Roman Women by Lucy Hopkins
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Crossing Condotti
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"The single word to describe all good things, whether they mean terrific, wonderful, marvellous, fantastic, satisfying, or well done, is bello/bella". Epstein
As I see it, Rome is a centre centred around aesthetics; around beauty and, in short, around femininity. The city simply adores, values and quite literally worships women. Images, shrines and statues of the Madonna are more prevalent than road signs - I see her gazing down at me from narrow back-street corners, with that Mona Lisa, mournful smile, when I find myself hopelessly lost and in need of a landmark or a helpful ‘Via...’ engraving.
The symbol of La Bella Donna Romana, complete with her Bella Figura, is Rome’s pride and joy, not that it particularly cares whether she is truly Roman. Blonde foreigners are equally applauded for their contribution to femininity and to the city’s soil. ‘She’ is a sweet-smelling, eye-catching, moving landmark. Traditionally, a Roman woman of ancient times was known as a ‘matrone’, a powerless domestic appliance, but she now removes her wedding ring, and herself from the sink as she sees fit and may even revel at playing una ragazza (a girl), or at least a high-maintenance bella, to her death.
The female form forms the basis of its modern and ancient culture, and, nowadays, even seems to override those patrimony and empirical, domineering connotations of Rome. Although Christianity has separated ‘surface glory’ from inner purity, modern Rome has reconnected the two; if you look fabulous, you are fabulous. Designer labels and hair-products actually epitomise you as a person, as you passeggiata down the catwalk street, Via dei Condotti, or any other street or stairwell for that matter. Indeed, the Italian interpretation of the expression La Bella Figura encompasses, not only a woman’s physique, but also her personality, behaviour, elegance and charisma.
Over the last century, Rome has gone back in time to its Etruscan mindset of the first millennium B.C., of the people eventually obliterated by the Romans. Putting yourself on the trail of historical cultural beauty, echoes of the modern Bella Figura can be seen in Museo Nazionale de Villa Giulia, Piazzale di Villa Giulia 9, +39 063226571, under 5 euros, closed Monday. Recovered from the ancient tombs are female tools such as perfume bottles, make-up and powder cases and hairbrushes, all used to reflect the beauty of their souls to the gods through the beauty of their groomed bodies, adding ‘spirituality’ to the list of ‘La Bella Figura’ attributes. La Bella Donna Romana on her Vespa does not have the latest Gucci sunglasses practically tattooed on her face or head ‘for the gods’, but, instead, to prove as satisfactory ‘eye-candy’ for the men, as well as other women, around her (who, I suppose, do often consider themselves godlike).
La Bella Donna Romana abounds. Her ‘literal’ bella figura is obvious to admiring onlookers and enhanced by immaculately tailored outfits and clearly immune to bufala mozzarella. She alights from her spearmint-green Vespa, licks her pearl-frosted lips that show-off her tan, removes her helmet with a flourish of perfectly practised seduction and slowly shakes out her polished, extortionately-paid-for mane. For Epstein has put into words the precise, unspoken, Romana rule: "Make yourself beautiful. Use clothes, makeup, jewellery, accessories, whatever you can, to accentuate your beauty, your femininity." The Romana takes this instruction as gospel, never popping out to buy loo-roll wearing anything in which she could not host a small dinner party or a lunch-time spaghettata, never wearing anything resembling t-shirts or trainers that so ear-mark the American tourists and never going a week without a facial, a manicure or even a winter arm wax. She is rewarded for this hardship (which she sees as essential, run-of-the-mill maintenance) by the approving ‘sguardi’ (glances) from onlookers...
In Rome, as in most of Italy, being followed by the eyes of a stranger is not a tedious threat but the ultimate compliment, a rewarding, invigorating ritual. If men did not drool at her over their taken-standing espressi, then that morning’s two hours of intensive hair treatment, colour-coordination and epilation (to which Romane add a deplorable ‘d’, forming ‘depilazione’, highlighting the highly deplorable nature of unwanted body- not armpit, unfortunately- hair) would be wasted time she could have spent at the flower market. Competing with other girls for the ‘sguardi’ of men (of which there are plenty to go around), she also must impress and supersede her peers. It is of great personal importance, even more so than the cooking time of her penne al pesto, of which, may I add, I have never witnessed a Bella Donna Romana eating more than 40-50 grams at once, that she does not appear ‘fuori stagione’ (back-of-a-bus-and-so-last-season) as opposed to ‘a stagione’ (cat-walk-cutting-edge-couture), a concept with which even the men of Rome are familiar.
In London, the male reaction to an attractive, well turned-out passer-by is often one of threatening, crude comments, wolf-whistles and well-timed moonies, received by an offended quickening of pace, hair standing on end and a disgusted shrivel of the nose. In Paris, the reaction could be a playful or painful pinch of the bottom or breast, a melodramatic marriage proposal or an unexpected, violent, violating kiss, the reception: a shocked bewilderment and frustrated fury. Down in Rome, the reaction is in itself applaudable; it is one of polite dinner invitations, applause, sincere flattery, complimentary gazes and congratulations (often in the direction of the pretty female party’s absent mother). It is the reason why Italian women feel so comparatively safe and secure around strange men. The reception is one of knowing gratitude, kind acknowledgement and perhaps an extra hair-flick deliberately in ‘his’ direction.
It is all about the game, the two-sided, ego-boosting, mutually appreciative game in which Romani and Romane, single and married alike relish. The board is the city, the competition is rife, the dice are the motorini, the playing pieces include telefonini & sunglasses (both of which exacerbate their air of inaccessibility), eye-liner, Gucci and hair-extentions, the ‘finish’ is the applause and ‘complimenti’ and everyone is the winner.
Unlike in Paris, where ‘chic’ is certainly not ‘showy’, the cleavage and the leg rattle Rome and Rome rotates around them. Lingerie shops are more prevalent than post offices and the fashion advertisements on billboards use bared beauty as a reiterated selling point with which they provocatively punctuate the city. But the Romans do not gawp and crash their cars upon seeing cleavage, thigh or nipple, neither in print nor in ‘passeggiata’ing flesh. A stunning girl is ‘bella’, her body is ‘bella’, her Roman location ‘bellissima’. She is rarely a target for harassment, unwelcome remarks or conversation, rape, pinching or even touching. She is a Madonna to be admired, whether they are lost in the back-streets or not. How many Englishmen would dismiss a girl after a glance, whispering to his friend that her clothes are ‘last season’? For most Roman men, the images are a welcome reminder of the potential perfection of the female body, a tantalising yet ‘terraferma’ symbol of culture, of beauty and of their city and country.