Skip to main content

Brunelleschi’s Dome

"I have a book here," said my friend Alister Peridot as we relaxed by the evening fire, "which I think, Adamas, that we simply must pursue." Peridot paused to take a sip of his wine. We had made our way to Peridot’s study at his Los Angeles home and were seated in the leather chairs in front of the cozy fireplace.

"When you say pursue - what exactly do you mean monsieur?” I asked.

“Recently, I have been fascinated by the birth of the Renaissance. Many identify that period with Leonardo da Vinci; however, this small book has convinced me that another genius 100 years before da Vinci had already made staggering contributions to mathematics, architecture, and pure reason. Listen to this."

“On August 19, 1418, a competition was announced in Florence, where the city’s magnificent new cathedral, Santa Maria del Fiore, had been under construction for more than a century:"

"Whoever desires to make any model or design for the vaulting of the main dome of the cathedral under construction by the Opera de Duomo- for armature, scaffold or other thing, or any lifting device pertaining to the construction and perfection of said cupola or vault - shall do so before the end of the month of September. If the model be used he shall be entitled to a payment of 200 gold Florins."

Peridot flipped the cover to show me the book he was reading, Brunelleschi’s Dome—How a Renaissance Genius Reinvented Architecture.

In his best professor's voice, he continued, “It seems Filippo Brunelleschi was an artist, sculptor, and architect. His colleagues dubbed him Pippo because of his small stature, but his ideas were far from small. He is most famous for the daring and original design behind this project, the Cupola, for the cathedral in Florence.”

“Have you ever visited Florence Bontemps?”

The very next day, we were on a flight to Italy . . .

In his retirement, my friend Alister Peridot was rather impetuous. His never-ending curiosity was that of a child, always ready to embark on one more adventure. Little did I know there was another motive for our trip to Florence!

We settled into our first-class accommodations. While swirling his vintage Bordeaux, Peridot began, “The managing director of the Uffizi Gallery, a former student of mine, has alerted me that a man resembling Dee Davies was spotted roaming the galleries. He has left a stone with the curator.

“My dear Alister, it’s not a crime to visit a celebrated museum like the Uffizi; I understand thousands visit daily.”

“Absolutely, my boy; however, an interesting aside recently, the 122-carat Peridot from St. John’s Island is on loan from the Natural History Museum in Los Angeles. Dr. Kampf, the Hall of Gems and Minerals curator, informed me, knowing my predisposition towards the gem - to maintain a watchful eye. I suspect this is a thespian attempt by Davies to get my attention. Also, a holiday in Florence will allow us to take in the architectural sights, history, sounds, and smells and sample the city's cuisine. I’m very curious to see Brunelleschi’s Dome.”

It was an early morning spring day in Tuscany. The sky was pale blue, the sun golden, and fluffy white clouds dotting the horizon. The air was warm yet fresh. We were standing outside the cathedral, Santa Maria del Fiore. The dome was gigantic, with eight white marble rims arching impossibly towards heaven. Eight massive sections of masonry faced with red terracotta tile topped an elegant marble lantern against the pale blue Tuscan sky.

With a slight tip of his head, a wink of an eye, and a grin, Peridot remarked, “Here we are, my boy. Let us see firsthand what the power of human ingenuity from the 15th century was able to accomplish.”

We entered the cathedral and reached the central rotunda beneath the massive dome. Neither of us spoke, words could not describe the flood of emotion. Suspended in time, beneath this enormous structure, complete silence.

With a hushed involuntary “Ca alors! Alister, can you believe this” - the scene overwhelmed me.

In a whispered voice, “Indeed, Bontemps! Gothic Cathedrals, by contrast, towered to the heavens with soaring vertical lines, dwarfing its occupants. However, this Cupola envelopes its guests with warmth, cradled by a divine power."

I turned to my friend, “Pippo, you say, because of his small stature, it doesn’t really seem to fit the scale of this accomplishment, does it?”

We found a seat, and time simply slipped away as we quietly talked beneath the warmth of this magnificent work of art. 

"Tonight we will settle in for the evening, said Peridot, tomorrow we will make our way to the Uffizi Gallery to examine this mystery stone received by the curator."

. . . To be continued.

(Stories in chronological order, click here.)

Comments

Most Popular of All Time

A B+ Kind of Life

Welcome back to this week's On the Fly . Retirement has taught me something unexpected: life gets a lot more enjoyable when you stop chasing perfection. Lately, I've been having an absolute blast playing executive par-3 courses like Rancho Carlsbad . A short iron, a sunny morning, and nowhere to be except the next tee—that's my kind of day. This Thursday, though, I'm raising the stakes. I'm heading to The Links at Lakehouse in San Marcos, a full-size par-71 course with enough water hazards to keep the local fish well-stocked with my golf balls. After shooting a 64 on a par-3 course, I've set myself a new goal: shoot an 89 before my birthday next August. Why 89? Because on a par-71 course, that's bogey golf—one extra stroke per hole. For non-golfers, think of it this way: par is like earning 100% on a final exam. Bogey golf is a solid B+. You got the job done, learned something, and probably had a lot more fun getting there. The older I get, the more I appre...

Resurrecting the '90s Graphite

Let’s face it, there’s a certain danger in reading John Gierach's Trout Bum . His wit, self-deprecation, and sharp, effortless satire are entirely infectious. If you aren't careful, his words will inspire you to drop everything, wade into a freezing river, and try to outsmart a creature with a brain the size of a lentil. In my case, re-reading Gierach recently didn't send me straight to the river. It sent me digging through the dusty, spider-guarded corners of my garage. In the early 1990s, seeking a natural escape from Manhattan's concrete canyons, I decided to learn to cast a fly rod. I bought an Orvis Rocky Mountain —eight-and-a-half feet, three ounces, built for a five-weight line—and had absolutely no idea how to use it. To avoid aimlessly whipping the water like scrambling eggs, I took fly-fishing lessons from Al Cucci, co-author of Hatches , on the Delaware River. With his guidance, I fished renowned waters: the AuSable in New York and Michigan, and New Jersey...

Morning Coffee

In this episode, Morning Coffee . . . Now, I’m not saying everyone needs coffee. Some folks get by just fine on, I don’t know, sunlight and positive thinking. Me? I’m pretty sure I started drinking the stuff sometime around the Reagan administration. Reading John Gierach’s "Ode to Campfire Coffee" in Trout Bum (a book that should be required reading for anyone who sees sleeping on the ground as recreation) got me thinking about how we’ve managed to complicate something as fundamentally simple as boiling water and adding grounds. Taste, you say? Look, black coffee is an acquired taste, like tequila or cilantro. I just don’t get it. Gierach, bless his heart, mostly drinks his java streamside, probably while wearing wool socks and waders and contemplating the mysteries of the universe. As for me? My outdoor coffee experience is a bit different. Picture this: the High Sierra, where campfires are banned (to avoid agitating Smoky Bear), and I’m huddled over a Whisperlite , coax...

A Tucson Typewriter Tale

One of the great joys of wandering without much of a plan is that the universe occasionally rewards your lack of organization. During my recent visit to Tucson, AZ, Robert and I were strolling through the Annex this afternoon, doing what tourists and newly minted retirees like me have elevated to an Olympic sport: meandering. The Annex is one of those places where every few steps there's another handmade candle, artisan coffee, or vintage object someone rescued from a garage sale and convinced the rest of us was always destined to become art. Then I saw something that genuinely stopped me. A young woman standing quietly behind a manual typewriter. Not a laptop designed to look like a typewriter. Not a quirky Bluetooth keyboard. An honest-to-goodness mechanical typewriter—the sort of machine that once announced every sentence to the entire office with a satisfying clack and enough force to wake nearby pigeons. With an iPhone 16 sitting in my pocket in an age when people write novels...