New gold dream: Fondazione Prada in Milan
Dear jet boys/jet girls,
From Italy to Great Britain, fashion weeks to exhibitions (with a few healthy dollops of holiday downtime), it was an eventful year of European travel.
In February, I was invited by the Italian Trade Commission to Milan to cover the MICAM shoe fair for A Shaded View on Fashion. Chinese designer Wang Ping sent his charming wife to represent the brand. I really liked her style!
I made the obligatory trip to Fondazione Prada which is located in a rather desolate area, replete with vast, dusty lots and melancholic, abandoned train tracks that provide an arresting juxtaposition to the various artworks. Indeed, the windows of the galleries in the Fondazione's tower are designed to make the landscape an important component of the exhibitions. Sure, Jeff Koons Tulips are quite lovely, but for certain viewers who have that seen-it-all jadedness associated with Koons’ work (that would be me via my exploits in NYC’s Soho art world of the ’90s), the lay of the land outside transformed my feelings about the piece into a totally new and satisfying experience. Take that, boring white gallery walls!
Milan's mysteries blossom at night.
After the shoe show folded, I made a beeline to Milan's majestic train station. Destination: Turin!
Referred to by some Italians disparagingly as "southern France" because of its far northwestern proximity and its decidedly un-Italian-ness, Turin is quiet, elegant and unbothered by tourists, especially in the winter.
Art Nouveau details abound in Turin.
I lodged at the splendid Hotel Victoria, centrally located. One evening while I was taking my aperitivo by the fireplace, this cozy cocktail den was invaded by gaggles of seriously chic ladies of a certain age, festooned in furs and leading their equally stylish canines on leashes through the lobby. They threw themselves on divans and overstuffed club chairs as they gossiped about their husbands and quaffed copious amounts of Moscato d’Asti.
I highly recommend this hotel. The affordable rooms are comfy, full of quirky character (mine had a golf theme), aperitivo is accompanied by a very generous array of freshly made complimentary canapes, and the breakfast, served in a bright, lemon-yellow room next to a garden, is indulgent. (Have the lemon cake—it goes with the decor.)
One of the reasons I made the jaunt to Turin was to once again commune with Lord Lucifer, who guards the Gates of Hell in the Piazza Statuto, which are located under a manhole cover (according to legend). This seriously sexy statue—who floats over a monument to the workers killed while building the Frejus rail tunnel linking Italy and France—was designed with the Sigil of Baphomet sprouting from his head. (This square is referred to as "the black heart of Turin," and indeed the city is a point in both urban triangles that represent the world centers of Black Magic and White Magic.)
Much to my dismay, the five-pointed star was missing from the statue's head. In a panic, I rushed into a nearby witchcraft store in search of an explanation. The proprietor, sighing with resignation, told me that the official story is the star fell from the statue during a storm. There should be a movement to have it replaced!
Diana the Huntress on a sport's store façade. Speaking of game, I was treated by my dear Turinese friend Barbara Papuzzi to a delicious, if unusual, dinner at Ristorante Consorzio, notorious for its experiments in all manner of offal. At one point, Barbara passed a bowl of spicy, ultra-velvety chunks of mystery meat to me which were quite delicious.
Our lesbianic waitperson hovered nearby, grinning broadly, and when I had finished every melt-in-your-mouth morsel, she approached the table and announced what I had just eaten: a cow's vagina! I rose to the occasion and fired back, "Well, this is the first time I've ever eaten pussy—and it was wonderful!"
Ristorante Consorzio in Turin
"Our lesbianic waitperson hovered nearby, grinning broadly, and when I had finished every melt-in-your-mouth morsel, she approached the table and announced what I had just eaten: a cow's vagina!"
All roads lead to Rome: After my Turinese idyll, I jetted down to the Città Eterna to visit friends.
As is my custom, I took a suite at the legendary Hotel Locarno.
I sprinted down to the Accademia di Costume e di Moda to visit my dear friend Adrien Yakimov Roberts (and his colleague Barbara) before he jetted off to a business trip in India.
My friend Alessio de' Navasques invited me to the opening of "Giardini Acquatici" by artist Giovanni Vetere (center in cobalt corduroy pantsuit) at The Orange Garden Gallery. Lupo Lanzara from the Accademia is on the right.
After the opening, Alessio and Clara Tosi Pamphili took me on an adventure at the Piazza Vittorio. Despite all my visits to Rome, I had never been to this area that's famous for its immigrant populations, and that was documented most excellently in Abel Ferrara's film Piazza Vittorio. We strolled through this arcade next to the piazza—unusual for Rome but common in Turin—and I was mad for the old tiles.
As in many multi-ethnic and working-class neighborhoods around the world, hipsters have swooped in, taken advantage of the lower rents and opened trendy bars and restaurants. Here's me and Alessio at one housed in what used to be either a haberdashery or jewelry shop (can't remember which) in the 1920s.
After drinks we had Chinese food at a place I've been dying to go to ever since I saw it featured in Abel's documentary, Hang Zhou da Sonia—and here's Sonia in action!
A glamorous Maoist and Gucci model, Sonia gave Abel's cameras a hair-raising, hilarious account, in Italian, of the time she was robbed at gunpoint in the restaurant. (The robber was Italian, not a migrant, btw.)
I loved the t-shirts of the waitstaff.
Turns out I'm not the only person in the world who has a Mao Room!
The Hotel Locarno is right behind the beautiful Piazza del Popolo.
Designer Hina John, a refugee from Pakistan, and A.I. co-curator Clara Tosi Pamphili.
In July, I was back in Rome again for AltaRoma fashion week. The highlight of the week was the summer edition of A.I. Artisanal Intelligence, "The Shape of the Water." Clara and Alessio de’ Navasques worked with Nation25, an open platform founded in 2015 by Elena Abbiatici, Sara Alberani and Caterina Pecchioli, to bring together a selection of immigrant-created designs.
During the two-day exhibition, we met migrants from African countries and Pakistan who have honed their skills to create beautiful clothing. Many of the migrants live in Italy’s detention camps (centered in Treviso) in the evening, while spending their days searching for fabrics in the Piazza Vittorio and designing clothes.
Journalist Rebecca Voight, designer Marianna Cimini and moi at AltaRoma's Showcase Roma.
Sylvio Giardina at his couture presentation MONOCROMO at Galleria 1/9unosunove arte contemporanea in the Palazzo Santacroce.
Moi, AltaRoma press agent Lavinia Caldani and Paulo Mariotti of Brazilian Vogue at Sylvio's presentation.
There was an al fresco sundowner each evening of AltaRoma, with guest DJs—and by far the best one was Enrico Palazzo!
After AltaRoma, I flew up to the northeastern city of Trieste, at the suggestion of my friend Anita Kravos, an actress who is originally from there. Peculiar and subtly beautiful, this seaport city is located between the Adriatic and Slovenia. Because of its Austrian history, the city has a Viennese vibe.
The headquarters of ITS, International Talent Support, is in Trieste, where they hold a yearly fashion competition every July. Rebecca Voight and I were invited for a private tour of their archives. This was a treat for me since I was not able to stay in Trieste for the event.
When visiting Trieste, a bus trip up the coastline to Miramare Castle is mandatory.
Built between 1856 and 1860 for Austrian Archduke Ferdinand Maximilian and his wife Charlotte of Belgium. Cursed and haunted, Miramare has a melancholy history—and bad things befell just about everyone who lived or stayed there. Jan Morris's excellent book Trieste and the Meaning of Nowhere is full of vivid tales about the castle. I read the book but seemed to have lost it (did I leave it on the plane?) but do remember a few fuzzy details of Maximilian's downward trajectory as related by the marvelous Morris.
As I remember it: Not long after Maximilian moved into this castle—which commands splendid views of the sea from just about every room—France offered him a gig as an Emperor in Mexico. (France was in the midst of colonizing Mexico to give Europe a toehold in the region.) He was hesitant at first, but realized he could do it for a few years and it would be something that looked good on his resume. Above is my photo of the marble-topped table, a gift from a pope, where Max signed the contract to accept the crown in Mexico. Also of note: when the castle was built, the windows were all tinted so that the sea's colors would appear more vivid.
So Max and Charlotte set sail for Mexico where they were crowned Emperor and Empress. Long story short, the French chickened out and withdrew their troops from Mexico not long after Max arrived. Max was captured by the Mexicans and executed immediately. Charlotte (now Empress Carlota of Mexico) fled back to Miramare Castle. Upon her arrival—I'm really improvising here, so correct me if you know the exact details—she discovered that their court had organized a giant cage of doves, awaiting the return of the Emperor and Empress as a token of their affection. Charlotte/Carlota opened the door of the cage and watched wistfully as the doves escaped and flew across the sea. She soon went mad and went back to Belgium where I think she committed suicide.
The sphinx and the sea.
I had a wonderful lunch of fish freshly caught from the Adriatic, near the castle.
My lunchtime view.
After Trieste, I returned to Rome and checked into the Villa Laetitia's Black & White Suite. Equipped with a kitchen, a spare bedroom, two bathrooms and a garden, this suite in the Fendi-owned hotel features a bed by Mies van der Rohe, and shelves, sconces and a writing desk by Ettore Sottsass.
After cocktails at the Hotel Locarno, Consuelo Aranyi and I went to one of our favorite trattorias (the name escapes me) where we had artichokes four ways: raw, steamed, sauteed and deep fried. Yum!
I was mad for this Brutalist apartment building near my hotel.
On another evening, I was blessed with the company of Adrien and Kamen Yakimov Roberts. They took me to Le Grotte, a pizza joint with an interior that looks like a Dean Martin movie on acid. We dined al fresco and I opted for a rather marvelous plate of pasta. And that wasn't the only dish that was served, if you catch my drift!
On my last day in Rome, I lunched with Samuel Beckett, and my close pal, screenplay writer and actor Rinaldo Rocco, at the prison-chic Fendi Hotel. Rinaldo is delightful company, so I barely noticed the sadistic experience of lunching here. First, we were roasted under Rome's merciless midday July sun as we waited, and waited, for a waitperson to appear from the seemingly deserted restaurant. After a few blistering moments, a blasé waitress sauntered out from seemingly nowhere—Waiting for Godot, waiting for the waitstaff—who didn't deign to open the roof's automated canopy until we begged her for mercy.
My entree, a mere wispy tangle of pasta small enough to fit inside a teaspoon, came with a Fendi price tag, and as soon as the plates were cleared, the impassive waitron cruelly retracted the canopy (vaguely citing a time constraint on roof access), leaving us once again exposed to the unrelenting Mediterranean sun. But as I mentioned, Rinaldo and I were so enjoying our conversation, I barely noticed any of these unpleasantries!
Rinaldo attempts a dialectical discussion with Signore Beckett.
After lunch, Rinaldo and I took a stroll around the charming Isola Tiberina, an island in the Tiber.
Fast-forward to September where I was once again in Vienna, covering MQ Vienna Fashion Week for A Shaded View on Fashion. I met up with my friend, the Austro-Egyptian editor and owner of Pashion Magazine, for dinner at the famed Zum Scharwzen Kameel, followed by cocktails in the Blue Room of the Hotel Sacher. Here we are afterwards in the Red Room. Redrum!
Fashion supernovas Elisabeth Muth and MQ Vienna Fashion Week co-founder Zigi Mueller-Matyas at the residence of the Thai Ambassador to Austria. We were invited there for a delicious Thai breakfast and a preview of collaborations between Thai and Austrian designers.
We loved the collab between Ek Thongprasert and Karin Oèbster of Kayiko.
Head games with Iris van Herpen at her Vienna boutique.
After Vienna, it was onto Bristol, UK to unchain unicorns and to attend the opening of Act 3 of Still I Rise: Feminisms, Gender, Resistance at the Arnolfini Centre for Contemporary Arts.
This groundbreaking feminist and queer art exhibition—previously staged in other iterations in Nottingham and Bexhill by Sea—featured two of my videos: Two Spirits Speak Out from 1992 (above) and Glennda and Camille Do Downtown (1993), my collaboration with Camille Paglia.
(If you missed this show in Bristol, you can catch Two Spirits Speak Out at the Museum of the City of New York, in the exhibition Urban Indian: Native New York Now, through March 8, 2020.)
Moi (center) with the Still I Rise curators—Cédric Fauq, Rosie Cooper and Irene Aristizábal—and Kieran Swann, Head of Programme at the Arnolfini.
Cute guy watching Glennda and Camille Do Downtown at the opening.
It was a thrill meeting punk feminist artist Rachael House, who was in from London for the opening.
Rachael's piece in the show celebrates punk icons Patti Smith, Ari Up and Poly Styrene.
My friends from the North, Mark & Mark Simpson, drove down to spend some quality time with me. We took a tour of Brunel's SS Great Britain.
First Class dining, 1850s style.
The two Marks and I also paid a visit to Bristol's breathtaking Suspension Bridge.
But perhaps the biggest thrill of all was discovering, quite by accident, this show-stopping Brutalist cathedral in Clifton, a serene, residential area of Bristol.
Designed by architect Ron Weeks, the Clifton Cathedral was completed in 1973.
After Mark&Mark returned to the North of England, I lied down on a grassy knoll in Castle Park, enjoying the last remnants of summer.
Thank you for taking this journey with me.
Love,
Glenn Belverio
