X.iii. A Picnic

"I chose to recount only certain episodes of my life, specifically those which were most decisive, and most important, for my personal evolution…. The pieces of the puzzle that I'm recalling now seem to form (at least for the time being) a single, homogenous design, a mosaic similar that of my existence."
- Federico Zeri

As we sat in her car and battled the lunch hour traffic, Professor Cavina spoke to us in a pastiche of English, French, and Italian. "I'm just back from Paris," she said, "so I need to get used to things again. Which way am I going, now?" She exhibited her usual frenetic personality, completely unconcerned, as the state of her Audi testified, with the banalities of city driving. Finally free from Bologna's narrow streets, we ascended to Villa Guastavillani.
    Professor Cavina, Matthew and I were going on a picnic, the day before the final installment of our exam. In North America this would be interpreted as a serious conflict of interest, but here it was just a matter of course. In fact, I think that Professor Cavina wanted to show us just what she was up to in her professional life, a sort of apology for the somewhat questionable workings of the University of Bologna as a teaching institution.
    Lost in the lush hills above Bologna, the villa is the temporary seat of a great endeavour, a secret workshop that embodies all the aspirations of Bologna's greatest art historians. Here, in the mansards of a fourth floor attic, a team of specialists is cataloging and computerizing the legacy of their eminent late colleague, Federico Zeri.
    Zeri's collection is enormous; he bequeathed a unique collection of three hundred thousand photos of Italian art, his villa near Rome, as well as an important art history library all to the University of Bologna. He even had the foresight and humility to state that, on his deathbed, there would be over ten thousand books in his library he would never have a chance to read. For Zeri, the mere ownership of a book, the ability to leaf through its pages and stock it on a shelf, was an act of learning. Somehow, through symbiosis, knowledge could be acquired. He must have thought the same of his enormous Fototeca, now in the process of being carefully dissected and digitized by energetic young graduates. At the Villa Guastavillani, Zeri's memory lives on. After his death, his passion has grown into something infinitely larger than himself.
    Zeri's life was extraordinary. In many ways he was the last witness to an era now long vanished. The self-confessed dichotomy of his existence consisted of diligent, solitary research on the one hand, and dizzying social engagements on the other. He was befriended and engaged by, among others, Bernard Berenson, J. Paul Getty, and count Alessandro Contini, constantly treading a careful path through the salons and manors of some of the twentieth century's wealthiest people. A lifetime of jet-setting in Europe and America led him to encounters with Greta Garbo, Diana Cooper, and the Duchess of Argyll.
    Because he was a private historian for most of his career, he was able to launch himself into situations and adventures that many of his contemporaries shunned. He had many enemies of lesser of greater menace, including Roberto Longhi, his famed professor, who effectively blocked his entrance into the world of Italian academia, unwittingly broadening the young student's horizons in the process. Zeri, youthful, acerbic, and verbose, was able to reap the benefit of history; his autobiography, published ten years ago shortly before his death, did not mince words when it came to targeting the adversaries he had outlived. He, an outsider, had the last word.
    Professor Cavina was evidently a good friend of Zeri, for she accompanied him on various trips to the Middle East. The slides she showed us in class of her next to him were only thinly masked admiration for a teacher by a student. It was only natural that now she was one of the chief exponents of his legacy. Professor Benati, with whom I also took a course, was present at the villa as well, along with a host of other historians, young and old, who formed what seemed like a closely-knit, almost idyllic community of continuators. As we ate our picnic on the villa's lawn, with the hectic city below, I couldn't help but consider myself a member, even through proxy, of this loyal group.


The Villa Guastavillani