Penumbra Book – Parco di Monstri

To Hades And Back

About an hour and a half drive north of Rome in the ancient Etruscan region of Lazio lies the medieval town of Bomarzo. The town itself is remarkable for its age and its architectural construction. All the houses are built together and piled on top of one another in a great heap at the summit of a massive hill. From afar, as the various angles of approach bring different views of the crowded hilltop, it resembles a giant child’s set of blocks that he might destroy and then rebuild.

Nearby is the palazzo of the Orsini family, the ancestral padrones of Bomarzo. In 1556, Pier Francesco Orsini, called Vicino (meaning nearby or neighbor, probably because he was approachable by the lower classes), retired from his unfortunate military career—he spent most of his time imprisoned. He returned to Bomarzo to reclaim his duchy after his final confinement, resumed his role as a patron of the arts, and earnestly worked to complete his garden. In 1547 while still in service as condottiero (mercenary leader of an army) he began his Sacro Bosco. More than any of his achievements, it was this garden that would bring him lasting fame. It was initially built as a tribute to the memory of Vicino’s wife Giulia who died in the early 1540s, but its influence has overshadowed this personal eulogy.

Sacro Bosco is famed for its many surreal and enigmatic sculptures that adorn the landscape. It was designed as a journey garden, meaning that the visitor is guided along a path where various sculptural groups and experiences are encountered to bring reflection and perhaps enlightenment by the end of the journey. Even with the many inscriptions provided as clues for the pilgrim at Sacro Bosco, the true meaning of the garden remains a mystery. The inscriptions are inscrutable rather than revelatory, although they add to the atmosphere of mystery that envelopes the park. The sculptures which are carved out of rock in situ, seem to have classical or Etruscan elements, but due to style, placement, or lost interpretations, they don’t exactly correspond with any actual mythological stories or known literary sources. Instead, experts have given varying interpretations to many of the monuments because of their incomplete or unclear attributes. It is evident by the grouping of the various sculptural themes and engraved texts, that the traveler is being given anticipatory warnings of professed dangers to their safety and the wonders that will be encountered. There is comfort and refreshment offered at the Nymphaeum before they enter a harrowing experience of savagery, as part of a passage through the underworld, to finally finding peace in a temple. This is just a broad outline of the entire adventure. For the day-to-day usage of the garden by the Orsini family, it was probably a pleasantly cool retreat from the heat of central Italy given the many trees, fountains, and pools situated throughout the grounds. The full participation and trial of the journey through the garden was built for visitors and guests of the Orsini palazzo. Depending on their personalities or states of mind, what is encountered along the path of the Sacro Bosco could be enlightening or confrontational. The adventure is mutable and is determined by the nature and tolerance of the participant. In the present day, the fountains are silent, and the pools are dry. The sculptures carry a mottled patina of lichen and moss, obscuring details and enhancing their timelessness. While the park has been tamed from the wild neglect that had overcome it just a few decades ago, it still retains a bit of unruliness and an unkempt nature about it, which contributes to the overall mood of the arcane.

I had initially learned about the Sacro Bosco in my art history studies during undergraduate school. My classes did not study Sacro Bosco specifically, but there were images of the garden sculptures which caught my eye as I was studying the divergent Renaissance art movement called Mannerism. Mannerism was partly influenced by the discovery of Nero’s Domus Aurea. The walls of the Domus Aurea palace were adorned with painted decorations of floral garlands interspersed with grotesque masks and images of fanciful creatures. The discovery of the Domus Aurea provided artists with an entirely new visual language divergent from the strict classicism previously understood from Roman and Greek public sculpture. Orsini took advantage of the new freedom and imagination that was exciting the artists of the 16^th century when he designed his garden. It was just this grotesquerie and dark imagery that caught my eye. When years later I had my own garden to design, I was again drawn to the grotesquerie and symbolism of Sacro Bosco in the garden books I was using for research. My own 20' by 30' plot was lacking in acreage to plan such a grand journey garden, but rediscovering Sacro Bosco not only inspired some of the final look of my landscape project—there is a small classical urn and a sculpture of a faun in it—but it also encouraged a longing in me to visit Orsini’s vision.

When I had made plans to visit Rome, I put Bomarzo on the itinerary. I researched extensively how best to travel there. Being that it was so close to Rome I mistakenly assumed it would be accessible for the tourist. Without a car, Bomarzo is notoriously difficult to reach despite its location so close to the capitol city. There is a bus that first brings the traveler to Orvieto. In Orvieto, a connection can be made that stops in Bomarzo. These connecting buses to Orvieto then to Bomarzo are the only public transportation available. If the connection is missed, you are stranded for the night in one of those two towns outside of Rome. I presented the bus information to my traveling partner as the most recommended means of transport to the Park of Monsters. He was skeptical. There were just too many places in the itinerary where it all could go wrong, and we could be stranded. He was not willing to rent a car and drive in a foreign country knowing neither the roads nor rules of Italian driving. In the end, Bomarzo became the last site we would see in Rome. On our penultimate day in Rome which happened to be October 31, my partner researched car services and decided to hire a car and driver.

The countryside of Italy is as beautiful as any landscape background in a Renaissance painting. It all looks purposefully planted as if the entire country was considered a garden. The placement of the trees is so perfect for each scene that it all had to be deliberately designed. We drove past farms where the sheep could not have been more picturesquely positioned. It was a visual joy that shames our American use of land as either a salable commodity or an excess of quantity that can be wasted.

Sacro Bosco itself was initially unpromising. Visitors need to pass through a dismal cafeteria offering congealed pizza with translucent cheese topping that has been set out for sale too long. Passing through the unappetizing food offerings, there is a cheerless children’s playground that was forebodingly empty when we passed through. The rusted amusements looking more like medieval torture devices than children’s recreation. Further along the graveled path is a crenelated, medieval gate that marks the entrance to the Sacred Wood proper.

Once through the gate, the entire landscape changes from dreary shadows of the play area, to a sunny, flower-filled meadow. As you approach a bend in the path, there is a large, grotesque, sea monster with mouth agape, ready to swallow those who venture too near. This is a paean to the Orsini family. The formidable looking beast with its menacing teeth is a representation of Proteus, a son of Poseidon. It is a symbol of the Orsinis’ conquest of the world’s oceans, Proteus being Poseidon’s son, was prince of the seven seas. Balanced upon his head is a globe, painted in the now fading alternating colors of the Orsini coat of arms, topped with a model of the Orsini palazzo. All these images reinforce the global reach of power, wealth, and influence of the Orsini family through their worldwide trading ventures. It was imperative for the man who created this park, that the visitor understood how important and mighty he was. The Orsini were beyond mankind. They shared their magnificence with the gods.

As the path brings you through the green and flower-dotted meadow, the traveler approaches a pair of sphinxes flanking each side of the road. True to their historic symbolism as guardians who impart a warning before continuing past, each sphinx has a message for the wanderer.

One asserts: “Whoever without raised eyebrows and pursed lips goes through this place will fail to admire the famous seven wonders of the world.” The other posits: “Oh ye who enter here and use thy Wit to try to understand what thou shall see from beginning to end, tell me if so many marvels were created to make the Err or for Art.” On one side we are admonished to be prepared to be astonished. You must open your mind to wonder and amazement to fully experience what the garden has to offer. The sphinx on the opposite side asks that the visitor waits until the end of the experience before deciding if what has been seen is foolishness or art. These sphinxes set the mood for the entire adventure—astonishment and wonder, real or deception. We are being psychologically prepared for what lies ahead of us as we pass the guardians and their injunctions.

The path then curves around a rocky outcrop stabilized by a stone retaining wall. Coming around the turn in the path, a giant comes in view caught in a violent struggle with an equally-sized opponent. The standing colossus is in the act of holding his opponent by the ankles and rending his victim apart. We have entered upon a scene of Hercules in battle with Cacus.

In the myth of Hercules and Cacus, Cacus was the fire-breathing son of Hephaestus (Vulcan in Roman mythology) who lived on human flesh and terrorized the nearby humans. While Hercules was sleeping, Cacus stole some of Hercules cattle. Their battle ensued when Hercules determined to retrieve his purloined livestock. Hercules was victor over Cacus. His victory brought him closer to godhood. On the wall near this sculptural combat is inscribed: “If Rhodes of old was elevated by its colossus so by this one my wood is made glorious too and more I cannot do. I do as much as I am able to.” As we pass these two rivals engaged in their contest, we notice another inscription: “He who knows how to go slowly and straight, nothing can resist him.” We pass this epic struggle without interfering. Leaving each combatant to their fate and move ahead unhurt.

As the wanderer continues, through the trees is glimpsed Fortuna, the goddess of luck and fortune, riding on the back of the tortoise of the Universe. This group symbolizes the slow but steady progress of the world. Personal progress is determined by Fate. Fortune standing atop the world is a reminder that: “To he who goes slowly, Fortune will display her glory.” No one can rush progress or fate. Each must arrive at its own preordained time.

In this part of the Sacro Bosco, the traveler is constantly advised to go slowly. This garden was not designed to rush through. Vicino desired that his visitors leisurely stroll through the wood, taking time at each monument to study it and with the aid of the inscriptions, come to an understanding of its meaning. After contemplation, it was hoped that the viewer could apply the moral of each grouping to his own life.

Passing Fortuna and the tortoise, the way becomes shadier and fresh with moss. We enter the nymphaeum. On the wall to its entrance is carved a relief of the Three Graces. Aglaea (Splendor), Euphrosyne (Joy), and Thalia (Abundance), were daughters of Zeus whose primary role was to attend and entertain the gods during the Olympian feasts. Their presence at the entrance to the nymphaeum is to announce that here is a place where the traveler can rest and be refreshed in their wanderings. Along the opposite edge of the path is a now dry fountain. Spitting dolphins once fed the elongated trough originally filed with clear water. Here the visitor would be able to sate themselves and find rest.

As you turn away from what would have been the restoring and revitalizing waters of the dolphin fountain, the cool shade of the nymphaeum invites you to rest from your journey. An inscription entices you to enjoy the comfort offered by suggesting, “The cave, the fountain, the bright sky free the spirit from gloomy thoughts.”

Hard by the inviting nymphaeum stands Venus in a niche atop an ambiguous creature, variously described as a shell, a dragon, or a sea monster. However it has been described, it serves as a visual reminder of Venus’ birth from the sea, since this female figure was once surrounded by water jets that imitated the cascading waves from which she arose. Venus’ presence as the supervisor of the nymphs, is to ensure that her attendants of the nymphaeum administer to her guests properly.

Passing the austere Venus, the guest arrives at the Leaning House. This tower-like stone structure is off kilter to emphasize that you are now in a place of transition. As you move through its diminutive and disorienting rooms, you are led to a higher level of the garden. The two levels of the Leaning House serve as a bridge between two worlds. The pilgrim begins at the base level of the Earth with its pleasures and difficulties. At the top level after experiencing the dizzying cant of the floors, you exit into a different world, the Underworld. There is a warning engraved onto the side of the house for what lies ahead, “By resting the mind becomes more prudent therefore.” The park is reminding us that now that we are rested and able, our minds are now prepared for what lies ahead. The angled floors do not allow for a paced ascent or a relaxed step. Instead, the traveler is forced by its construction to be vigilant in their movements and go quickly through to the next level of the journey.

Crossing the symbolic bridge that leads from the exit of the Leaning House, we enter onto a plaza dominated by a no longer extant fountain depicting Hades, the lord of the Underworld. The now dry basin was once a filled pool surrounding Hades. It represents the lake of Acheron. This is the lake of pain which is traversed by Charon as he ferries the souls of the dead into Hades proper. On the left is a giant, sharp-toothed sea monster ready to swallow any of the hapless souls that may fall into the black water from the overcrowded ferry. We have truly arrived in a dangerous place of darkness where all signals that our lives could be at risk.

To the left of the Lord of the Underworld, down a covert path can be found The Sleeping Nymph, or Ariadne Dreaming of Theseus. Ariadne in mythology is the daughter of King Minos of Crete. Smitten with the hero Theseus who had come to Crete as part of the sacrifice to the Minotaur, Ariadne decides to assist Theseus in his plan to kill the fearsome beast to which the best of Athens were doomed to be sacrificed. She gave Theseus a sword to defeat the monster and a ball of string which he was to drop behind him as he wended his way through the labyrinth. These tools allowed him to find the Minotaur and after slaying it, to follow the dropped string and find his way out. By abetting Theseus in this way, she sealed her fate as an enemy of her country. She convinced Theseus to take her away with him back to Athens rather than face the penalty for treason. Theseus had no love for Ariadne. She was pushy and a drunkard (leading scholars to winkingly euphemize that the God of Wine did not have to come and save Ariadne in her grief, she was already wed to him) but Theseus acceded in gratitude for her assistance and in sympathy to her plea. Stopping on the island of Naxos for supplies and rest, Theseus abandoned the overbearing Ariadne as she slept in her stupor, and continued his journey home. Ariadne woke from her dreams to find herself alone. She became distraught with grief, but was rescued by the arrival of Dionysus, who made Ariadne his bride—or read a different way, she became more of a drunkard when her dream of being a princess of Athens ended with Theseus’ abandonment.

In the Park of Monsters, Ariadne is a symbol of dreams. She is there in her slumber to pose the question, is all we are seeing and experiencing in this fantastical place a dream? If we wake from these fearsome dreams, will our reality be one of abandonment and fear, or of a happy return to our ordinary lives?

Returning to the plaza of Hades, on the right is a gigantic sculpture of an elephant, encumbered with a howdah designed as a fortified tower. The beast is holding a limp, lifeless soldier in its trunk. It stands as nod to Hannibal and his unexpected, formidable, and mammoth cavalry which was unstoppable and deadly. It is also iconographic for the waste and devastation of war that feeds the population of Hades.

Next to the murderous elephant, stands a winged dragon beset by a dog, a lion, and a wolf—symbols of spring (present), summer (future) and winter (past). It is a dynamic, writhing depiction of attack and viciousness, where both the natural and the mythical creatures seem evenly matched. It is also a depiction of the passing of time, but time as a struggle against forces that cannot be vanquished. Both sculptures depict transitions through forces beyond our control. The elephant characterizes the inevitability and destruction of war, while the dragon depicts the futile fight against our mortality. With both, Hades is the ultimate master.

Beyond these two depictions of mortality, sits the Mouth of Hell, or Orcus. Orcus is an underworld god of Etruscan origin who punished those who broke their oaths. Eventually, he was conflated with the god Hades. His prominent place here in Bomarzo has much to do with this territory being the traditional location where the ancient Etruscan civilization was centered. This particular sculpture of the Orcus has become the most famous of the Sacro di Bosco entities. He has become a symbol of the garden. Engraved on his mouth is, “Abandon all hope you who enter.” Although in most of the official literature on the garden it is translated to the more romantic, “Every thought flies away.” This latter translation seems to be designed to coincide with the assumed function of the Orcus. Inside is a table in the center of the space, with a bench that wraps around the interior. The table and bench are carved from the solid rock. It has been designated in modern interpretations as a place to take refuge and enjoy a repast. Perhaps. However, the stone bench is situated too far from the table to offer a comfortable eating experience. The table is shaped more like an altar, or an exhibition platform. It may have been more of a place to hold clandestine entertainments, ceremonies of some esoteric nature, or a convenient place for a tryst. Whatever the true utility of this Hellmouth, it commands attention and forces us to consider the brevity of our time on earth.

Down a side path, hidden in the brush, can be found the Tomb. A rock cut grave several feet deep, with the bottom carved out into a coffin shape. The surface rectangle is topped with an incised pediment giving the entire object the look of a temple. It becomes the final house of your earthly remains. It is another symbol within this section of the garden of the triumph of Hades. There is no escape from the underworld god’s reach.

Retuning back through the hidden trail onto the plaza, it is time to climb a flight of stone steps up to another level of the park. On this terrace, the explorer is confronted with the horror of the Fury—depicted as a monstrous female winged creature with a serpentine tail and eagle-like claws whose grip defies escape. Like the Orcus, the Fury in Greek mythology punishes those who break their oaths, as well as those who commit patricide or any other moral law. In front of her, the visitor is confronted with his conscious. Is he devoid of all malice and deceit so that he can walk past this unrelenting tormentor? On this level of the garden the traveler’s virtue is tested. On the wall near the Fury is etched, “Memphis and every marvel too that the world has held in honor until now yield to the holy wood which is only like itself and nothing else.” Vicino reminds the visitor again that he has seen the most wonderful visions possible in his wood.

Gingerly passing the Fury, lest we draw too much attention to ourselves, and down a long path through dense trees, can be discovered a regally seated Ceres, the goddess of agriculture, abundance, the seasons, and the mother of Persephone. Persephone is the wife of Hades. It was Ceres who in her unrelenting grief and distress over the abduction of her daughter, caused the earth to become barren and frozen. As long as her daughter was held by Hades, she would not relent to do her duty as goddess of the harvest and the world would starve. When a compromise was agreed, the seasons were born. Spring and summer exist because Ceres was reunited with Persephone. The earth became fruitful again through her joy. At Bomarzo, Ceres sits commanding her space as goddess that controls the feast or famine of humankind. She balances a bowl of fruit and flowers upon her head representing all that she provides. She represents the fecundity of growth and the abundance of the harvest. As a goddess of want as well as wealth, she is represented at the Sacro Bosco as an entity that can both take as well as give. As the mother of the Queen of Hades, she deserves her place in the struggle between life and death.

Retracing our steps back past the Fury, we keep a wary eye that she has not changed her mind on our virtue. Quickly gaining the next flight of steps without provoking her suspicions, it is a small climb up to the highest level of the Sacred Wood. At the top we encounter the Tempietto. We have reached the end of journey. Wandering through our earthly woes and pleasures, then experiencing the darkness and torments presented to us in Hades, we have now ascended to the place of the Gods. We have managed to survive the trials and have been found worthy to express our gratitude for our initiation and our acceptance into our highest good. Here we can enjoy the company and blessing of all that is virtuous.

After our remarkable trek and transformative monomyth, my partner and I decided to sit on a large flat boulder within view of the serene Tempietto and enjoy the picnic we had brought with us. Under the gentle Etruscan sun, as we were enjoying the abundance of our meal and fecundity of the green surroundings, we were presented with one last test. A small black kitten headed determinedly through the lush, overgrown grass toward us, and presented his pitiful mewing to our receptive ears. We unhesitatingly shared our bounty with our self-invited guest. He devoured the meat and cheese we offered as only the starving could. With the same stealth our kitten displayed with his arrival, as we were preparing to leave, he disappeared. My partner and I felt a sense of benevolent grace knowing that we had passed our final and most important trial. The magic of the Sacro Bosco still embraces and affects the visitor open to the experience.

Overwhelmed by possibilities, I decided that I was more interested in depicting the Sacro Bosco through atmosphere and suggestion. I quickly accessed that I was less interested in documenting what I was seeing, because the entire experience for me was all about the sense of being back in time to an arcadia where mortals and gods interact. There was also a change in mood from one section of the walk to another—from the lushness of growth to the gloom of the underworld, and finally to the light of the temple. The patina of something being enhanced and yet becoming more obscure by the accretions of time and nature influenced my visual decisions. Ultimately, it was the esoteric imagery and the sense of mystery of the journey through the garden that I hoped to convey in the photographs I created. The Sacro Bosco was an experience of traveling back in time. Its ambiance fills you subtlety until you have succumbed to its enchantments. Your experience is provided through the whim of the ancient spirits which guide every hero along the same road.  

Both of these photographic series, Rome and Bomarzo depict a journey. One a physical voyage to another place, the other an epic journey through the psyche. Each teaches us and changes us through that learning. Each provides a life-altering experience that must be experienced to understand.

Venus Arriving

Orcus Calls

Tempietto

© 2025 Arthur Bruso and Curious Matter

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Penumbra Book – Rome

Finding Home

My great-grandmother came to America in a heat of indignation and impatience. She had restlessly waited a year with no word or money from her husband who had traveled to America ahead of her. She was angry and adamant that she was not going to be stranded in Italy and abandoned with a child like so many other Italian wives whose husbands had traveled to America in search of gold. Her husband would not desert her for a new life and maybe even a new family in that place where the past is easy to forget. She would go to America herself and find him and end his silence from across the ocean. Against the advice from her family and deaf to their pleas to wait, she managed the cost of the passage. With her young son Carmen in tow, she set off to find her husband and reunite him with his obligations.

My great-grandfather Alessandro Aurelio left Italy for America seeking the gold in the streets like the stories he had heard from dubious sources and other dreamers. Whether the gold was there under his feet ready to pick up, or if it were all a fantasy, the dream of America offered more than the meanness that his life in Italy allowed. He longed to own land as only the wealthy could in his native country. For a peasant in service to the padrone, owning property and the esteem of status was an impossible path. Both of my great-grandparents were obligated by the circumstances of their birth to be agricultural laborers. They were subject to the authority of the padrone who owned the land which was passed on through hereditary aristocracies. Because of these cultural, social, political, and financial constraints, personal growth and advancement were limited. With the unification of Italy, there came an urgent cry for the new country to end this system of inheritocracy and enter the modern world of democracy and industry. But this cultural upheaval would not come soon enough to benefit my ancestors. With the severity of their generational poverty, access to the money needed to participate in the more democratic system developing in Italy would remain beyond their grasp.

When I was growing up, the life of Alessandro Aurelio existed only in the memory of his wife, my great-grandmother. He had died decades before my mother was born and remained a spectral figure from a past who only my great-grandmother knew. She related her memories of him with the unsettled bitterness of his loss to her granddaughter, my mother. It was my mother who passed the stories of him along to my siblings and myself. From this oral history passed between generations, I developed an understanding of the richness of my ancestry. There are no photographs or portraits to attach to these stories, or to give light to the shadow of my great-grandfather. He left behind no physical evidence—no watch, no ring, or scrap of clothing to corroborate his life. The only solid testament to his life, is a cruciform gravestone inscribed with his name that marks the place where he is buried. This small monument is the sole earthly attestation that the stories I grew up with have a basis in someone’s life.

While my great-grandfather will always remain an ephemeral figure in the history of my family, my great-grandmother, Giovanna Aurelio who lived until I was ten, was a presence who made our history real. She I knew as a spunky, independent elder occupying a wheelchair, who fed me lumpy oatmeal, and anisette-spiked coffee most mornings during the years after I learned to walk and before I was old enough for school.

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Despite his wife’s pleading, arguments, and threats, Alessando was unwavering in his resolution to move to America. He had tried unsuccessfully to assure his contentious and headstrong wife that he was not abandoning her to live a life of adventure and freedom. He was moving to a place where opportunity was offered freely, where a man could realize his ambitions despite his social standing. He firmly believed that low or high birth was all the same in America. Giovanna was not convinced. She knew her place, and her place was in Massanea among her family. They had a child and her husband needed to be thinking of the child’s needs and future. Alessandro argued back that by going to America, he would be providing little Carmen with a chance at something better than what tiny, isolated Massenea could offer. America promised his son and his future children unlimited opportunity. Why couldn’t his wife understand? He finally asserted his authority as the head of his household—he was going. He would send for Giovanna and Carmen when he had established himself. How long? Giovanna demanded to know. Alessandro could not predict. There were adversities that he could not foresee. He guessed. A year?

The year Alessandro had promised passed. Carmen had begun to walk and was in need of a father’s hand. Giovanna had made up her mind. She was going to find her husband. She would not be left behind and forgotten. My great-grandmother had no idea where her husband was in America. She had no idea how big this far away country across the ocean was. She was a 19-year-old woman with limited education and a toddler. She could not speak English and didn’t even realize that English was the spoken language in this place across the ocean. She was determined and, in the surety of her determination, would find her wayward husband in the new country. Her brother was there, and he could help her. After her brother, there was God, and God blessed all marriages so he would guide her in her search.

She was certain that making this journey was the correct thing to do. She had no fear about what she would encounter in that strange land, except her husband, and the uniting of her family lay at the end of the journey. The port in Naples marked the first time that Giovanna had left the small town of Massenea where she was born. She was not distracted or tempted by the sites or sounds of the large and confusing city. She was there to board the ship that would take her across the ocean to America and her husband. Her mind was set only on her goal. There was no time for frivolities like enjoying the sites or entertainments that a city like Naples could offer. She was convinced that she needed to travel to her husband quickly before he was seduced by the enticements of his new country. Her place was in steerage and all her earthly belongings were bundled into the large tablecloth she used for luggage. There was barely enough room to sit on the deck with Carmen and her large, make-shift sack. She could endure the discomfort if God was merciful and answered her prayers.

The voyage was uneventful, until they entered New York Harbor. When the passengers first saw the great Statue of Liberty welcoming them all into the new land of hope, all the passengers gathered on the deck of the ship. There was cheering from the hundreds of voices, as a great celebration spontaneously broke out among the steerage. It was a time to celebrate the success of the voyage, and a time to rejoice for the safe arrival to their new life. The men doffed their hats as the cheering rose to a frenzy. The past was behind them! Here in America, anything was possible! Hats sailed into the sky with the freedom of birds. Little Carmen was caught up in the festival of joy that was happening all around him. With no hat to fling with abandon into the air, he took off his only pair of shoes and threw them up into the sky, caught up in the gay flight of the moment. The shoes did not fly with the wind as the brimmed hats did, instead they fell like stones into the dark sea. When Giovanna realized what her son had done in his moment of ecstatic fun, she was furious. Now her son would come to America barefoot! They would think she was too poor to put shoes on her son’s feet. Her son would be entering the land of gold like a peasant. She could die of such shame! 

With the help of her brother who knew some English, by asking questions, tracking leads, relentless persistence, and luck Giovanna discovered that her husband had found work on the railroad. Then she found out that there were at least seven major rail lines in operation out of New York. This did not include some minor regional lines that had limited runs. Seeing that her work was far from over, she made the rounds to several before she found the company that had hired her husband. Unfortunately, he was not in New York. He had been sent upstate to work in a place called Schenectady. Giovanna determined to go to this Schenectady. It was where her husband was, there was no alternative.

Leaving Carmen in the care of her brother, Giovanna took the train to Schenectady. At the station, the Station Master tried to navigate the language barrier, but this strong-minded young woman kept talking swiftly in a language that sounded like gibberish to him. She became loud and emotional as she kept trying to will him to understand the significance of her mission across their speech and cultural barriers. Her drama had become a noisome nuisance. Her alien behavior put a distance between her and the Station Master that made connection impossible. She was not behaving with the decorum of an American woman. He found her crudeness offensive. These foreigners always had some epic problem that they expected the world to solve. No wonder most opera was Italian! As a respite from her passionate insistence, he asked one of the Italian workers to make sense of it.

The Italian worker understood what this diminutive, yet feisty woman was imploring. Through all the emotion and explanations, she was looking for her husband who she believed was working at this railroad. The New York office had told her he was there. She was demanding to see him. The Station Master didn’t really want to get involved with a domestic, and apparently extremely fervent dispute, but her pleading was so insistent, he figured that the best way to get rid of this pest was to see if her information was correct. He looked up the name on the job roster and there it was, Alessandro Aurelio. He was housed in the men’s barracks. Unfortunately, the men’s barracks was off-limits to women. He tried to communicate this to her.

Once Giovanna understood that she was in walking distance of her husband, nothing was going to stop her from seeing him and letting him know that she too was in America ready to claim what was rightfully hers. She became nearly uncontrollably insistent that she be taken to Alessandro. Her baby son needed his father she pleaded! The Station Master was unmoved by her cries of abandonment, nor by her forced tears about her needy child. Women were not allowed in the barracks! The interpreter however was more sympathetic and in Italian he explained to Giovanna how to find the barracks.

Alessandro heard the staccato banging at the windowpanes and the shriek of his name in the bunk-house yard. He along with all the other men leaned out of the windows to see what the commotion was about. To his shock, he saw his wife trying each window and door at every bunk house, shouting his name as she searched the yard for him. He was embarrassed and astounded that the women he believed he had left safe and waiting in Italy was here in this foreign place on a mission to seek him out. Why had she left the security of Masseana instead of patiently waiting for his message to come to America? He had not yet saved enough for a place for his family to live.  He was not happy to see her, especially in the rough surroundings of the barracks and among his co-laborers.  In answer to her bellowing cries, he leaned out the window and roared back, “Giovanna! What are you doing here! In America!” Giovanna ran to his window, irate with the complex emotions of relief and livid with indignation. She proceeded to berate her husband for not sending word or money during the year he had been away. Alessandro tried to explain, but Giovanna needed to vent her pent-up frustration and anger, and to express, however negatively, her relief at God’s good grace.

This is our great family story. It has been told, retold, and handed down to explain how my great-grandparents left their padrone in the countryside outside of Naples and became Americans. Growing up in my family, I heard many stories of my great-grandmother’s life in rural Italy and her early years in America adjusting to a new country with new customs, among people who distrusted immigrants and the change they symbolized. As a child, I took them for granted. It never occurred to me that these glimpses into the past were either extraordinary, or very different from any other family stories. Until I was ten, my neighborhood community was mostly Italian and mostly immigrants from the same area of Italy as my great-grandmother. Everyone knew each other, with food and gossip passing freely from house to house.

When I arrived in college and would try to share some of this family lore, I realized by the blank stares and quizzical looks of my fellow students, that my knowledge of my heritage was not that common. Most native-born Americans I met not only didn’t have family stories, but they also didn’t even know or care about their ethnic backgrounds. It seemed that most immigrants that came to America wanted to forget the past and concentrate on the future. There were a lot of bad memories that were better left behind. The New World was a place to begin fresh. This resulted in fourth generation descendants that had no connection to their heritage—they were American without a hyphen.

It was in my art history classes that I began to understand the cultural heritage of Italy. It was there that I first made the naïve assertion that my great-grandparents were fools to leave the splendors of Italy for the cultural desert of America. How could they leave all that art, beauty, and history? My ignorance was easy to express, as I didn’t fully know or understand the poverty, and lack of opportunity that my ancestors lived with. My great-grandmother’s stories of her youth never mentioned any part of Italy except her village. Until she left to sail to America, she had never left her little village. The glory of Rome, the art of the Renaissance, the architectural and cultural achievements of her country were unknown and inaccessible to my great-grandmother. The most beautiful thing she saw was the village church and the gold-crowned, polychromed statue of Maria di Gerusalemme, when it was paraded through the streets on her feast day, magnificently dressed and ornamented as the Queen of Heaven. Beauty belonged to the Church. My great-grandmother was illiterate and practical. Such things as art, history, and learning were of little interest or value to her unless they were a means of making money. The ability to make money and the status of owning property were to her, vital life resources. Property could be rented to provide a steady income, or it could even be sold at a profit.

I did not inherit my great-grandmother’s practicality. Once I had decided to be an artist and began to study the cultural achievements of Italy, I was determined to go there and see these wonders for myself. But, it would be decades before that dream came true. Eventually, my partner and I decided the time was right to take our first European vacation together. He decided that I should choose where we would go. I naturally chose Rome. My partner who had been to Europe before, had not been to Rome either, so it would be a first for both of us. We planned on the last week in October to avoid the summer tourists and enjoy the cooler weather of autumn. My excitement was so great that I researched where to go and what to see for months before the trip. I had a long list of what I wanted to see.

I was nervous about everything. How would we communicate? I spoke very little Italian but understood a great deal from listening to my great-grandmother who had stopped speaking English as she aged and grew bitter toward Americans. What about money? What about food? How would we get around? The entire experience of travel was foreign to me. It was not lost on me that my ancestors had completely left their culture and way of life behind for a questionable future in another country. I should be able to survive a week-long vacation.

Rome and Italy revealed itself gradually. Initially upon landing, there was no immediate submersion into a different culture. No overtly exotic architecture to indicate that we had arrived at some other place in the world. No unfamiliar ethnic costume that immediately signaled another culture. Except that October in Rome was much warmer than October in New York, there was little indication at the airport that I had arrived in another country. The airport was much like any modern airport: sprawling, confusing, overly bright with lights and advertising, and banal. In the confusion of finding and catching transportation into the city proper, we did not notice the differences in environment that would have contrasted Rome from New York. Once we were settled into the long train ride into the city of Rome, there was time to gradually enjoy the realization that I was living a long-held dream. We were able to relax and look out the windows to appreciate where we were. At first it was industrial sprawl, much like the way America wastes acres of land for dumping, storage, and industry around its transportation hubs. Then, there would be an old stone wall in the distance. A crumbling classical arch passed from view, and the sudden understanding that these were real Roman ruins! Houses began to come into view. Some modern high-rise apartments, but many four or five story, ocher-colored stucco buildings with tile roofs. Rows of them. Some with laundry drying on clotheslines strung across narrow alleys. Others with balconies of greenery and flowers. Could Rome really be this picturesque? This kind of casual loveliness I encountered everywhere in Rome. In the United States this kind of charm is suspect because it is often studied, contrived, and artificial.

We arrived at the garish neon of the modern train station in Rome proper. It was crowded with bustling people, and sadly familiar fast-food restaurants. We found our hotel in a questionable area near the train station, in a nondescript building, somewhat concealed up a flight of stairs. The entire area surrounding the Roma Termini was unkept, seedy and a gathering place for the indigent of the city. This was surprising, since most of Rome away from the station took pride in itself, in its history, and its renowned style. After checking in, we decided to walk around to acquaint ourselves with the immediate area. My fears of communication and interactions with the local Italians were unfounded. I found to my delight and surprise that I was recalling some distant and nebulous memory. Some ancestral inheritance had been activated by the transport across an ocean or the magic of a history that recedes thousands of years. Some ancient vein revived with new pulse—I was at home in a place I had never been. Rome felt like a returning to a place I belonged. I grew comfortable almost instantly with the atmosphere, with the people, and the surroundings. My great-grandmother left Italy in the waning years of the 19th century. The stories she told of her youth were the stories of rural peasantry with outmoded ideas that kept men and women in strict conventions enforced by religion and custom. Hers was an Italy that still held fierce and arrogant attitudes about regional pride. Her descriptions of the homeland of her youth were of an Italy over one hundred years in the past. These antique memories and practices should have been long gone. Italy had shed its backward past of strict gender roles and Church enforced guilt. It was now culturally modern and striding onto the world stage. But as I wandered the streets of Rome the first afternoon of my visit, the present dissipated and the past materialized. The cultural memory of my ancestors became true and active. I saw my relatives in the faces that passed by. Their way of moving had the retention of familiarity. The language had the same familiar cadence and emotion of my great-grandmother and our neighbors. It was all new and all old. I was back to the cultural memory I grew up with.

During that first stroll, we turned down a street which offered a partial view of the Coliseum at its terminus. The sun was setting behind the topmost arches. My heartbeat increased. This was my first glimpse of an ancient monument that I had only before seen in photographs. Here was the symbol of ancient Roman history appearing before me. As we headed toward this cliché of all Roman landmarks, it finally drove into me the realization that I indeed was no longer in the United States. I was absolutely in another country. I was about to see things I had only dreamed of seeing before this trip. A new journey had begun.

At first, Rome overwhelmed my visual sense. I had no idea how to approach what I was seeing with my camera. I wanted to photograph everything like a tourist, just to take back home the images that exemplified Rome. I wanted to simply document my experience, to capture what was filling my eyes with such joy. It took me awhile to sort out what was most compelling to me in a city where for that moment all things were compelling, exciting, and unfamiliar. I needed time to discern the things and moods that I was drawn to.

I distilled it down to a history that seemed to live in the shadows of the streets. The shadows of the past that engulfed all Italian society. A glory that had long passed, yet, was still celebrated as if it were continuing. The penumbra of what was, still remained in the stones, the soil, the dry bones, the religious ritual, and the gloom of the churches. The hand of Bernini that continues to carve out its magic. The wagging finger of the Catholic Church which still holds authority over the people. Every crumbling Roman wall seemed ripe for preserving and could be incorporated into a more contemporary building to hold onto the greatness of what once was. This was the atmosphere that I began to sense. This was what I hoped to capture.

For me, Rome was more than its past that incongruently clashes with its present. There was something ghostly lurking among the ancient ruins, and Renaissance monuments that continue to hold their space on every street. There was a palpable spirituality that envelopes the incense laden atmosphere of the churches. It is a city visibly shaped by the hand of artists. It has an intense presence that demands your attention and engages your curiosity. Each carving has a story to tell, and you want to hear it. Somehow, I wanted to depict this in my art, to convey the mystery and depth of what I was seeing. I wanted to capture the overwhelming vastness of God’s presence that is felt upon entering St. Peter’s, and the weight of time and history that pervades the Roman Forum. Perhaps the emotional experience I had could not be transferred to any medium. Still, I tried to find a way and it is my hope that something of the intensity and complexity of those emotions found its way through in these photographs.

Coliseum

Dome of the Church of St. Luke and St. Martina

St. Peter’s Veronica

© 2025 Arthur Bruso and Curious Matter

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Penumbra

ARTHUR BRUSO has captured, in the photographs of Penumbra, that particular moment when we enter a dark room and strain to see. The images are almost completely black. A sense of place is occasionally suggested with a classical sculpture that seems to glow, or a clerestory revealed with a spot of light. The darkness feels solitary, populated only by an occasional marble figure. If anyone were to appear it would be a shock—unexpected in the moment you’re still gaining your bearings.

Once we’ve added up the hints, we can ascertain that the places visited here are the streets and cathedrals of Rome. Absent, other than the details, is sentimentality. When confronted with the everyday marvels of Rome it’s easy to work purely in service of the romance of the place. To either focus on its grandeur or charm. When a subject has been photographed so relentlessly it’s a challenge not to fall prey to conventions. Bruso reignites the possibility that there are still discoveries to make.

The images sometimes appear haphazard, as if we’re glancing around trying to locate an identifiable detail. This quality gives immediacy to the works, they’re in the process of disclosure. The prints themselves are beautifully produced. The blacks have a matte charcoal-like richness. The texture complements the idea that we’re feeling our way along in these cool, silent, echoing spaces. —Raymond E. Mingst

A Few Questions for Arthur Bruso:

REM: You have a vast catalogue of photographs. You’ve printed hundreds and hundreds of images— these images span almost your entire life. You even have the first images you took with the first camera you received at 6 years old. Something we’ve talked about is how all of these photos are in play in your art practice. For example, in any given show we may be looking at an image you took as a very young person or an image you may have taken just last week. Confounding documentary considerations, like time and place, is a constant in your work. With that, how would you say your imagery has evolved over time?

AB: I’ve gotten better at using a camera. I believe that each camera “sees” differently. I have become more adept at exploiting those differences and using them to advantage in my work. I have also become less and less interested in the figure – I still have figurative work in my backlog, but in my newer work, I find I am more drawn to the landscape or inanimate objects. When I was younger (in college until after graduate school) I had the notion that I would be a Photographer who would make a Difference and a lot of my work was social commentary. These days, I find I am more interested in more esoteric ideas.

REM: For me, looking through the many boxes of your prints and shaping a show is a fascinating process. Identifying a theme or unifying element, selecting particular works and then writing about it, I feel a sense of authorship. However, it’s a collaborative process. Can you speak to what the process is like for you?

AB: A photographer can amass a large body of work in a short time, even when they are like me and are constantly editing – I never print every frame of film I expose. The curator can help make sense of the boxes of prints. I have my own ideas of what I want, but a curator shapes an exhibition which needs a cohesiveness that I may not have in my date defined boxes. Collaborating can be interesting in that way because I get to see my work through outside eyes. It can be frustrating as well, when there is a reinterpretation of the work that was never intended, but in the end, it becomes a back and forth, give and take. The curators I work with only want to show my work in its best light and for that I need to trust them.

REM: While you often talk about the aspects of your photos that aren’t documentary — composition, anomalies of the process that appeal to you, etc. — is nostalgia ever activated for you? Do you think about the when and where and what was going on in your life at the time you took the photo? Does your personal biography ever influence how you use your catalogue of images?

AB: Nostalgia is often a part of the work. I can remember the circumstances and my motivations for taking my first photographs. The image itself is often a trigger for me, and much of my work is about my experiences in a conceptual way.

REM: Can you speak more about that? How your work is about your experiences in a conceptual way…

AB: I don’t consciously plan to document my experiences in my work, but when I review it after it is complete I often see the connection. If you read the essays in my photo books, you will find that the photographic series relate to events in my life. The work may not actually portray what I discuss in the essay, but the essence is there.

REM: I referred to your “catalogue of images”. Is that how you would refer to them? Also, you keep each image in a plastic sleeve and those are kept in grey, archival storage boxes. Do you have a catalogue system so you can find particular images?

AB: I would call it a body of work. The organization is an evolving thing. My negatives I am bringing under control – or at least I have a system for them. My prints are more haphazard right now, but I am working on that.

Tiber Fountain

Text © 2015 by Curious Matter and Raymond E. Mingst

Photographs © 2015 Arthur Bruso

Essay and photographs were part of the exhibition Penumbra held at Curious Matter,

August 12 - September 13, 2015.

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