If I had thought traveling from Charleston, South Carolina, to Spoleto, Italy, had been a culture shock, nothing could have prepared me for traveling from Spoleto to Florence. Upon first arriving in the birthplace of the Renaissance, I wandered the streets of Firenze starry-eyed with wonder. Street vendors on every corner, selling handmade leather bags, authentic cashmere scarves, and original, specially-crafted jewelry—all neighbored, of course, by dozens of pop-up stalls boasting the more typical tourist-trap merchandise. But amidst the throngs of people floating this way and that between centuries-old buildings, I began to notice a pattern in the merch stalls.
The “handmade” leather bags and belts all looked the same, from one crowded piazza to the next (and under the shady Mercato Centrale pavilion, there seemed to be dozens of these identical sops all lined up together like a labyrinth of rustic-smelling wallets); the “cashmere” shawls appeared a little too perfect, and each stall mirrored the same twenty patterns; the shiny necklaces, bracelets, and rings, too, were no more individual than the mass-produced, pre-packaged Firenze magnets at the souvenir stalls. I even spotted dozens of individuals selling the same ten-piece set of art prints, each poster laid out like an artificially-generated mosaic on the ground.
(I’d also heard rumors about a particular type of scam with these prints, where if a tourist happens to step on one, they get harassed into purchasing it. I didn’t know if this was true, but I watched my feet just in case.)
All the plastic souvenir miniatures of Michelangelo’s David may have been sealed in plastic wrap, but at least they were blatant and unashamed in their commercialization of Florentine history, art, and culture.
This mass-production of art may seem disheartening, but it’s really only one aspect of modern tourism’s impact on large, historical cities like Florence. In many ways, it is impossible to deny the dilution of Florence’s culture into an easily digestible aesthetic for tourists—especially non-Italian tourists. However, it’s also easy to see the creative spirit of Florence thriving in modern times, just as it did during the age of the Renaissance.
Around il Piazzale degli Uffizi and la Piazza del Duomo, independent artists line the curbs, easels proudly displaying a host of individual prints and paintings for sale. Oil pastels, watercolors, acrylics; landscapes, florals, portraits on old newspaper. By far the most common subject in these pieces are of the Florentine skyline, typically featuring the iconic dome of the Duomo or the sparkling waters beneath the Ponte Vecchio bridge.
On my personal quest to buy one of these prints for myself, I spent a good half hour drifting back and forth between different artists, all the while trying to keep a respectful distance in case I didn’t end up giving them any business.
But when a particular style of line or color would catch my eye, I indulged in taking a closer look. In my decision paralysis trying to decide between different pieces, I realized it might help to have the artist’s perspective, too; and so I asked one of the vendors what his favorite type to paint was.
The man glanced up at me from beneath the brim of his flat cap, his eyes glittering in the late morning sun. He said nothing of my indecisive loitering, only laughed and replied, “The hills of Tuscany. I can be freer with my painting and my colors; there aren’t so many straight lines like the city architecture. The ones of Florence are better souvenirs, but I like doing freehand of the hills the most.” Our conversation was short, but as I walked away from his station a few minutes later, I found myself wondering how often (or how rarely) he got asked about himself by any tourists.
I later asked another woman the same thing as I took my turn looking at her pieces, as well. (She had a little lipstick on her teeth, and I found myself drawn to the imperfection.) She told me her real passion was modern art—nude paintings, more abstract landscapes—and so she tries to work it into the more souvenir-oriented prints when she can.
Even the kitschy caricature artists are hard at work, perfecting their craft. One man is clearly a master of figure drawing, hands flashing with bits of charcoal or graphite across paper. The subject’s face comes into shape on his canvas like magic: first just a few lines, the angle of a chin and a jaw; a few quick strokes—that’s the hair; and as the charcoal scrapes flat across the page to imitate shading, the facial features are suddenly all right there in front of you. That kind of work takes an undeniable talent, regardless of the “significance” of the art itself.
At the end of the day, I can’t even blame the vendors at those duplicate shops, nor the people selling those fake art prints; everyone’s just trying to get by in this world, and if the easiest way for someone to earn money is by suckering American tourists into buying less-than-authentic souvenir merchandise, then I’m certainly in no position to critique them too harshly. (If anything, it’s the circumstances that force people to take up that kind of work that are most to blame.)
Art culture in Florence is still alive, and still thriving. The commercialization from the tourism industry has, according to some, changed Florence—and changed it for the worse. Regardless of what Florence was like twenty or thirty years ago, this is the Florence we know now: kitschy, touristy, but just as full of heart as it always was (even if a bit overpriced on the food).
A city contains numerous faces, and they don’t always have to clash. The Florence of old is still there—living on through the kind citizens and bold street artists, in the quaint, hole-in-the-wall shops and in the quieter residential districts and historic neighborhoods across the Arno River; and yes, even alongside the stage-production of sight-seeing and shopping. You just have to know where to look.
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