Connections/Indulgence

My name is Giovanna Assenso-Termini. I'm a lecturer here at the museum, and I want to talk about "Indulgence."

An indulgence implies some sort of struggle: sort of, "Should I? Mmm, no, maybe I shouldn't" type of thing. I was raised Catholic, so my line comes with your seven deadly sins.

An indulgence doesn't go to an excess or an extreme. You're still sentient, you're still conscious. That idea of, "It's good, but maybe it's not good for me."

An indulgence involves my senses exalted. To be sated rather than full. To be touched

on the surface of your skin, but then also on the inside of your body.

Food. Overindulging in food. There were these monumental meals that would take place in my family. My father would cook them. They would involve antipasti, beautiful plates of pasta

some fish, some vegetables, fruit, desserts, cookies, coffee, and then you weren't ready to leave, though. Then came the indulgence part of the evening. One of the hosts would say

"Let's have some spaghetti all'aglio e olio, 'na spaghettata aglioeolio." And somebody would make make some spaghetti fast. And everybody would say no they couldn't eat it

but everybody would take a couple of forkfuls and enjoy and the dinner would continue until late at night. And you'd wake up feeling like you had done a little too much eating, but you had enjoyed yourself fully.

An indulgence is about a spectacle, a visual pleasure, and what takes Heart of the Andes for me beyond just simply a pleasure, is imagining the experience of someone viewing it in 1859. You, first of all, needed to pay money, and you were ushered in by very small groups in front of this piece, which was lit by candles on either side and covered with a velvet drape, which would be rather dramatically removed for you when you were ready to gaze upon it.

If we go back to Catholic ideas, bodies are off-limits. Bodies are not always meant to be touched, if anything, they're meant to be covered.

So the clavicle in the Stieglitz, to me, speaks of the ability for flesh to take you to those places.

My everyday involves work and family and responsibilities, so an indulgence should not include any of those. I have so many memories of spending time at the beach growing up in Italy. And there was once, my father said, "Do you know what

il dolce far niente is?" It literally means, "the sweet do nothing." He said, "It's not to do nothing, it's to enjoy it." It could be laziness, but it shouldn't be. It's actively enjoying doing nothing.

This image was evocative of the beauty of a cup of coffee that you could extend. But there's something more in that it's this couple, and they're enjoying each other. His hat is off, he's sitting, he's staying. Il dolce far niente.

Artists indulge themselves. It's easy for me to imagine that when I look at this bust. I feel like it's my guilty pleasure. It has everything to do with his hair. Whoever

sculpted that, I think, must've had a really good time with this pinewood. It's a treat for your eyes. And I see that also in van Gogh

with his use of paint. It's beautiful, it's on its surface

you can see it gopped and gooped, and it's very easy to imagine the artist really loving what a medium can do, how it can transport you, how it can take you away.

There's this broadness of the spectrum of indulgence. It can take you to these heights of connection with people. It can also take you to some

dark places of infidelity, of a promise that you made through flesh.

Indulgence: it's about being as human as you can be. When you can take experience higher or

enjoy it more, that to me is the difference between a pleasure and an indulgence.

It's something that goes beyond.