This article is for my good friend, Diego.
Italy: Art springs to life in gardens near Rome
Renaissance artistry blooms at Villa Lante, Bomarzo, Ninfa and other elaborate landscapes just a drive away from the Vatican.
By Susan Spano, Los Angeles Times Staff Writer
I know how to get to paradise -- in this life, anyway.
It lies atop a hill about 60 miles north of Rome where a gentleman-cardinal built a garden in the 16th century. His architects created it from water and stone, green leaves and vine. But the result is more than the sum of its parts. Villa Lante embodies the humanist ideals of the Italian Renaissance.
In a way, all gardens, from the lowliest patch of zinnias to a sophisticated jewel of landscape design such as Villa Lante, are postage stamps from Eden. So it is no wonder that soon after I moved to Rome last spring, I began seeking them out.
I took a Vatican Gardens tour to see the pope's beautiful backyard and saw the ingenious fountains at the Villa d'Este about 20 miles east of Rome. I found secret havens in the city -- the rose garden on the Aventine Hill, for one -- and tagged along with a group of architecture students from Yale University to visit Villa Madama, in the hills northwest of town. While the students sketched its elephant fountain, their professors told me about other gardens in the region of Lazio around Rome that attest to the evolution of garden art in Italy. Many are attached to country villas where counts and cardinals took refuge from the summer heat.
When that heat settled in, I fled the city almost every weekend, navigating my rental car to the Grande Raccordo Annulare, the ring road that encircles Rome. From there it was easy to find cool, green, consummately beautiful pieces of paradise.
Bomarzo and Villa Lante
In 1578, Cardinal Giovanni Francesco Gambara was suffering an attack of gout when Pope Gregory XIII arrived at the Villa Lante. When the pope saw Gambara's exquisite but obviously costly estate above the hamlet of Bagnaia, he canceled the cardinal's allowance.
It couldn't have been a good day for Gambara, but when I visited Villa Lante I was blessed in every way. On the drive from Rome I followed the path of the Tiber River, lined by fields of golden, just-reaped summer hay.
I turned off the highway near Orte into a landscape of volcanic hills, crater lakes and strange, eroded canyons. A winding country road took me to L'Ombricolo -- which means "the little shady spot" -- a bed-and-breakfast inn that occupies a tile-roofed farmhouse, surrounded by sunflowers.
With its vine-covered verandas and long vistas, L'Ombricolo turned out to be an Italian country idyll. Once I settled in, inn proprietor Dawne Alstrom gave me directions to Bagnaia and Bomarzo, a garden as remarkable as Villa Lante in its own weird way.
I found Bomarzo, a privately owned "garden of monsters," as it's called, in a narrow, wooded valley about a 20-minute drive from L'Ombricolo. From the parking lot it looked like a cheesy tourist attraction featuring monumental statues of dragons and sphinxes set among the trees, with no flowers to speak of.
But once I ventured in, I realized something profoundly strange was going on in the woods at Bomarzo.
Around the bend an ogre's head rears up, its wide-open maw revealing a tongue in the shape of a stone table where visitors can picnic while being devoured.
Art historians attribute the bizarre stone gallery, created circa 1570 by Vicino Orsini, to the rise of the Mannerist style of art that evolved after the High Renaissance. But psychology might also explain it.
Orsini was a papal soldier who retired, disillusioned, from the wars that wracked the Italian peninsula in the 16th century. At Bomarzo, I like to think he used his still-intact prankish sense of humor to vanquish his demons. Even his ravenous ogre and rampaging elephant have a benign air, inviting kids to play amid scenes of pillow-fight carnage.
I drove on to Bagnaia, set among rolling hills and vineyards. I parked by the train station, then climbed to the gate of the public park that buffers Villa Lante from the village below.
The villa began taking shape in the early 1500s as a hunting preserve entailed to the bishops of nearby Viterbo. But when Gambara gained possession in 1566 he put his own stamp on the property, creating a series of terrace gardens on the hillside. On the first level he built a pavilion out of local, whitish-green Pepperino stone. The next proprietor, Cardinal Alessandro Peretti Montalto, gave Villa Lante its symmetry by adding a twin pavilion to Gambara's original. Painters to fresco the little palaces -- or palazetti -- were borrowed from a construction site in nearby Caprarola, where Gambara's friend, Cardinal Alessandro Farnese, was building an even grander villa.
Along with the summer heat, a burgeoning interest in classical art and literature drove the luxury estate building boom in the Roman countryside. From Ovid and Pliny rich patricians found a new model for good living in the quiet seclusion of suburban villas built and decorated along ancient lines. Gardens with groves, grottoes, statues and fountains were part of the prescription for well-being.
A none-too-classical spirit of competition also existed among villa builders such as Cardinal Ippolito d'Este, who leveled the side of a hill and re-routed a river to create his opulent garden at Tivoli, a town in the mountains east of Rome. Among the garden's scores of fountains are a water-operated organ and intermittently running jets that douse surprised passersby.
Villa Lante is comparatively demure, intent on perfection, not astonishment, without the distraction of flowers and unchangingly green through the seasons.
When I passed through the gate I got a strong whiff of freshly clipped boxwood from the parterres around the Fountain of the Moors on the lower level, the interlocking hedges shaped in spirals, squares and circles with little lemon trees peeking out.
Then I turned around and saw the chain of fountains that decorates the hill. Drawn from springs in the nearby San Valentino hills, the watercourse emerges from the highest grotto, known as the Fountain of the Flood, then vanishes and reappears in pools and channels that flow between the two palazetti.
There are the Fountain of the Dolphins, richly emblazoned with the Gambara crayfish crest; the scalloping Chain Fountain, as ramblingly beautiful as any mountain stream; the long Cardinal's Table, with troughs of running water that served as finger bowls for Gambara's dinner guests; and, finally, the classic Renaissance garden on the lowest terrace.
Later I read in Helena Attlee's "Italian Gardens" that, from top to bottom, Villa Lante tells the story of human evolution, beginning with the rustic Eden created by God at the Fountain of the Flood and climaxing in the perfect geometry of the lower parterres.
But to understand the garden's symbolism isn't to take any less sensual delight in it. I couldn't keep from slipping off my sandal and dipping my toes in the cold, flowing water of the Chain Fountain. I ran my palms across the moss that now clothes Villa Lante's stone nymphs and goddesses. Finally, I sat at the Cardinal's Table, half waiting for Gambara's liveried servants to serve lunch.
Ninfa and Landriana
Most people have just one thing in mind when they head south from Rome in the summer: the beach, which follows the coast of the Tyrrhenian Sea all the way to Naples, sandy in some places, pebble-strewn or edged by ragged cliffs in others.
About 20 miles inland a chain of mountains crops up, beginning just south of Rome in the Alban Hills, home to Castel Gandolfo, the pope's summer retreat.
The plain between the mountains and the sea is carpeted by farms that feed Rome's appetite for fresh tomatoes, hot peppers and zucchini blossoms. This is where two of my favorite Italian gardens lie. To reach them you turn off the Grande Raccordo Annulare onto old Roman roads that are now highways: the Appian Way and the Pontina.
Headed down the Pontina to the beach one weekend, I stopped to see a garden set in the medieval town of Ninfa, owned along with its hilltop neighbor Sermoneta by the noble Caetani family, which still has a palazzo in the historic center of Rome.
At its peak in the 13th and 14th centuries, Ninfa had seven churches, a double ring of fortifications, a castle, town hall, 150 houses and 2,000 people. But incessant wars and marsh-bred malaria took their toll, leaving it a ghost town slumbering in walls of bracken and briar.
I would have liked to have leisurely discovered Ninfa the way Duke Onorato Caetani's wife, English-born Ada, did in the 1870s, when she took her children to the old family place for picnics and then started planting seeds.
But Ninfa, now owned by the Caetani Foundation and open to visitors on selected summer weekends, is so hard to find that getting here is still an adventure. After driving in circles, I stopped to ask villagers. Looking at me doubtfully, they all gave me different directions and I eventually noticed a small sign for it tucked into the foliage beside the road.
An even better way of seeing the grounds: an invitation from Duke Roffredo Caetani and his American wife, Marguerite, who took possession of Ninfa in the 1930s. Marguerite, who died in 1958, was the editor of international literary magazines that published the work of such writers as Evelyn Waugh, who were often weekend guests.
Under her supervision, Ninfa took on aspects of an English garden featuring landscape rather than fussy flower beds. It is a garden for wandering with a book and a dog, for lying in fresh-cut grass and dreaming, especially in April and May when the ornamental cherries blossom.
As it was, I saw Ninfa with a Caetani Foundation tour during the stultifying height of summer, when only a few pink roses lingered to suggest the garden's spring quintessence.
We entered near a cold spring-water lake that feeds the Ninfa River, saw fine old Holm oaks and white maples, then stopped at the ruined Church of Santa Maria Maggiore where Pope Alexander III was crowned in 1159 after having been forced to leave Rome by supporters of Emperor Frederick I (known as Barbarossa).
The old town's main street is now lined by sinuous cypresses. Nearby, a crumbling wall serves as a backdrop for a small banana plantation.
Protected from extreme weather by the Lepini Mountains to the east and the ever-chilly Ninfa River, the 20-acre garden has myriad microclimates in which the Caetanis experimented with non-native plants such as banana, bamboo and magnolias. In damp spots near the river, lilies thrive and everywhere there are roses climbing medieval ruins or preening in the walled garden.
Ada and Marguerite Caetani were among the foreigners who helped keep Italian garden art alive in the war-torn 19th and 20th centuries. World War II was especially disastrous in the region south of Rome.
Nevertheless, another stunning Italian garden took shape there after the war.
La Landriana is an estate a few miles north and inland from Anzio, on 25 acres of land left bare and mine-pocked after the war. The Marquis Gallarati-Scotti and his wife, Lavinia Taverna, bought it at auction in 1956, and it remains the family's country home, receiving visitors only by appointment.
To see it I booked a tour with Sue Webster, an English-speaking guide and avid gardener who lives nearby.
La Landriana's story starts with a bag of seeds given to the marquise by a friend, which she planted and watched spring up. After that, she ordered more plants native to the Mediterranean, Australia or California, according to her interest of the moment. A garden took shape, but without coherent form.
In 1967, she summoned English garden architect Russell Page to La Landriana.
Page was a devotee of Renaissance formal gardens, which were then out of style.
The relationship between Page and Taverna, who died in 1997, proved especially fruitful as the master brought order and subtlety to the passionate experimenter's diverse plant collection.
Page divided the hillside garden into 32 themed "rooms," as he called them, using Taverna's nurslings to create subtle artistic ensembles of texture, scent, shape and color. As a result, La Landriana is a gardener's garden, known among connoisseurs for its subtle design and unusual variety of plants.
When I visited, Webster and I had La Landriana to ourselves so she could take time to show me the finer points I might have missed, beginning in the Orange Garden where clipped globes of bitter orange trees and crepe myrtle dominate four parterres carpeted with Creeping Jenny.
The garden's central corridor is a walkway surrounded by white roses such as 'Sea Foam' and 'Sally Holmes,' with paths leading into heather, magnolia and hydrangea rooms. At the bottom of the hill is a lake where swamp cypresses spread their knobby knees.
I will have to go back to La Landriana in the spring to see its crowning glory, a small valley of 'Mutabilis' roses that change color as they mature so that every bush displays a range of shades from pale apricot to red.
Later, I sat on a nearby beach overlooking the blue Tyrrhenian Sea. It was lovely but hot, and something was missing. There was no green, the color of paradise found in an Italian garden.
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