Memoirs of an Artist

These are the musings of a genuine artist, which went on living silently in old notebooks, until the profound artist Moustafa Farroukh came to bring them forth on the pages of this magazine.

Farroukh lived sweet years of his youth amid the splendor and majesty of art, in Europe, in the shadows of temples and shrines and in the galleries of museums, and his spirit drank deep of those immortal masterpieces of art... And The Woman's Voice is proud to present these artistic memoirs to its readers in every one of its issues.

"The Editorial Pen"

In the late summer of 1924 the steamer Brazil was leaving Beirut's clamorous harbor, and I stood on the ship's deck like a dreamer, scarcely able to believe that I had won the fulfillment of a cherished wish that had so long teased my artistic dreams — and here I had won at last a journey to the cradle of art and beauty, the eternal city, Rome.

Rome, the Eternal City, as they call it, which was a place of pilgrimage for the great artists, a spur to their genius, and a sweet wellspring for their brilliance; the cradle of the arts and the storehouse of thought since the most ancient ages — does it not deserve that we speak of it, if only a little?

Indeed! I have forgotten neither Rome nor art, though my acquaintance with the city is still fresh. And here, now that I have settled in, I offer fleeting pictures of the city of art, the city of Julius Caesar, Caracalla, Titus, and Scipio — nay, the city of men of thought and art: Galileo, Petrarch, Tasso, and Marconi; the city of Michelangelo, Leonardo, Raphael, Correggio, and the others who raised high the glory of mind and spirit and laid the foundations of this great civilization.

There is movement, yet no movement; there are crowds, yet no clamor... and between the one and the other you see flower sellers at every turn. Along the street rise towering buildings of marvelous architecture, all art and harmony, and in some of their corners appear statues, some symbolic and some realistic, of certain men of genius — scholars, writers, and artists. Is the heritage of the truly advanced nations anything more beautiful than these faces, when civilizations are remembered and nations are honored?...

Hardly a building is without some ornamental carving, and these buildings stretch away in a straight line whose end the eye cannot see. If one looks at the vendors' shops — greengrocers, cheese, meats, flowers — one is seized with astonishment at their fine arrangement and cleanliness. And if the fancy takes you and you enter a refreshment shop or a café, you see a wonder and your appetite grows: utmost cleanliness, perfect order, the greatest care, and a restful quiet.

In truth, one hardly wearies of gazing at what is around him, for he always finds something new. While he is in the streets, among the towering buildings and the ceaseless movement, he is suddenly surprised by the sight of a beautiful garden, soft of blossom, gracefully planted, breathing fragrance, in whose midst nestles a pool from which the water gushes.

And sometimes, in the middle of the long streets, you find public squares in whose center a statue has been raised to one of their geniuses, or their leaders, heroes, and teachers, reminding you at once of their glorious history and testifying to their esteem for those who labor...

It is four o'clock, and the families have begun to arrive with their children. Here, on that green meadow, are clusters of children at play, and near each of them their mothers, either reading or knitting clothes for them.

And there, on the other side, appeared a woman with her husband, seated together talking or reading. At the far end, a betrothed pair nestled close to one another, reciting the sweet poems of their love. And these flowers seem a frame for those marble statues representing some of the homeland's martyrs, which appeared like the flowers themselves in luster and beauty, for like them they stand for life and its everlasting freshness.

Let us walk a little along this quiet, clean road — clean but for a few small leaves that the breeze had wronged and brought down, and a few blossoms the wind had shaken until they scattered.

God, how beautiful this fountain is! It is a poem brimming with life; in its form it is an imitation of natural rock, and in its midst is set the statue of a naked beauty, bent upon her knees, stretching out one hand to fill her vessel from the waters of this fountain that overflows with grace and beauty. This naked beauty bends in a marvelously artistic manner. Thus the artist drew forth for us, from the deaf rock, sweet running water, and gave us life; he offered a lesson and gave us guidance — and behold, we are human beings made whole.

Art in this land leaves its mark on everything; in every place there is a school, in every corner a teacher, and on every hilltop a pulpit that preaches to the people and guides them to the right path. How, then, should they not advance, their taste rise, their feeling grow refined, and they become truly human?

Let us continue on our way, leaving aside the gardens and the many statues that pass before us, and make for one of those beautiful palaces that show themselves through these lofty trees. A massive building, yet well proportioned, its parts so harmonious that it appears small and inviting. A broad staircase, ending in columns of the Ionic style, beautiful, their bases lions' heads with gaping mouths. After a spacious passage you find yourself before three entrances, and then you are in a wide court filled with statues of marble and bronze; and at its head rises a mighty marble statue, seven meters high, representing Hercules, the god of strength, holding in his hands the son of the god of the shepherds and striving to hurl him into the abyss.

This scene truly inspires awe. The artist Canova succeeded in bringing out, in the lines of Hercules' body, the powerful muscle and the clear meaning, so that this work of his came to represent strength in all its meaning and vigor.

This is a temple of beauty. In this temple you see only people whose eyes are fixed upon the masterworks of art. There is a man stretched out on a bench who has given his imagination free rein; his spirit has slipped its material bonds and gone forth to commune with the spirits of those who left these works behind, and has become one with them — for the work of art is, in the end, the unity of spirit and thought and their harmony.

After going deep into the rooms of the gallery, filled with masterpieces of every kind, you see here a room set apart for the paintings of the artist Morelli, painter of the picture of the poet Tasso as he lays before the Italian princess his poem of "Jerusalem Delivered."

In it Morelli portrayed the poet's ardor for his art, and in the princess's eyes he portrayed admiration for genius... Then there is his painting representing "Saint Anthony in the Temptation," where the devils have come to him in the forms of beautiful women who beset the saint on every side — from beneath the carpet spread under his feet, and from the folds of the cave and its trailing plants — while the saint appears huddled upon himself, in tattered garments, striving as best he can to save himself from falling into temptation. As for those laughing women before him, shown with their beautiful naked bodies and that spirit brimming with seduction, they are a masterpiece of high art.

After it comes the room of the artist Palizzi, the modest philosopher who was content to take from life and nature the study of their simplest things, for he glimpsed majesty dwelling in every part of them — in the animal, and in the simple, humble grass — and he stood contemplating it and interpreting its beauty, which enfolds the loveliest meanings and the most delicate structure. Even the thistle did not escape him — the majesty crouched within its golden thorns, gleaming under the rays of the sun — and he produced wonder upon wonder. On his deathbed, having passed more than seventy years of age, he spoke his famous sentence: "If it were granted me to return to life again, I would return to pursue art..."