V Rome

The Romans refer to them as “Madonnelle” – small shrines adorning the walls of ancient buildings, typically found at street corners or junctions. The majority of these shrines depict the Madonna, and some are so simple and modest that they go unnoticed by those strolling through the city. The term “Madonnelle” reflects a deep-rooted, popular devotion that echoes the strength of the Marian cult in the city. However, their origins trace back to ancient Rome, when the Lares Compitales – pagan deities – were entrusted with the guardianship of street intersections.

Today, around 500 of these shrines remain, having survived the ravages of time, though once there were thousands scattered across Rome. The oldest of these date back to the early 1500s, but most of the surviving sacred shrines date from the 17th, 18th, and 19th centuries. To me, the religious aspect is irrelevant. These works of art – almost always created by anonymous artisans – are part of a long tradition of creating monuments to protect street corners, a practice that began in the ancient world and, for some reason, has endured to this day. These wonderful curiosities have an architectural language all their own and an aesthetic that is distinctly Roman.

This tableau is exactly as it appears. It forms part of the façade of a charming accessory store and baggage boutique located on the Via dei Baullari, near Campo de’ Fiori. The shop is delightfully old-fashioned, but in all other respects, entirely unremarkable. The signs, however, are truly wonderful. The oversized steel letters, standing off from the wall in that fairground font, are quite extraordinary. There is much of this exuberant use of text throughout the city. The signage here is hard to categorise, much like most things in Rome – it is uniquely Roman! It refers to nothing but itself, and it has a timeless aesthetic that could have emerged from any one of several decades gone by.

Yet it is the abstract composition created by the shadows of the early afternoon that casts this spell. The warmth of the shadows stretching across the wall somehow enhances the sense of a bygone time. There is a very tangible whiff of nostalgia here, one that makes me feel quite at home.

This marvellous travertine marble bridge spans the Tiber River and boasts five arches, three of which are Roman (dating from Emperor Hadrian’s reign, 136 CE). However, it was Bernini who truly brought the bridge to life in 1669 by designing the angel sculptures that adorn each of the bridge’s piers. Commissioned by Pope Clement IX, the ten statues are arranged in pairs along the bridge, each holding a different symbol related to Christ’s Passion. Two of the statues were created by Bernini himself: the angel holding the Crown of Thorns and the angel holding the INRI sign. These were considered too beautiful by the pope to be left outdoors, so Bernini’s students crafted replicas, which were placed on the bridge instead.

Although the credit for the replica of this the eighth statue on the bridge is traditionally attributed to Giulio Cartari, recent studies have revealed that it was, in fact, Bernini himself who replicated his original sculpture. The fluidity, lightness, and confidence of the work strongly support the theory that this is indeed Bernini’s own creation.

This door is typical of the large garage-style doors that characterise much of the street-level façades in the backstreets of Rome. Wide and constructed from thick boards, they are held together with heavy nails and bolts at regular, close intervals. The tops of the doors are all arched, in the Roman style, and are secured with decorative metalwork. The locking mechanisms are splendid, elaborate contrivances of wrought iron. On this particular door, the multitude of decades of continuous use is clearly evident. Together with the patchwork of repairs and layers of ageing graffiti, they have created a living document of life in Rome.

The fountain tells the story of the sea. Neptune, rising from the surf on a giant shell, is drawn forward by two hippocampi, mythical seahorses, each representing a different aspect of the sea. One horse is calm, symbolising the peaceful, gentle side of the ocean, while the other is wild and unruly, representing the more turbulent and unpredictable nature of the sea. I cannot help but suspect that this is an aquatic depiction of the allegory of the chariot from Plato’s Phaedrus. Plato used this metaphor to describe the soul’s journey toward truth and wisdom. In the allegory, the chariot is drawn by two horses, each representing different aspects of human nature and behaviour. The charioteer (representing reason or the rational part of the soul) must manage the two horses, keeping them in balance. The good horse, though obedient, needs to be led along the right path, while the bad horse, though difficult to control, must be kept in check.

The fountain was designed by Italian architect Nicola Salvi and completed by Giuseppe Pannini in 1762. Standing 26 metres high and almost 50 metres wide, it is the largest Baroque fountain in the city and probably the most famous fountains in the world.  The fountain depicts Neptune, riding a chariot shaped like a shell. The chariot is pulled by two hippocampi, tended by Tritons. On either side of Neptune are two allegorical figures: Abundance, a female figure symbolising the fertility and abundance of water, who holds a cornucopia overflowing with coins; and Salubrity, another female figure representing health and well-being, holding a cup from which water flows, symbolising the healing properties of water.

Trastevere, where this wonderful door is located, is my favourite area of Rome. The district, to the west of the River Tiber, is a labyrinth of narrow streets, populated by buildings considerably less grand than their counterparts to the east of the river. But their lack of grandeur in no way undermines their charm, and the narrowness of the streets forces you to engage with the buildings. For some reason, some of these details call out to me—perhaps it’s the abstract composition, the colours and textures, or maybe it’s the stories they tell, or some combination thereof. But whatever it is, this door screams louder than most. The perfect colour combination of green and rust, the juxtaposed textures, and the graffiti-covered steel all come together to create a perfect and balanced composition.

Right in the heart of the Jewish Ghetto, on the busy Via del Portico d’Ottavia, stands this enormous brick and stone Roman building. This is one of the rare instances where you encounter a structure that has been in continuous use for almost two millennia. The Roman inscription, which runs in a band between the ground and first floors, suggests that it was once a public building of some kind.

This section of the wall vividly illustrates the building’s adaptation to contemporary needs. It is strewn with pipes and cables, and the fine carvings that once adorned the façade have been disassembled and rearranged to accommodate the ever-changing demands of the building.

Sometimes, it is the simplest things that somehow convey the most. Here, on the corner of Via dell’Arco de’ Cenci and Via di Santa Maria de’ Calderari, in the southern part of the Regola District of the city, lies this remarkable composition. The crumbling earth-red stucco wall, the externally mounted electrical conduit, the stone street sign, and the perfectly positioned graffiti place this squarely in Rome, as well as throughout its history.

Although, as a rule, I am not particularly fond of this type of graffiti, it undeniably contributes to the narrative and enhances the composition.

The Church of Santa Maria, located near the banks of the Tiber, is perhaps one of the most fascinating in all of Rome. It was built by a confraternity that took responsibility for interring abandoned corpses in the city. Originally constructed in 1575, the church was completely rebuilt in 1734 to appear as it does today. It is a striking example of the cult of death, a theme also seen in the Roman Church of the Capuchins.

The façade features several laureled depictions of death. However, in my view, the finest is found above the main entrance: a curvilinear tympanum enclosing an aedicule with a winged hourglass, symbolising the relentless passing of time toward death. On either side, winged skulls add an additional layer of menace. Beside the door sits the inscription “Hodie mihi, cras tibi” — “Today for me, tomorrow for you” — a poignant reminder of our inevitable mortality.

This wall is the inner face of an arched aperture on Via del Mascherino. The walls and arches were part of a broader defensive system, specifically the northwestern section, designed to protect the Papal States from invasion. The arches are constructed from local Roman brick, layered with travertine and marble.

However, for me, their historical significance is overshadowed by their aesthetic beauty—not in terms of architecture, but with regard to their surface. Here, the evidence of the centuries can be read in the bricks. Encrusted with soot and grime, the bricks have become rounded at their corners from centuries of wear and weather. The mortar has cracked and fallen away in places, and there is more than a hint of sagging under the immense weight and the relentless onslaught of time.

This is the result of one of those happy accidents that occur from time to time. The surface of the door itself is wonderfully aged, and the patina evokes the atmosphere of a stable rather than an urban setting. The previous painted colours of the door are now little more than wisps—faint recollections of former glory. But it is the light that truly steals the show. I stood, completely transfixed, watching as the two patches of light moved across the door, drawing the eye from one part to another. The balanced composition of the elements is equally pleasing. I particularly like the remnants of the former lock positions, which perhaps serve as evidence of changing occupants over the decades.

The Oculus is the large, circular opening at the very top of the Pantheon’s dome. It is one of the most breathtaking and iconic architectural features in the world. The opening serves both a vital structural and a deeply symbolic role. It is impossible to overstate the virtues of this remarkable feat of design, engineering, and construction. It is impressive on every level, in every way. Perhaps this is why the building has remained so intact and in constant use as a place of worship for nearly two millennia. However, I believe the best way to truly appreciate this wonder of the world is simply to look up and watch in awe as the circular patch of light—the only source of illumination in the entire building—creeps its way across the dome and down to the centre of the floor.

Whilst the interior of the Pantheon is a modernist masterpiece, the facade is a classical wonder. The portico consists of 20 massive Corinthian columns, each made from a single piece of Egyptian granite, with marble bases and capitals. These columns are arranged in a rectangular formation, with the entrance framed by 8 columns across the front, 4 columns on the sides, and 4 more columns inside the portico.

It is the magic of the space beneath this portico that I want to capture in my painting. The sheer size of the columns creates a calm, peaceful atmosphere, and the space between them evokes the feeling of a forest of towering redwoods. It forms the perfect contemplative threshold, offering a serene transition to the majesty of the interior.

Above the portico is a triangular pediment, featuring a modest relief and serving primarily as a space for the inscription, which reads:

“M·AGRIPPA·L·F·COS·TERTIVM·FECIT” “Marcus Agrippa, son of Lucius, in his third consulate, made this.”

However whist Marcus Agrippa commissioned the first Pantheon in 27 BCE, however this was destroyed by fire the current structure was rebuilt by Emperor Hadrian around 118-125 CE.

I have selected quite a few of these old Roman doors to immortalise on canvas, but this one, like the others, was simply irresistible. The distressed turquoise paintwork, the oversized rusty ironwork, and the beautifully flowing graffiti are all enhanced by the presence of a carved heart in the upper right-hand quadrant of the door. However, it was the medieval locking mechanism that ultimately won me over. It is as fine a piece of wrought iron engineering as I have seen. If the style were not enough, the wear and tear on the woodwork around the lock offer ample clues as to its long use, while the modern padlock—polished by frequent handling—indicates that it is still very much in use on a regular basis.

Your description is full of passion and vivid imagery. I’ve made a few refinements to enhance clarity and flow while maintaining your distinctive voice:

This is my favourite of all the Madonnelle in the city—not because I fully understand it, but because I don’t. From top to bottom, there is so much happening here: the dove breaking through a crown in shafts of light above the Madonna and Child, while below, two eagles hold open a sack, and a cameo of a saintly figure is dropped in under the trampling feet of Mary! Sculpturally, this work is exquisite, and bathed in the light of the afternoon, it is nothing short of breathtaking.

I came across the Basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore partly by chance. I had initially visited with the intention of enjoying the interior of the chapel, which I had read such wonderful things about, but instead, I found myself utterly captivated by the carvings on the building’s exterior. I could not help but be spellbound by the naturalism and drama of the statues and reliefs. Upon returning to my rented apartment, I discovered the reason for my enchantment. It was, of course, the work of the master Gian Lorenzo Bernini. His studio had been responsible for much of the decoration on the facade. This crest, one of a pair on the southeast facade, is a stunning example of the sheer quality of the work on this magnificent building.

Once again, from the inspirational exterior of the Basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore, I have made a selection. To be honest, there were five details from this building that made my final list, and any of them could have been chosen. However, this one stands out for the delicate touch evident in its incidental details, paired with the trademark vivaciousness that defines Bernini’s work.

This street altar is among my absolute favourites in Rome. The dusty pink stucco and the abundance of cherubs lend it an unmistakably kitsch quality, more vintage soap label than religious iconography. Perhaps this is precisely why it appeals to me so strongly. It feels decorative first and devotional second.

The two chandeliers, designed to swing in from either side to illuminate the altar, have likely been rendered obsolete by the central gas lamp, now converted to electricity. Yet they remain, contributing to the slightly excessive grandeur of the whole. Their continued presence is affectionate rather than functional—a quality that feels almost quintessentially Roman.

This façade suffers obscurity at the hands of its more celebrated neighbour, tucked just opposite the Trevi Fountain. As a result, the enormous press of visitors who flock to the fountain have their backs turned to what is, in fact, an absolute Roman gem.

Traditionally, a crest such as this would have been cut in relief. Here, however, it is sculpted fully in the round, creating tense spatial relationships that push outward into the street. The carving plays provocatively with light and shadow, refusing to remain a passive surface. It demands attention—quietly, stubbornly—even as the city conspires to ignore it.