"I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free."-Michelangelo

This world disarms you a little. You stare out, child-like, across the glittering horizon, naked eyes unshaded by your redundant arms...subito, a Vespa slashes in front of you, missing you by a hair-width. Only the weak and unguarded can get so lost in things. But this world is deserving of such a surrender. I decide that I will relinquish my own autonomy to flow free and unencumbered with the river. I will bow my head towards it, along with the mis-matched shapes of the buildings, assorted and varied, mere reflections submerged beneath the water.

Jagged, hand-cut faded arches of stone frame the murky soup of the Arno in a quasi-symmetry. The riverbank like the surplus crust of dough; unflavoured, limp scraps of land, unheeded within this city where beauty meets beauty at every corner, raw material that is tapped away to un-sheath perfection.

The long stretch of the river runs smooth, sets the languid pace of the city. Once or twice I walked to the end of the river- the edge of this world- and discovered the rushing whirlpool of a dam, snapping like teeth at anyone who might try to leave. By evening, the Vespas swarm, a tyranny, the virile youth's antidote to the wading-pace of the city. They fuel themselves often, expresso-pace, match the heartthrob of the discoteca at night, bolting through them, the impulse that cannot stop, will not cease, the mating call that will resonate through the world at a certain hour catching them unawares, relentless.

The alabaster statues guard over the city at night, a jutting arm with the strength of God pointing you home as you drift in a drunken stupor. You cross the lamp-lit stone piazzas, cross under the widening arches, into narrowing tributary streets with irregular paving and water-logged cracks. Where you do not fear to stumble, amidst the glow of laughter and life, welcome noise which will cradle and comfort a stammering soul. The vital force of the river permeates the very streets, pulsing beneath feet, propelling you on and on, "the mighty heart".

We haven't much time. A severed head of snakes hangs overhead. In the name of Justice, a warning. Long ago, someone swept a little beauty from these streets, and caged it in the galleries, like wild birds in cellophane. Beauty is cat-called and Christened in the streets: "Belissima!". The blood runs thick.

A chain hangs heavy alongside the bridge, a cluster of padlocks, one for every love affair; a bicycle lock for eternal love. The locks are not shed like the lost leaves of love (truthfully, there are those who never let go). But many of those lovers who once strolled alongside the river have since parted hands; the padlocks, in all their steadfastness, thus come to proclaim the mislaid yet enduring ideal of "love", that we search for at the centre of the rubble.

And thus the Uffizi, the realm of the ideals, mocks us. Perfectly and symmetrically portrayed within the infinite gallery is that which we scurry, snatch and grope for in vain. Even in this city of God, we cannot find it. It is an ideal imprisoned in the galleries behind a glass, or sunken in the murky waters of our minds: that which we yearn for in our beds at night, lonely even here in the spotlight of God.

The river pulses still through the city, through us, through every crevice, unsteadying our hands and unsettling our minds, at odds with perfection. This, the smouldering volcano of our humanity. The waves and curves of our animal-bodies, wild and untameable as the tremulous sea, only ever caressed and wrenched into perfection with the celestial touch of the artist's hand.

Flawlessness alone is not enough; il pittore senza errore was yet not perfect, and it frustrated him. A vision without flaws is no vision at all without the incensing light of God. The light you see sparkling along the length of the river, the glassy vivacity, the trembling uneven shadows, bowing, inclined in a motion towards the heavens. The mystery that you sense but cannot quite grasp as you are splayed on the side of a bridge and you see the sky wink through an arch just ahead of you. The solemn vigil where you are alone, unaware of the ant-people around you.

You leave the bridge, your back to the river, and you enter the gallery. Glory, glory! Each painter's subjects congregate in their praise. The Venetian colours, fluids of sunlight, oh miraculous! An anonymous figure stares out at you, compels your attention from the painting, "within and without", with an expression that mirrors your own wonder and uncertainty. You are locked in her earnest gaze and it haunts you long afterwards. But not so much as the gaping mouths of Pontorno, the faces with contorted skin and tense, anguished brows, like those turned to salt in Sodom: "The Horror!"