The Bright Side - The Flourescent Threat
In Rome this evening, I was reminded of a long ago
someone in New York; G., a very handsome whiney,
Italian boy in his thirties who still lived with his
parents in Brooklyn. He was also a Tortured Poet and
actor who, on account of being so unbelievably
emotional and sensitive, had a whole complicated
ritual of jobless self-indulgence that he would toil
through each and every morning - much to my irritation
and amusement.
Most days, around 11am or so, would heave himself
slowly out of bed as if suffering terrible pain. He
would then lie immobile in a hot bath for half an hour
to comfort his allegedly aching limbs. Stretching
exercises followed for another half an hour for the
same reason. And, last but not least (and in
retrospect, my very, very wicked favourite): he would
solemnly disappear into the bathroom to sit on the
toilet in the dark to make himself cry. I joke not -
and worse, reader, I dated him.
Still, in my defence, his parents’ house had a huge,
slobbery dog to play with and there were always good
things to eat and so I grimly put up with it. But as I
soon came to see it, the real problem in our
relationship was the lighting. Because despite having
a whole house to themselves, his family insisted on
living in the basement, a dank, underground room lit
by hideous flourescent lights. Why? Upstairs, after
all, was a perfectly nice kitchen and living room,
although puzzlingly, the latter was cordoned off, like
some unlikely VIP room, with a little blue rope. I
never saw a soul go in there. But like those furniture
rooms at the Met Museum, you were allowed peer inside.
At G.’s house, though, all the chairs and sofas had
evidently never, ever been used and were indeed still
covered in their brand new shiny plastic wrapping.
I simply didn’t understand any of this nonsense and
G., when I carefully broached the subject one
Christmas Day, got exasperated and stormed off, no
doubt for another cry and a long sulky poetry session.
I hated the idea of spending Christmas Day in that
room with his huge noisy extended family and their
spawn, wretched under the harsh, depressing lights.
Nothing about it felt Christmassy. In fact, it’s when
I realised that the true meaning of Christmas, even
more than goodwill to all, baby Jesus, and lots of
presents, surely lies in how things are lit. And as if
the whining, crying and cringe-making poetry about
Madonnas, whores, guilt and the crucifixion were not
enough, it was only then that I realised once and for
all that things were simply not going to work out
between us.
Years later, I understand his family a little better
than I did back then. Mama’s boy’s parents were from
Bari and barely spoke any English; in fact they
usually spoke in dialect rather than what has now
become standard Italian. Used perhaps to dim interiors
and sofas constructed entirely from mud and straw, and
outdoor toilets full of chickens and goats, bright
lighting would have been some sort of status symbol
for them. Huddled on the boat coming over it was
probably all they could think about. How marvellously
decadent, nay, de rigeur once you arrived in the New
World, to have everything lit up like a hospital O.R.
simply because you could, because you’d made it at
last.
I realise now that their spanking new sofas were "for
show", being hard won and not to be used for what they
were intended lest they wear out. My Mother, a child
of WWII, the British equivalalent of the Depression
era in terms of scrimping and scraping, can have a
similar atttitude about things. Perfume is saved "for
best", as are numerous odds and ends, bits of string
and cardboard, all saved for goodness knows what
emergency and apt to tumble out of cupboards and
drawers while searching for the useful things which
are inevitably not to be found.
I am reminded of all this in Rome. Because apart from
the unexpectedly grand, ochre beauty of this city it
is the one other thing I’ve been surprised by. Not
that I expected or wanted a parody of creaky little
joints run by jolly, opera singing Italians with
drippy candles stuck in Chianti bottles, God no, but
still… even many of the more upscale restaurants
here could light a runway for an A380. I am dismayed.
No one looks good under this clinical glare. If I want
to see my food that closely I’d have just taken the F
train to Brooklyn. But then again, why wouldn’t Rome
be like Brooklyn? - and all the other places poor
people go to make both life and rooms a little bit
brighter.
Over dinner tonight, squinting into the glare, I
peered with some astonishment at the stark new
topography of my dinner partner’s face until I
realised, with some alarm, that he might well be doing
the same thing to me. I looked quickly back down at my
well-lit food. Too late. "Wow", he said, his mouth
full of pasta," you know I never noticed before but
your nose is really crooked, isn’t it!" It seemed to
me in that moment that there is indeed a bright side
to all this inappropriate brightness: you are able to
see not only a fly in your soup, but then and now, a
fly in the ointment or your distinctly ungentlemanly
dinner partner.