What Happened to the Renaissance man?

Studying abroad in Italy this summer, I was caught in-between recognizing my own identity as a tourist and hating the influence of American culture on the rest of the world. When my family visited me, I guided them through Florence’s winding cobblestone roads with the self-assured confidence of a study-abroad student who thinks that living somewhere for 10 weeks is close enough to being a local. In my white button-down and long, flowing pants, I showed them the secret sparkling water fountains and the best non-crowded museums that still held Michelangelo’s and Donatello’s and Verrochio’s works. 

Beyond it being the home of prominent Renaissance artists like Da Vinci and Botticelli and Brunelleschi, the art and detail of Florence extended into the architecture, streets, and conversations. It felt freeing being in a place where design and history were so highly valued, to the point that they quite literally made up the infrastructure of the city; it’s difficult to find a street that doesn’t have a beautiful gargoyle or intricate door handle or a building from at least the 17th century. 

While I found myself to be an energetic tour guide and a captivated flaneur, my conflicting identity still troubled me. I enjoyed the paintings and sculptures and opera performances, but I realized that it had been a while since I’d made art out of passion myself. Throughout college, I hadn’t kept a personal sketchbook or drawn something that was for fun rather than for a school project. What inspired me about the values of Florence weren’t fully reflected by my own relationship to and practices with art. 

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