My week of English wonders – I

England, despite the sweetness of its mild hills standing out, or its pleasantly green countryside, always had a funereal quality to my eye.

I am well aware that such an impression, indistinct and irrational as it is, is but an indefensible generalization; yet I cannot help this feeling deep inside of me every time I go back across the Channel.
It may be because of the many convent ruins characterizing the landscape since Reformation, or because of the infamously leaden sky, or the lingering memory of Victorian mournings; but I suspect the idea that this whole country could have an affinity with death was actually suggested to me by the British I happened to know throughout the years, who seemed to be fighting against a sort of innate, philosophical resignation with the weapons of irony.
In his sketches, John Cleese often made fun of the deferential British austerity, that fear of hurting or being hurt if feelings are given free rein — the same bottled up behaviour which finds its counterpart in the cruelty of British humour, in Blake’s dazzling ecstatic explosions, in the dandies’ iconoclasm or in punk nihilism. Thus, as hard as I have tried, I cannot get rid of the sensation that the English people think more than others, or maybe with less distractions, about vanitas, and are able to transform this awareness of futility (even in respect to social conventions) into a subversive undercurrent.

This is why heading to England to talk about memento mori felt somehow natural right from the start.
At the University of Winchester was gathered a heterogeneous crowd of academics (medievalists, medical historians, anatomists, paleopathologists, experts in literature and painting) and artists, all interested in the relationship between death, art and anatomy.

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These three days of memorable intellectual stimulation really fueled my mind, by nature already overexcited.
Therefore I arrived in London in a state of augmented perception, as the town greeted me with a bright sun and crystal blue skies over its buildings, as if eager to deny all the aforementioned stereotypes. And yet, in retrospect, the days I spent in the capital proved to be a protraction and a follow-up to the meditations initiated in Winchester.

My first, inevitable visit was obviously paid to the Wellcome Collection. This Museum, founded in 2007, is particularly dear to me because it addresses, like I often do on these pages, the intersections between science, art and the sacred. Its permanent collections feature anatomical dolls, memento mori, human remains (for instance a Peruvian 5 to 7 centuries-old mummy); but also fakirs sandals, shrunken heads, chastity belts and religious objects.

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A fascinating temporary exhibition entitled States of mind: Tracing the edges of consciousness introduces the visitor to the mysteries of the Self, of what we call “consciousness”, through the liminal territories of nightmare, somnambulism and its opposite — hypnagogic paralysis —, all the way to the uncharted realms of vegetative state. In the last room I learned with a shiver how recent studies suggest that patients suspended between life and death might be much more aware than we thought.


The Grant Museum of Zoology, just a five-minute walk from the Wellcome Collection, is the only remaining University zoological museum in the capital. The space open to the public is not very big, but it is packed to the ceiling with thousands of specimens covering the entire spectrum of animal kingdom. Skeletons, wet and taxidermied specimens are a silent — yet meaningful — reminder of the vortex of biodiversity.

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Another ten-minute walk, and I reached 1 Scala Street, the location for what is probably one of the most peculiar and evocative museums in London: Pollock’s Toy Museum.

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The visitor must proceed by climbing steep narrow stairs, passing through corridors and small rooms, in a sort of maze unfolding on multiple levels across two different houses, one built in the 1880s and the other dating back to the previous century. Ancient toys are stacked everywhere: dolls, tin soldiers, train models, stuffed animals, rocking horses, puppets, kaleidoscopes.
Coming from the Zoology Museum, I can’t help but think of how play is a fundamental activity for the human mammal. But what could appear just as a curious excursus in the history and diverse typologies of toys soon turns into something different.

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Standing before the display cases crowded with hundreds of time-worn puppets, overwhelmed by the incredible quantity of details, one could easily fall prey to a vague malaise. But this is not that sort of phobia some people have for old dolls and their vitreous gaze; it is a subtle, ancient melancholia.

What happened to the children who held those teddy bears, who played out fantastic stories on tiny cardboard theaters, who opened their eyes wide in front of a magic lantern?

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It might have been just another suggestion caused by previous days spent in heartfelt discussions on the symbols and simulacra of death; or, once more, my preconceptions were to blame.
But to me, even a museum dedicated to child entertainment somehow looked like a triumph of impermanence.

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(This article continues here)

Anatomie fantastiche

Walmor Corrêa è un artista brasiliano che dipinge tavole anatomiche di esseri immaginari di sua invenzione. Le tavole, dagli splendidi colori, si rifanno alle vere illustrazioni dei libri di biologia, e spesso descrivono dettagliatamente l’anatomia interna di questi ibridi fantasiosi. Ondine, mostri, commistioni di umano e animale sono dipinti come fossero stati ritratti durante una dissezione. Accurate descrizioni etologiche rendono conto dei particolari comportamenti di questi animali. Corrêa ha anche creato diorami, orologi a cucù e carillon a partire da scheletri animali modificati. Se volete conoscere l’anatomia di una sirena, Corrêa è l’uomo giusto a cui chiederlo.

Il sito ufficiale di Walmor Corrêa.

Agnello vegetale

Molti conoscono la mandragola (o mandragora), la mitica pianta a forma di neonato, nata dallo sperma degli impiccati, che si pensava possedesse forti qualità magiche. Un’altra creatura che, nel Medioevo, si credeva stesse a metà fra il mondo vegetale e quello animale era l’Agnello Vegetale della Tartaria (Agnus scythicus o Planta Tartarica Barometz).

I fiori che crescevano su questa pianta , diffusa nell’Asia centrale, erano dei veri e propri agnelli, congiunti alle radici da un cordone ombelicale vegetale.

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Gli agnelli potevano piegare l’arbusto per chinarsi a brucare l’erba e le piante circostanti, ma una volta che le “scorte” di cibo nei paraggi si esaurivano, erano costretti a seccarsi e morire. Secondo altre fonti, gli agnelli potevano staccarsi dal barometz per cercare cibo, lasciando che soltanto la radice morisse essiccata.

Non è chiaro se la leggenda sia nata, come sostengono alcuni, addirittura nel I secolo dopo Cristo; certo è che nel XI secolo se ne trova ampia trattazione in diversi bestiari.

Questa creatura immaginaria sarebbe servita a spiegare l’origine del cotone. È infatti ormai assodato che la leggenda abbia preso spunto da una pianta realmente esistente (proprio come successe per la mandragola): si tratta del Cibotium barometz, una pianta lanuginosa e con radici a fittone, solitamente in numero di quattro o cinque, originaria di alcune parti della Cina e della Malaysia.

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La pianta veniva raccolta e preservata come prova dell’esistenza dell’Agnello vegetale. Nel Museum of Garden History di Londra è conservato un esemplare del Cibotium risalente al XIX secolo: questo preparato illustra perfettamente l’indubbio potere evocativo che la strana forma di questo tipo di felce doveva esercitare sui nostri antenati naturalisti.

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