What does freedom mean to you?
Hi, everyone-
This week, many in America are celebrating Independence Day. This means freedom, fireworks, so-so burgers, soggy fries, and maybe occasionally, a bit of time outside on the water.
I’ve always loved fireworks.
But I never realized how much until Elton John’s Rocket Man was playing in the background, and million dollar fireworks launched up in the air. And, instead of exploding all at once, they rained down like drops of water.
Except this time, these firework drops over still water, which reflects the spectacle all the better …
Signaling that freeing fireworks into the atmosphere, means that what it paints on the sky, will never be independent of what the water below reflects.
And few understood this better than German banker, Hugo Andreae. The year just turned 1900. Remember when it turned to year 2000? Somehow, the roundedness of that year made me feel like I can punch through time and conquer the sky.
Hugo must’ve felt this somewhat. A round numbered year, a prolific career, a stash of cash, his lovely wife, Emma, and a family name after one of the most heralded saints in the Catholic church: Saint Andrew.
So, feeling the freedom of independence that a historic year, money, and love all can give—Hugo commissioned the building of a church for Saint Andrew: Chiesa di Sant’ Andrea.
The place sits atop a small hill, overlooking the turquoise blue Capri sea in Italy.
Today it stands as a small white building …
… with four steps leading up to a small single-door, leading to a humble sanctuary with no more than twenty chairs.
Straight ahead: A painting of Saint Andrew—arms and legs stretched in his iconic X-cross stance—the inspiration for Scotland’s very own Crux decussata (the X-shaped cross that Saint Andrew supposedly requested for his death. It was told that he did not want to equate himself with the T-shaped cross of his teacher).
Chiesa di Sant’ Andrea couldn’t have been more than 250 square feet (23 square meters), based on satellite imaging.
Just shy of a standard mid-range modern hotel room.
Regardless, the setting was perfect for Hugo.
This place epitomizes freedom for the German banker. Banking is hard work, very much dependent on the speed of commerce, the rush of the market, and the sweaty smell of stress and success altogether. The elevated location of the church, is like ocean air after city bustle.
It’s independence.
Beyond this, the place also cemented his faith to the church. Especially once he decided to commission the painting of Saint Andrew to Italian paint-slinger, Ricardo Fainardi.
After all, who better to capture the simple spirit of Saint Andrew’s awareness and humility than the locally aware Ricardo?
So Ricardo got to work. Hugo felt good.
He must’ve felt like he just released a million dollar fireworks himself. And his wife Emma, felt good, too … when, in between check-ups of Ricardo’s work, while Hugo went in and out of the newly built sanctuary atop the hill by the sea—Ricardo bedded Emma.
Except there was no bed.
There was only bedrock, the smell of fresh paint, the sea crashing against the coastline, and now, the sound of Emma and Ricardo both mutilating and worshiping the real meaning of the X-shaped cross—sprawled, likely X-shaped somewhere on the floor, against the wall, along the spiral staircase—while the half-done painting of Saint Andrew watched above. Judging, maybe. But mostly challenging the affair with a hinted look—that only art can ever hint to onlookers:
You should’ve crossed me off first, before uncrossing each others’ legs.
It may have been a pilgrimage for Emma. She had the man. She had the marriage. And the millions. All in a monastic package. Now, she’s searching for meaning.
And art seems like the flawless medium for this search. And perhaps in her mind: Who better for this than the artist? His presence will at least keep the cliffside night chill warmer and the noon heat shadowed.
When Hugo found out, he was crushed.
No, crucified.
Here he was, about to finish a passion project that’s supposed to epitomize everything—faith, fortune, and fancy.
So how come it just felt like Fear?
What was he to do? The building was done at that point. The painting: brush-stricken. The view: spectacular. Saint Andrew: still standing.
How do you pay the man who slinged your wife when he should’ve just stuck to his paint brush? Somewhere in the process, this must’ve made Hugo felt aware—very much aware—that maybe he doesn’t deserve the job of building this church after all.
Crossed though he might’ve been, conflicted and upside down his world might’ve been now, he did the only thing he could: he left the coast with Emma. Back to Germany. Back to banking. Back to the dependency of inland life.
Maybe independence and freedom are just like fireworks and its water reflection. They look the same. Except one is real. The other is just perception.
That same year, Hugo Andreae died.
Whether it was shock, a broken heart, loss of faith, suicide, or loss of appetite toward fortune—no one really knew. Andreae accomplished everything and lost everything.
Almost as quickly as fireworks would.
How did a painter, with little money, and near no time with my wife took it all?
How did my beloved wife …? Just—how?
Is that why Saint Andrew is always pictured with face tilted up? It wasn’t just heaven-bound, was it? He was looking away from whatever unravels in front.
But how did Saint Andrew, watch silently on the sidelines—while I gave everything, my money, my time, my life’s work, and now my wife to the cause?
Emma, who now inherited the Hugo’s villa, married the painter and lived there with him. But the memory of what she did, where she did it, when she did it, and the saint who watched her did it—got to her.
They moved out.
And so the little white chapel sat atop a hill overlooking the blue sea still. Unmoving. Unrelenting of their X-marks-the-spot position. The position that stood very much for what it stood for:
The world, and even world-builders who may do what they may. But the X-cross of Saint Andrew is the silent fireworks on water that somehow got one thing across:
Let no man, woman, or any cross thereof, buy, build, and bed their way to independence.
Because freedom is for those who understand worth. Not its reflection.
-Thalia
PS:
If my writing on freedom and independence has lightened your day somewhat, I hope you’d consider becoming a supporter of the premium subscription. I can’t say this enough: It means a lot.
-Thalia
This is a very sad story, Thalia. It reminds me of what happened when Gustav Mahler’s wife Alma had an affair with Bauhaus architect Walter Gropius in 1910. Although he sought help from Sigmund Freud and eventually got Alma back, Mahler became seriously ill and died in May 1911. When the heart is sick, the body gets sick too. Was Mahler crushed—or crucified—by his wife’s affair?
I’ve heard it said that sexual infidelity is an act of violence. Your story reminds me that sometimes independence is only won by violence. But you wisely observe that such acts are always followed by consequences.
I’ll be thinking of this story for a while. Thanks for writing it. I didn’t know of Hugo and Emma till now.
Many parallels to the myth of Narcissus.
Themes of vanity, ego and our human capacity for ignorance of consequences and our capacity to inflict pain on others are all here.
There is little doubt of the good intentions in building a small white building on a cliff but is the intention a misplaced loftiness?
I find your illustration of temperature swings in buildings at different elevations a very interesting illustration in this story of the symbolic instability between sky and the trickery of water where the failings of human judgement ripple.
Another masterful piece Thalia!
And…your illustrations are a wonderful signature to your work.