In my early teens, in high school, I came across a most beautiful piece of music. It was Peter Tchaikovsky’s symphonic poem “Francesca da Rimini: Symphonic Fantasy after Dante, Op.32.”
Wikipedia describes the tragic tale of Francesca da Rimini thus:
“In this fantasia, Tchaikovsky presents a symphonic interpretation of the tragic tale of Francesca da Rimini, a beauty who was immortalized in Dante's Divine Comedy. In the fifth canto of Inferno, Dante the narrator meets the shade of Francesca da Rimini, a noblewoman who fell in love with the brother of her ugly husband. After the lovers were discovered and killed in revenge by the husband, they were condemned to Hell for their adulterous passions. In their damnation, the lovers are trapped in a violent storm but separated from each other,
never to touch again. They are tormented most of all by the ineradicable memory of the joys and pleasures of the embraces they once shared.” (my italics = J&E?)
It’s perhaps worth taking 25 minutes out of your busy day to listen to this beautiful piece of music by Peter Tchaikovsky, one of my own most admired, truly inspirational, gay heroes.
Peter Tchaikovsky: Francesca da Rimini Symphonic Fantasy after Dante Op 32, Part 1:
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Peter Tchaikovsky: Francesca da Rimini Symphonic Fantasy after Dante Op 32, Part 2:
Peter Tchaikovsky: Francesca da Rimini Symphonic Fantasy after Dante Op 32, Part 3:
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At the risk of appearing trite in the face of Tchaikovsky’s soaring genius and Francesca’s grim despair, my contribution to the tragic tale of Dante’s star-crossed, tragic lovers was to produce this humble gouache. I was 16 and experiencing a terrible despair of my own at the time. I had a major crush on one of the physical education teachers at school. I gave my painting the legitimate title of “Francesca da Rimini,” depicting, as it appears, the hand of Francesca descending into the Inferno. But I have a confession to make. That’s not the
real subject of this painting. It was, in fact, painted on the day of my beloved teacher’s wedding. The hand being drawn down into the Stygian Pit is actually that of his bride. Thus was the intensity of my adolescent despair on that fateful day in 1966.
Not many of my paintings survived my youth. Most were destroyed by me years ago. I’m quite ruthless about destroying paintings I deem to be unworthy of survival. Having said that, however, I’ve not been able to bring myself to relegate this one to the flames.
