You knew I would soon veer to art, didn’t you?

Oranges and Italian art:

Because of a combination of new artistic techniques and some apparently reasonable, but mistaken, assumptions about the history of citrus, oranges appeared frequently in paintings by any number of the great masters of the Italian Renaissance.

In making the break from Byzantine scholasticism to the new humanism of the Renaissance, artists began setting their religious figures against naturalistic backgrounds. Not having seen the Holy Land, they glibly set their Annunciations and Resurrections in Italian villas and on Italian hills.

Crusaders, among others, had long since reported that orange trees flourished in Palestine, so, as a kind of hallmark of authenticity, the painters slipped orange trees into masterpiece after masterpiece, remaining ignorant to their deaths that in the time of Christ there were no orange trees in or near the Holy Land.

In his “Maestà,” the Sienese painter Duccio di Buoninsegna showed Jesus entering Jerusalem through the streets of Siena, past orange trees in full fruit.

Fra Angelico painted Jesus resting under an orange tree.

It was almost unthinkable for a great master to do a “Flight into Egypt” without lining the route with orange trees.

A “Last Supper” was incomplete without oranges on the table, although there is no mention of oranges in the Bible.

Titian’s “Last Supper,” which hangs in the Escorial, shows oranges with fish.

A Domenico Ghirlandaio “Last Supper” goes further: a mature orange grove is depicted in murals behind the Disciples.

The deterioration of Leonardo’s “Last Supper” has been too extensive for any oranges in it to be identified, but in all likelihood, according to Tolkowsky, they were there.

Most painters thought of the Annunciation as occurring indoors, and Paolo Veronese, for one, moved orange trees indoors to authenticate the scene, setting the plants in trapezoidal pots, of the type in which orange trees were grown in his time in northern Italy.

Fra Angelico also used orange trees to give a sense of the Holy Land to his “Descent from the Cross,” which was otherwise set against the walls of Florence, and, like many of his contemporaries, when he painted the Garden of Eden he gave it the appearance of a citrus grove.

Benozzo Gozzoli’s frescoes in a family chapel of the Medici show Melchior, Balthasar, and Gaspar looking less like three wise kings from the East than three well-fed Medici, descending a hill that is identifiable as one near Fiesole, dressed as an Italian hunting party, and passing through stands of orange trees bright with fruit.

Actually, Gozzoli’s models for the magi were Lorenzo de’ Medici; Joseph, Patriarch of Constantinople; and John Palaeologus, Emperor of the East.

 

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The orange tree was more than a misplaced landmark. It was also a symbol of the Virgin, erroneously derived from an earlier association that medieval theologians had established between Mary and the tall cedars of Lebanon.

Thus, countless paintings of the Madonna or of the Madonna and Child were garlanded with orange blossoms, decorated with oranges, or placed in a setting of orange trees.

Mantegna, Verrochio, Ghirlandaio, Correggio, and Fra Angelico all complemented their Madonnas with oranges.

Sandro Botticelli, in his “Madonna with Child and Angels,” set his scene under a tentlike canopy thickly overhung with the branches of orange trees full of oranges.

In the Neo-Latin of the Renaissance, oranges were sometimes called medici— an etymological development that had begun with the Greek word for citron, or Median apple.

It is no wonder, therefore, that in art and interior decoration the Medici themselves went in heavily for oranges. In Florence, oranges are painted all over the ceilings of the Medici’s Pitti Palace.

The Grand Duke Francesco de’ Medici was one of the world’s earliest collectors of citrus trees, and in Tolkowsky’s view the five red spheres on the Medici coat of arms were almost certainly meant to represent oranges.

When Botticelli painted his “Primavera,” under a commission from the family, he shamelessly included Giuliano de’ Medici as the god Mercury, picking oranges.

Botticelli also painted his “Birth of Venus” for the Medici.

It was Venus, and not the Hesperides, according to a legend current at the time, who had brought oranges to Italy.

Botticelli’s model was Simonetta dei Cattanei, wife of Marco Vespucci and Giuliano de’ Medici’s Platonic love. Simonetta came from Porto Venere, where Venus was alleged to have landed with the original oranges, so Botticelli painted her in the celebrated scallop shell bobbing on the gentle swells off Porto Venere, and lined the coast behind her with orange trees.

Giuliano’s son, Giulio de’ Medici, who became Pope Clement VII, commissioned Raphael to design a villa for him with a great double stairway leading to a sunken garden full of orange trees.

All this was bound to engage the envy of royalty in the north, and at the end of the fifteenth century, in an expedition often said to mark the dividing point between medieval and modern history, Charles VIII of France went to Italy intending to subdue the peninsula by force of arms. Instead, he fell in love with Italian art, architecture, and oranges. When he returned to France, every other man in his retinue was an Italian gardener, an Italian artist, or an Italian architect. Charles was going to transform the castles and gardens of France.

McPhee, John (2011-04-01). Oranges. Farrar, Straus and Giroux. Kindle Edition.

 

 

Pardon me, I’m still not finished…

on oranges:

It is only in comparatively recent centuries that oranges, in Western countries, have actually been eaten as a food. Their earliest popularity in Europe seems to have been based on the ornamental appearance of the trees and the inspiring aroma of the peel and the blossoms.

At the table, they were used as a seasoning for meat and fish and seldom consumed in any other way. Before 1500, European orange growers mainly grew Bitter Oranges, because they were more aromatic, better as seasoning, and hence more valuable.

Dinner guests could measure their importance in the regard of their hosts by the number of oranges that came to the table. One fourteenth-century cookbook, describing a dinner given by an abbott of Langy for his superior, the Bishop of Paris, indicates how impressive a meal it was by noting that the roast fish was seasoned with powdered sugar and Sour Oranges.

In 1529, the Archbishop of Milan gave a sixteen-course dinner that included caviar and oranges fried with sugar and cinnamon, brill and sardines with slices of orange and lemon, one thousand oysters with pepper and oranges, lobster salad with citrons, sturgeon in aspic covered with orange juice, fried sparrows with oranges, individual salads containing citrons into which the coat of arms of the diner had been carved, orange fritters, a soufflé full of raisins and pine nuts and covered with sugar and orange juice, five hundred fried oysters with lemon slices, and candied peels of citrons and oranges.

At about that time, Portuguese ships returned home from India with sweet orange trees, and a new type spread through Europe. It became known as the Portugal Orange, and it quickly replaced the Bitter Orange in popularity throughout the continent. The word “Portugal” became synonymous with good sweet oranges in numerous countries, and, in fact, sweet oranges are still called Portugals in Greece, Albania, Rumania, parts of the Middle East, and some parts of Italy.

In most of Western Europe, the favor held by the Portugal Orange was less enduring. Within a century after the first trees had come from India, Portuguese missionary monks sent word back from China that Chinese oranges were sweeter than sugar itself. One Portuguese Jesuit wrote that “the oranges of Canton might well be muscat grapes disguised.”

In 1635, a Chinese orange tree reached Lisbon, and before long the China Orange— a term still used in many countries to denote a fine sweet orange— was in demand all over Europe. The botanical name of the modern sweet orange, in fact, is Citrus sinensis.

McPhee, John (2011-04-01). Oranges (p. 70). Farrar, Straus and Giroux. Kindle Edition.

Where did “oranges” come from, anyway?

The word “orange” evolved from Sanskrit. The Chinese word for orange, in ancient as well as modern Chinese, is jyu, but it did not migrate with the fruit.

India was the first major stop in the westward travels of citrus, and the first mention of oranges in Sanskrit literature is found in a medical book called the Charaka-Sambita, which was compiled approximately two thousand years ago.

The Hindus called an orange a naranga, the first syllable of which, according to Tolkowsky, was a prefix meaning fragrance.

This became the Persian naranj, a word the Muslims carried through the Mediterranean. In Byzantium, an orange was a nerantzion.

This, in Neo-Latin, became variously styled as arangium, arantium, and aurantium— eventually producing naranja in Spain, laranja in Portugal, arancia in Italy, and orange in France.

 

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Meanwhile, the Roman city of Arausio, in the South of France, had become, in the Provençal language, Aurenja— a name almost identical in sound and spelling to auranja, the Provençal word for orange. Gradually, the names of the city and the fruit evolved in the Provençal tongue to Orenge, and then to Orange.

In the early sixteenth century, Philibert of Orange, prince of the city, was awarded a good part of the Netherlands for his political and military services to the Holy Roman Emperor, Charles V.

The Prince had no immediate heir, and his possessions and titles eventually passed to a German nephew. This was William of Nassau, Prince of Orange, who founded the Dutch Republic and the House of Orange.

In honor of William’s descendants, Dutch explorers named the Orange River, in South Africa, and Cape Orange, in northern Brazil.

Fort Orange was the name of a Dutch settlement that eventually developed into Albany, New York.

After a Protestant prince of the House of Orange had served as King William III of England, a movement known as Orangeism was founded by Irish Protestants, who established the Orange Society, and even called their part of Ireland “The Orange.”

Commemorating their cause on the landscape of the New World, emigrant Orangemen gave the name “Orange” to towns, cities, and bodies of water, from Lake Orange, Maine, to Orangeburg, South Carolina.

Orangemen changed the name of Newark Mountains, New Jersey, to Orange Dale, which eventually became simply Orange, New Jersey, with its satellite towns of West Orange, South Orange, and East Orange— all as the result of a similarity of sound between the name of a transalpine Roman city and the name of a citrus fruit.

 

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Nominal confusion also resulted from a tendency among Romans and Greeks to call any kind of fruit an apple.

When the Romans discovered the pomegranate in Punic Mauretania— now Morocco and Algeria— they called it the malum punicum.

When they came upon the peach, in Persia, they called it the malum persicum.

Centuries earlier, in Media and in Persia, botanists traveling with the conquering armies of Alexander the Great had found the citron and had named it, variously, the Median apple and the Persian apple.

Working later with material left by Alexander’s scientists in the archives of Babylon, Theophrastus, the greatest of Greek botanists, also described citrons as Persian and Median apples, and his work disseminated the terms throughout the ancient world.

It was a “golden apple” that Paris gave to Aphrodite, thus opening his way to the heart of Helen. In Antiphanes’ The Boeotian Girl, written in the fourth century B.C., a young man presents a citron to his mistress, and she says, “I thought it came from the Hesperides, For there they say the golden apples grow.”

Other Greeks, it appears, thought that the golden apples were quinces. Tolkowsky points out that a frieze in the Temple of Zeus at Olympia shows Herakles holding a handful of quinces.

In Rome, however, universal agreement seems to have been reached that the golden apples were citrus. According to Father Ferrari, the Romans thought that citrons, oranges, lemons, and other citrus fruits came to Italy in the arms of the Hesperides— the daughters of Hesperis and Atlas— who crossed the Mediterranean from Africa in a giant shell. Oranges actually reached the Italian peninsula from India.

In the first and second centuries A.D., it was only a seventy-day trip across the Indian Ocean from the Malabar Coast to the western shore of the Red Sea, twelve more days from Berenice by camel to the Nile, and another twelve down the river to waiting galleys at Alexandria. (Orange groves were established at Berenice and elsewhere on this route, which eventually branched into the Levant.)

Toward the end of the Roman Empire, oranges were flourishing on the Italian peninsula.

After the fall of Rome, oranges played a part in the great Lombard invasion. A Byzantine governor of Rome, enraged at being summarily called back to Byzantium, sent an embassy with a selected display of Italian oranges to Alboin, King of theLombards, inviting him to overrun Italy, which Alboin did.

In the sixth and seventh centuries, the forces of Islam conquered a wide corridor across the world from India to Spain, and orange, tangerine, and lemon trees today mark the track of the Muslim armies.

After Moorish capitals had been established in Andalusia, desert artisans and architects, delirious in the presence of water, filled and surrounded their buildings with pools, cascades, and fountains, planting a small grove of oranges in the Great Mosque of Cordova and oranges and lemons in the interior courts of the Alhambra in Granada.

One curious footnote to the rise of Islam developed in Italy in the eleventh century. A group of Norman pilgrims, on their way home from the Holy Land, came upon a band of warrior Muslims who were about to destroy the person and possessions of a Christian prince of Salerno. The Normans saved the prince and drove the Muslims away. Fearful of further attacks, the prince, like the Byzantine governor of Rome nearly five hundred years before him, sent an embassy with the pilgrims to the Duke of Normandy, accompanied by a mountainous gift of beautiful oranges, frankly tempting the Duke to conquer southern Italy— which he did, taking Sicily, too. The Norman conquest of Sicily turned into something of a scandal. Norman minds dissolved in the vapors of Muslim culture.

Austere knights of Honfleur and Bayeux suddenly appeared in the streets of Palermo wearing flowing desert robes, and attracted to themselves harems of staggering diversity, while the Church raged.

Norman pashas built their own alhambras. The Normans went Muslim with such remarkable style that even Muslim poets were soon praising the new Norman Xanadus. Of one such place, which included nine brooks and a small lake with an island covered with lemon and orange trees, the poet Abd ur-Rahman Ibn Mohammed Ibn Omar wrote: The oranges of the Island are like blazing fire Amongst the emerald boughs And the lemons are like the paleness of a lover Who has spent the night crying …

 

McPhee, John (2011-04-01). Oranges. Farrar, Straus and Giroux. Kindle Edition.

 

Citrus and Sicily and D.H. Lawrence

 

 

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D. H. Lawrence began the period of voluntary exile after WWI that he referred to as his ‘savage pilgrimage’, a journey that took him to Sicily between 1920 and 1922. In ‘Sun’, a short story set in his sexually charged version of the Sicilian landscape, he returns again and again to images of citrus trees and their fruit, making Juliet, the angry and frustrated American heroine, meander naked through a ‘dark underworld of lemons’, discovering freedom and sensuality for the first time in her life.

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Attlee, Helena (2015-01-05). The Land Where Lemons Grow: The Story of Italy and Its Citrus Fruit (Kindle Locations 56-59). Countryman Press. Kindle Edition.

Hans Christian Andersen sees Italy for the first time: “here is Paradise!”

 

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Hans Christian Andersen, the Danish author and poet best known for his fairytales, visited Italy in 1833, and when he saw citrus groves for the first time he responded with the mixture of rapture and envy that Italy can still provoke among visitors from colder and less romantic countries.  He wrote to a friend:

“Just imagine the beautiful ocean and entire forests

with oranges and lemons,

the ground was covered with them; mignonettes and gillyflowers

grew like weeds.

My God, my God!

How unfairly we are

treated in the north; here, here is Paradise.”

Attlee, Helena (2015-01-05). The Land Where Lemons Grow: The Story of Italy and Its Citrus Fruit (Kindle Locations 47-48). Countryman Press. Kindle Edition.

 

The Lemon Trees

The Lemon Trees

a poem by Eugenio Montale, published in 1925

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Hear me a moment. Laureate poets
seem to wander among plants
no one knows: boxwood, acanthus,
where nothing is alive to touch.
I prefer small streets that falter
into grassy ditches where a boy,
searching in the sinking puddles,
might capture a struggling eel.
The little path that winds down
along the slope plunges through cane-tufts
and opens suddenly into the orchard
among the moss-green trunks
of the lemon trees.

Perhaps it is better
if the jubilee of small birds
dies down, swallowed in the sky,
yet more real to one who listens,
the murmur of tender leaves
in a breathless, unmoving air.
The senses are graced with an odor
filled with the earth.
It is like rain in a troubled breast,
sweet as an air that arrives
too suddenly and vanishes.
A miracle is hushed; all passions
are swept aside. Even the poor
know that richness,
the fragrance of the lemon trees.

You realize that in silences
things yield and almost betray
their ultimate secrets.
At times, one half expects
to discover an error in Nature,
the still point of reality,
the missing link that will not hold,
the thread we cannot untangle
in order to get at the truth.

You look around. Your mind seeks,
makes harmonies, falls apart
in the perfume, expands
when the day wearies away.
There are silences in which one watches
in every fading human shadow
something divine let go.

The illusion wanes, and in time we return
to our noisy cities where the blue
appears only in fragments
high up among the towering shapes.
Then rain leaching the earth.
Tedious, winter burdens the roofs,
and light is a miser, the soul bitter.
Yet, one day through an open gate,
among the green luxuriance of a yard,
the yellow lemons fire
and the heart melts,
and golden songs pour
into the breast
from the raised cornets of the sun.

Florence, where the women are all beautiful and the men are noble, chivalrous, agreeable and wise.

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The Florentine writer, Boccaccio, captured the way the populations of Italian city-states viewed one another on a personal level. In his Decameron, Boccacio disparaged citizens of nearly all Italian cities except his own–Florence–and Bologna.

For example, he calls the Sienese credulous and the Venetians untrustworthy, Pisan women are ugly and Perugian men are sodomites, in the Marches the males are uncouth and mean-hearted, like those from Pistoia, who are also rogues.

The south contributes its share of wickedness with assassins from Sicily and thieves and grave-robbers from Naples, but no people rival the ‘rapacious and money-grubbing’ Genoese, who are depicted as pirates, misers and murderers.

Boccaccio’s happy fornicators and shameless adulterers come from all over Italy, but the only consistently good people live in Florence, where the women are all beautiful and the men are noble, chivalrous, agreeable and wise.

Medieval Italians talked of their city as if it were a kind of paradise, its life regulated by sublime statutes framed by lawyers at the new University of Bologna. They were proud of its appearance, especially as culture was then chiefly civic and communal; the great age of individual patronage, both noble and ecclesiastic, came later. Entire populations would turn out with trumpets and pipes to celebrate an artistic event, as the people of Siena did in 1311 when they escorted Duccio’s Maestà from the painter’s workshop outside the city through the gate in the walls and up to the cathedral.

Since things were constructed in their name – and not, as later, in that of the Medici in Florence or the Gonzaga in Mantua – they could take a proprietorial interest in the paving of streets, the laying out of squares, the building of stone bridges.

Nine centuries after their emergence, the city-states remain embedded in Italy’s psyche, the crucial component of its people’s identity and of their social and cultural inheritance. Modern inhabitants of these cities are still proud of their heritage and feel responsibility for its retention. That is why the town centres – though not unfortunately much of the country outside them – are so well preserved today.

Gilmour, David (2011-10-25). The Pursuit of Italy: A History of a Land, Its Regions, and Their Peoples (Kindle Locations 1262-1271) and (Kindle Locations 1250-1256). Farrar, Straus and Giroux. Kindle Edition.

…In the hierarchy of Florentine guilds of the period the most influential were those of judges, bankers, doctors, dealers in silk, traders in wool and furriers, who were much in demand in winter because pelts were cheaper than cloth. Florence’s Arte dei medici e speziali, which included doctors, surgeons, dentists and opticians, had over a thousand members: after passing their exams doctors had to promise to refrain from taverns and brothels and in return they were rewarded by the city with a horse, an attendant and exemption from paying taxes.  Surviving Florentine guildhalls, such as those of the silk makers and the wool merchants, are among the city’s loveliest buildings.

Gilmour, David (2011-10-25). The Pursuit of Italy: A History of a Land, Its Regions, and Their Peoples (Kindle Locations 1313-1319). Farrar, Straus and Giroux. Kindle Edition.