched into stone. Inside, monolithic columns of pink granite and cipollino marble preserve the church’s original Romanesque severity.


Adjoining the church is the Chapel of the Sacrament, once separate and part of a small cemetery relocated in the late 18th century. Its interior unfolds in late-Baroque elegance. To the south lies the Holy Cross Oratory — once a baptistery — long abandoned, now restored to its baroque splendor, with a marble baptismal font at its heart.


The bell tower, asymmetrical and misaligned with the church, hints at its military origins. Built on the remains of an earlier tower, it aligns with the old castle. Its limestone base supports a brick upper section rebuilt after damage from a raid in 1295.


Facing the church stands the Stefanini Palace, now home to the Misericordia. Its austere brick façade contrasts with the richness inside, particularly the grand galleried hall blending baroque and neoclassical styles.


Along Corso Matteotti, the town’s main artery, stands the Oratory of Saint John the Baptist — known locally as “the nuns’ little church.” Built at the end of the 14th century by Bartolo Palmieri, a member of the Knights Hospitaller, it contains frescoes by the Sienese painter Martino di Bartolommeo. Anna Franchi, writing in 1928, captured its essence:
“At first, the emptiness makes it seem larger than it is. Gradually, solitude dissolves. Magnificent images fill every surface. No wall has been neglected.”


Leaving the historic center and heading east, one reaches the Sanctuary of the Madonna of the Water — an elegant Greek-cross structure built between 1614 and 1619, with a domed bell tower added decades later.
The municipality’s 30 square miles extend westward along the Tosco-Romagnola road, the commercial spine of the territory. Along it rise villages, churches, and traces of devotion and labor.


At Settimo stands the Church of Saint Benedict, mentioned as early as 861. Its sanctuary houses rare works, including a 14th-century English alabaster altarpiece — one of only four in Italy.

Nearby, during dry summers, the Arno reveals the submerged ruins of Saint Peter within-the-Castle, destroyed by floods in 1545.


Further west lies Saint Casciano, whose Romanesque church — adorned by the sculptor Biduino — stands among the most important monuments of the region.

Nearby Zambra preserves the unspoiled medieval church of Saint Jacopo, with symbolic murals recalling early Christian iconography.


Saint Savino’s Abbey rises on an artificial embankment, born from disaster and devotion after an Arno flood destroyed its predecessor. Its bell tower, destroyed in 1943 by retreating Nazi troops, has been rebuilt — an act of memory and resilience.


Castles, churches, and villages mark the western boundary, beyond which lies Pisa. Turning south and east, the journey continues through Bibbiano, Marcianella, and finally back to Càscina — a circle completed.


For centuries, agriculture shaped the town’s identity. In the 20th century, craftsmanship — particularly woodworking — transformed it. In 1922, the first permanent furniture exhibition opened, followed by the founding of the National Institute of Art, spreading Cascina’s fame worldwide.


Later economic crises redirected the town toward commerce, services, and innovation. The City of the Theatre and Navacchio’s Technological Centre symbolize this new chapter.


Yet perhaps Càscina’s most astonishing contribution lies in the fields south of town, where science reaches for the cosmos. Here stands VIRGO, a vast interferometric antenna designed to detect gravitational waves — ripples in spacetime predicted by Einstein himself. With arms stretching two miles each, it listens to the universe.


And so, in a land shaped by rivers, wars, faith, and labor, one of humanity’s oldest questions — Where do we come from? — may yet find its answer.
Here, in Càscina.

Of Mermaids and Crones

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Today is a national holiday in Italy. January 6th marks the feast of the Epiphany, the moment in the Christian calendar when the Three Wise Men—Melchior, Caspar, and Balthazar—finally arrive at the humble crib in Bethlehem to pay homage to the newborn Jesus. In theological terms, the Epiphany represents revelation: the manifestation of Christ not merely to the Jewish world, but to all nations. In popular culture, however, it has always been something richer, stranger, and more layered than doctrine alone.


In Italy, the Epiphany is one of those festivals where religion, history, theatre, and folklore coexist comfortably, without the need to explain themselves to one another. This is especially true in Florence, where the Cavalcata dei Re Magi transforms the city into a living Renaissance tableau. Noblemen in brocade and velvet, ladies with elaborate headdresses, musicians, banners, horses, and camels parade through streets that have seen such spectacles for centuries. The procession is not merely a re-enactment; it is an assertion of continuity, a reminder that Florentine civic identity has long been shaped as much by ritual and display as by politics or commerce.


For those interested in how Florence celebrates this day, I have written about it in more detail here:
https://longoio2.wordpress.com/2016/01/17/more-lords-and-ladies-at-florences-cavalcata-dei-re-magi/
and here:
https://longoio2.wordpress.com/2016/01/11/a-cold-coming-we-had-of-it/


Yet, for all the splendour of kings and courts, Epiphany in Italy belongs just as much—perhaps more—to an altogether different figure: La Befana.


On the night of January 5th, Italian children hang stockings by fireplaces, bedposts, or windows in eager anticipation. While the Magi travel solemnly on camelback in daylight processions, La Befana flies invisibly through the winter darkness on her broomstick. She is described as very old, bent, toothless, dressed in rags, her face blackened by soot. She is no ethereal fairy, no graceful Madonna. She is, unapologetically, a crone.


Good children wake to find sweets, chocolates, and small presents in their stockings. Bad children receive coal—though these days it is usually made of sugar. In earlier centuries, however, coal was real enough, and in the depth of winter even a moral rebuke could be repurposed for warmth. Italian folklore, like Italian life, has always been practical in this way.


The name Befana is, of course, a corruption of Epifania, worn down by centuries of oral transmission. But the character herself feels older than Christianity, and this is no illusion. Scholars widely agree that La Befana preserves elements of pre-Christian, agrarian belief systems. She is linked to ancient Roman festivals marking the end of the agricultural year, when the old cycle of time was ritually “swept away” to make room for the new. Her broom is not merely a witch’s accessory but a symbol of cleansing and renewal. Her age represents the dying year; her generosity, the promise of fertility and rebirth.


In this sense, La Befana belongs to a long European tradition of powerful old women—figures who preside over thresholds, endings, and transformations. She is kin to the Fates, to winter goddesses, to the frightening but necessary female spirits who remind communities that life does not renew itself without decay. Christianity did not so much erase these figures as absorb them, clothe them in new meanings, and allow them to survive in the margins of belief.


This is where my title which juxtaposes young mermaids and aged crones finds its deeper resonance. Western imagination has always been far more comfortable celebrating youthful female enchantment than venerating female age. Mermaids are beautiful, dangerous, and eternally young; crones are useful, wise, unsettling—and therefore often mocked or softened into caricature. La Befana, however, resists erasure. She remains central to a national festival, loved by children, tolerated by religion, and rooted in something older than both.


Unlike Santa Claus, whose imported image has grown increasingly glossy and commercial, La Befana has never been fully sanitised. She is still ugly, still old, still slightly frightening. And yet she is benevolent. In a culture that often equates value with youth, her persistence is quietly radical.


There is also something deeply Italian in the way La Befana coexists with the Magi. Kings and beggars, sacred revelation and folk superstition, beauty and decay—all are allowed to occupy the same calendar day. This coexistence reflects a broader cultural instinct: the refusal to reduce tradition to a single narrative. Italy’s past is layered, contradictory, and unresolved, and its festivals mirror that complexity.


If you would like to read more about the origins of La Befana, her linguistic evolution, her pagan ancestry, and the proverb “L’Epifania tutte le feste porta via”—which reminds us that after January 6th the long season of feasting must finally come to an end—you can find my more detailed exploration here:
https://longoio2.wordpress.com/2015/01/06/lepifania-tutte-le-feste-porta-via/


In the end, Epiphany in Italy is not simply about revelation in the theological sense. It is about uncovering what has always been there: the survival of ancient symbols beneath newer beliefs, the endurance of the old woman beside the newborn child, and the uneasy but fertile dialogue between youth and age, beauty and wisdom, mermaids and crones.

Another Three Years?

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The Trump–Maduro episode makes little sense and sets a deeply dangerous precedent.

Before any Venezuelan leader has been proven guilty of the crimes alleged against them, the United States has acted to undermine another nation’s sovereignty through sanctions, diplomatic coercion, and open calls for regime change. Accusations are not convictions, and they do not justify punishing an entire population.

History shows where this leads. From Iraq to Libya, externally imposed regime change has left countries fractured, unstable, and worse off than before. Venezuela risks becoming another case study in the same reckless playbook. That a resource-rich nation has been driven into collapse is a tragedy, but it cannot be solved by economic warfare or political grandstanding.

What is most alarming is the motivation behind it all. Trump’s approach appears less about solutions than about cultivating a posture of strength and pseudo-heroism. That such destabilising policies have been pursued so early in his presidency should concern anyone who cares about international law, historical memory, or the consequences of unchecked power.

L’episodio Trump-Maduro ha poco senso e costituisce un precedente profondamente pericoloso.

Prima che un leader venezuelano fosse dichiarato colpevole dei crimini a suo carico, gli Stati Uniti hanno agito per minare la sovranità di un’altra nazione attraverso sanzioni, coercizione diplomatica e appelli aperti al cambio di regime. Le accuse non sono condanne e non giustificano la punizione di un’intera popolazione.

La storia mostra dove questo porta. Dall’Iraq alla Libia, il cambio di regime imposto dall’esterno ha lasciato i paesi frammentati, instabili e in condizioni peggiori di prima. Il Venezuela rischia di diventare un altro caso di studio nella stessa sconsiderata strategia. Che una nazione ricca di risorse sia stata spinta al collasso è una tragedia, ma non può essere risolta con la guerra economica o con la prosopopea politica.

Ciò che è più allarmante è la motivazione alla base di tutto ciò. L’approccio di Trump sembra più incentrato sul coltivare un atteggiamento di forza e pseudo-eroismo che sulle soluzioni. Il fatto che politiche così destabilizzanti siano state perseguite così presto durante la sua presidenza dovrebbe preoccupare chiunque abbia a cuore il diritto internazionale, la memoria storica o le conseguenze di un potere incontrollato.