The drawing Il Duomo rests in my art box wrapped carefully in brown paper. It is a small yet profound piece of art. Its sepia tones and deliberate lines capture the majesty of the dome and the surrounding buildings, as seen from the Belvedere. It’s not polished like a gallery masterpiece, but that’s part of its charm. It was a gift from my brother, who chose it knowing my love for Thomas Harris and the haunting brilliance of Hannibal Lecter. “That is the Duomo seen from the Belvedere. Do you know Florence?” Hannibal’s words resonate as I look at this piece. And through it, I feel as though I do after a fashion.
What makes this drawing extraordinary is not just its subject or its personal significance to me but the tradition it represents. The artist who created this piece likely sat on the streets of Florence, capturing the city’s grandeur for passersby. Their work reflects the rich history of street artists—those who bring art out of galleries and into the heart of urban life. Street art has always been about accessibility, about meeting people where they are, whether through a quick sketch, a mural on a wall, or a wheat-pasted poster in an alley. This drawing belongs to that lineage, blending the artist’s skill with the spirit of the city itself.
Florence has always been a muse for artists. Its architecture, its light, its sense of timelessness make it an irresistible subject. The Duomo, with its iconic dome designed by Brunelleschi, dominates the skyline and embodies the city’s Renaissance ingenuity. In Thomas Harris’s world, Florence becomes more than a city—it’s an extension of Hannibal Lecter’s character. Its beauty and history mirror his own cultured elegance, while its hidden corners and violent past reflect his darker, more brutal side. This drawing, in its simplicity, brings both the city and those literary connections to life for me.
When my brother gave me this drawing, he didn’t just give me a piece of Florence; he gave me something that ties together so many threads of meaning. It’s a reminder of how art, when chosen thoughtfully, becomes a shared language. My brother knew my love for Hannibal and my fascination with Florence, and this drawing speaks to both. It also reminds me of the power of small gestures to create lasting connections. The art itself is modest, but the thought behind the gift makes it immeasurable.
As I study the drawing, I think about the artist who created it. Perhaps they sat on a quiet street, sketching the skyline for hours, or perhaps they worked quickly to sell their work to tourists. Either way, their art isn’t just a depiction of the Duomo—it’s a piece of their experience, their observation of Florence on that particular day. Street artists have always been chroniclers of the present, capturing the essence of a place in a way that feels immediate and alive. Their work democratizes art, making it available to anyone willing to pause and look. In this way, they connect us not just to places but to moments.
This drawing has become more than just an image on my wall. It’s a bridge—to Florence, to my love for Thomas Harris’s work, to the tradition of street artists, and to my relationship with my brother. When Hannibal asks, “Do you know Florence?” I think of the layers of meaning in this small piece of art and how it answers that question for me. Through this drawing, I feel as though I do know Florence—not just as a city, but as an idea, a tradition, and a story told through the hands of an artist.