Following the Marble
By: M. H. Rubin
Tags: Italy, Travel, Photography, Art, Marble Statues

The Train to Carrara (Rubin, 2015)

Since I had only one day for this, I set off early on the first train, scheduled to arrive before 7am. It was only an hour ride; I watched the mountains race by from the train window, and soon I noticed what looked like snowy peaks in the distance. As we approached I realized it wasn’t snow, but marble. Mountains where the surface had been scraped away to reveal pure white.

I got off at the appropriate trainstop for Carrara, but apparently that isn’t exactly Carrara, and it dawned on me that a little planning would have been wise. There were no taxis at the hour, but it didn’t seem that far to town so I set off walking up the long boulevard; just me and my camera and a few batteries and some cash. Then I saw a bus, and while I didn’t know where it was going, it seemed to be going in the right direction; with map in hand I planned to jump off when it veered somewhere I didn’t want to be. The end of the line was a hotel in the north end of town, and getting off there still didn’t make me feel like I was closer to my objective.

Apparently the quarries aren’t in Carrara. The quarries are scattered around in the mountains above town: little villages of stone workers where the men had been working the stone for generations. But I looked at the map and identified a route that lead from where I was to what looked like a quarry and I just started walking up the road: yet another of my ill-conceived ideas. It was a treacherously narrow road — small cars squealed around the turns and large trucks barreled down at unstoppable speeds. An hour later and bathed in sweat I did something I had never done: I stuck out my thumb.

The guy who finally stopped said something in Italian, I smiled and said “quarry?” and he gestured I get in. He was talkative, chain smoking, and I decided not to complain. I’m not sure he ever realized I didn’t understand him, he just kept chatting until we got to the top of the mountain where he dropped me off, waved distractedly, and forked away.

Still early, it was a short walk to the quarry fence and open gate. Enormous chunks of broken marble littered the sides of the road and the area was clearly marked with “no trespassing” signs. I took as many photos as I could from the open gate and nearby hill, but it was unsatisfying. Below me I could see blocks of white marble the size of pickup trucks, neatly arranged. I walked back up the hill and discovered a small house converted into a touristy marble shop. The yard was populated with every sort of carved icon — Jesus, David, crosses, pyramids, dolphins, and oversized chess pieces. It wasn’t open, but a friendly woman behind a counter flagged me in. The inside was like the outside, with more white objects, only smaller.

Many Marble Marys (Rubin, 2015)

She said there were no tours here, but that she could call her son and he would show me around for $50.

Ivano arrived in a dusty jeep and I climbed in. After a few minutes his English was surprisingly understandable and we crawled higher into the mountain while he described what was around us and I explained my photographic objectives. At first he’d stop at scenic overlooks and was surprised I was uninterested in taking pictures. He said he had never shown anyone around who wanted to photograph the dump trucks tires and overhead wires. He found my selections ridiculously amusing.

Ivano not quite vertical (Rubin, 2015)

He told me that the quarries of Carrara are still very active, worked by about 1000 men, a job that has been in their families for ages. Originally, in Roman times, marble veins had to be leveraged where stones would naturally cleave apart with a chisel. He showed me some of the older areas where the Colosseum was mined with crude tools. This guy was attentive and he generously stopped whenever I’d freak out from something I was seeing from the car. Moving on, we stopped to visit his friends on a high plateau and we talked to the men working a new area.

Break (Rubin, 2015)

They don’t chisel any more — the stone cutting process involves running a diamond-coated “rope” across the rock with little motors; over long periods of time it cuts rock apart. The blocks are pushed out of the way, and a different set of men walk among the 40-ton chunks and rate them for quality. Trucks race up and down the road delivering them and since they are paid by the number they deliver, they are always in a dangerous hurry. The white calcium carbonate powder that covers all surfaces is not particularly unhealthy to breath, but it makes the risk of snow-blindness among the workers something they protect against. It’s bright everywhere.

As I took photos I noticed that even in color, every picture was like a black-and-white photo. Most surfaces were geometric — flat or cubed—monochromatic, and high contrast. Temporary power lines ran across man-made canyons to run the diamond rope cutters. And everyone was very friendly to me, with Ivano by my side; his pals posed for photos and shouted pleasantries in broken English.

Gravity (Rubin, 2015)

Then we’d hop back in the jeep and take off again. The ups and downs in the area were so steep I braced against the door as he laughed. Ivano looked at me for a moment, judging my backbone, before grinning and gearing into a tunnel, just a little wider than the car, plunging us deep through the mountain. The other end was straight ahead but began as a point of light. I could feel the claustrophobia grip me, the gravity of the rock heavy on all sides. We stopped in an enormous wet dark cavern about half way through. It was like being under water.

The marble begins as 40-ton blocks, and the further they move down the mountain, the more they get cut up and graded. At each staging point the blocks are harvested of their organs, and continue moving farther away, each part used, like buffalo with the Sioux. (Rubin, 2015)

I returned to Riomaggiore by evening for a last dinner by the sea, and continued to Florence in the morning. Aside from the usual attractions, I was particularly interested in the marble sculptures and spent my last few days there, down the street from the Duomo.

Standing before the statue of David at the Accademia I had a new appreciation for the work. I had never realized how large it was. And I absolutely never realized how white and perfect. Marble, I had seen, is remarkably hard metamorphic rock. It’s almost inconceivable how this figure emerged from a block.

The stone was hauled down the mountain and to Florence in 1464 where a sculptor was commissioned for the project, but he rejected the marble as being too mangled and flawed; and rejected again in 1475 by another sculptor. The 14 foot block sat abandoned in the Duomo yard for another 25 years until 26 year old (but already famous) Michaelangelo got to it. He saw what they didn’t. It took him just over two years to carve it. It is a marvel.