The Art of Provoking Thought

     In high school I avoided the art room like it was the plague.  I simply could not understand the allure of messy paints and listening to the history behind paintings that were hundreds of years old.  Now give me a pig to dissect, or an equation where I had to solve for X, and I was excited.  It is ironic that I now live in a city world famous for its art.  In many ways, since the Renaissance period Florence has stood still in time.  Many of the buildings have remained virtually unchanged for hundreds of years, and the work of the famed Renaissance artists continue to command the same spaces that they have since Florence was ruled by the Medici family.

     It was with hesitation that I agreed to go with friends this past weekend to an art showing in one of Florence's most famed art studios.  Okay, I admit it, I agreed to go because I had heard about the dashing older artist who has run the studio for the past 30 years.  I was curious to meet the man that so many have talked about.  And he is single.  

     As I walked into the studio one got a sense of walking back in time.  There was an area where a family has been sculpting for 5 generations.  Even I could not help but be taken by the fact that before me was the work of a family that has transcended literally 400 hundred years.

     When I walked into the part of the studio where artists paint in the same tradition as the Renaissance artists, I saw that everyone was hanging onto the words of the handsome artist who was passionately talking about his craft and the talent of his students.  As I looked at the many paintings hanging throughout the studio the talent of the students was obvious to even my untrained eye.  Somehow in each painting you just got a sense that you were getting a peak into the souls of the models through their eyes and facial expressions.  The models ranging from beautiful young women to older alcoholic men that live on the streets. 

     In the middle of the room was a very handsome young Italian soccer player who was acting as a model.  Two the left of him was a pretty young woman painting her view of him.  To the right was an older balding man painting his view of this Italian stud.  I could not help but be amazed how two artists captured the handsome and athletic soccer player in two very different ways.  The pretty female artist painting him in a soft and sensual way, influenced perhaps by her own sexual attraction to him. The older balding male artist painting him in a sharp and aggressive manner, perhaps influenced by his jealousy that this young man possesses what he lost decades ago - youth, looks, virility.  Despite the artists both painting the same model one painting had the eyes of a great lover, and one had the eyes of an angry stalker.  

     It was a truly unique experience to have the opportunity to be able to spend time with some of the students.  Young men that were obviously very gifted.  They did not apologize for being able to pursue their craft because of being trust fund babies.  They did not care.  What they cared about was having the opportunity to study under one of the greatest teachers of our day.  While I was in awe of their talent because I am someone who can barely manage to draw a stick figure, what really struck me was the story behind each artist; many of whom are tortured souls that use their craft to release their angst that threatens to take over them each day of their lives.  I was fascinated by how closely looking at their work, and the symbolism behind it, one got a window into the lives and indeed their souls. 

     My friends and I were then invited by the artists to go to the opening of another art show in Florence.  So only as one would think of doing in Italy, we refilled our wine glasses for the walk along the Arno to the other art show.  There one of the young artists that I had met earlier walked me through each painting challenging me to see the work through different eyes and to look deeper into the story behind the work.

     Before I knew it five hours had passed.  My friends and I were so captivated by the experience that we just then realized that we had not eaten dinner.  For hours we sat, sipping wine, hanging onto the words of the dashing older artist and mentor of the young men and women of his studio.  We debated, we laughed and we got totally drawn in by his passion for art.  As I sat eating my pasta dinner I thought about how fortunate I was to experience this day; a day were great art, history, wine, food and people were all married together in a way that can only happen here in Italy.  It truly was a gift.  It has been a long time since my mind has been challenged in such a way where I felt this kind of intellectual excitement; and it was because of art.  Who knew that through art I would experience an intellectual orgasm.  For the first time I got why so many people are seduced into the world of art.  Lucky for me this great seduction is not over as I am having dinner with the dashing older artist later this week.              

              

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The Simple Pleasures In Life

 
     One of the things that I love the most about Italy is the slower pace of Italian life.  Italians have perfected the art of stopping to smell the roses, with their version of this usually involving a glass of wine and visiting with family or friends.
     Last weekend my Italian friend Carlotta suggested that we go for a walk and enjoy the sunset over Florence.  After picking up a couple of bottles of prosecco we headed up to Piazzale Michelangelo.  Laura, the shortest of the group, offered to carry my backpack with the prosecco in it.  With my backpack overpowering her in size I could not help but think of the mountain climber game on the Price Is Right.  Any minute I expected Laura to start yodeling as she made her way up the 200 stairs.

     As we were enjoying just being together it struck me that there we were sitting on the steps of Piazzale Michelangelo, 7 very different women from 5 different countries, but we were all bonded together by our strength and our love to live life to the fullest.  We toasted with great gratitude each of our journeys that brought us to those very steps that day.  Sometimes life's pain is the birthplace of joy.  2 bottles of prosecco - 8 euros.  The walk up - 200 stairs.  The view and time spent chatting with great women - absolutely priceless.

 

   

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Verona....The City of Love

     Our day trip to Verona seemed to be plagued with problems at first.  It started off with Val dropping her cell phone in the toilet and then I fell, tripping on an uneven stone, on my way to the train station.  I am getting use to doing face plants in front of crowds of people.  It is a humbling experience.  I was just happy that this time I did not have a dress on.  Just as we walked through the porta into the city of love, down I went again.  As I saw my ankle give way, and bending in a way that it shouldn't, all I could think about was to shift the weight of my body so that it would not snap.  A broken ankle most certainly would not fit into the busy schedule that I had worked out for us for the day.  Poor Libby must have felt like she was riding in a roller coaster.  After brushing off my pants, and taking a few deep breaths, we began our exploration of Verona with map in hand.

     Verona is a beautiful city full of colour and life.  The buildings are covered with intricate iron work and frescoes.  Verona has a magnificent coliseum built in 30AD.  Arena di Verona is the third largest coliseum in Italy.  Plays and operas are held in the coliseum during the summer months.

         

     

     While it is not clear whether Romeo and Juliet ever really existed, nevertheless we headed to Casa di Giulietta with our "letters to Juliet" in hand.  It is said that if you rub the breast of the statue of Juliet that it will bring you good luck in love.  Letters tucked into the door, breasts rubbed, off we went to explore the rest of Verona.   

 

        

     The churches in Verona are of course magnificent.  As I stood outside the Duomo reading the fee schedule I noticed that there was a "family" rate.  I then thought that it was a brilliant idea for Laura and I pretend to be lovers and then her, I and and Laura's daughter Alex could save money with the "family" rate.  Val reminded me that it was a Catholic church that we were entering.  Laughing hysterically I had to concede that this was not the time to test the definition of "family" here in Italy.

     Throughout Verona there are many outdoor tombs.  The Arche Scaliegere houses princes and city leaders.  You might think that one would get tired of looking at the sculptures here in Italy, but you just don't because of the detail.  Each and every time I find myself, who is incapable of molding something recognizable out of clay, in awe of the work.  

        

     As the sun was setting we walked along the Adige River.  Libby and Sofia were pretty tired as our day came to an end.  We were all exhausted, but it was a good kind of exhaustion - brought on by spending a really great day with friends.  As we got off the train in Florence we all took a deep breath and in unison said, "Casa Dolce Casa".  Then off for pizza we went.  It just seemed fitting to end our day with a pizza made by our very special pizza men.  While this Celtic woman celebrated St. Partick's Day touring the city of love with people that I love, in honour of St. Patrick I did wash my pizza down with a cold beer.  

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To All Italian Drivers.......STOP means STOP!!!!

 

     Rant for the day....Italians have to be the worst drivers in the world!  They take a stop sign as a suggestion that only needs to be considered, rather than adhered too.  Today I was running and as I was crossing an intersection a car pulled into it not looking straight ahead, but instead only to the right resulting in him not seeing me even though I was directing in front of his car.  Who drives into an intersection without looking in both directions before pulling into it?  Italians! I would have been happy if he just looked straight ahead because then he would have seen me.  Is it too much to ask that someone who is driving through an intersection first check to make sure that there is not someone or something ahead of them in the intersection?  Lucky for me the driver was going slow enough that I managed to pound my hands on the hood of his car loud enough to startle him.  I had the superwoman pose with both hands spread on the hood of the car as if I could stop it.  Seems funny now, but was not at the time.  I am sure that I had a look of terror on my face as I thought for sure I was going down.  He managed to brake fast enough for me to stay on my feet.  He seemed shocked that there might be someone or something in front of him.  But not shocked enough to apologize for almost running over me.  No, instead he gave me a wave and carried on as I stood there with my heart pounding.  To all Italian drivers....STOP means STOP!!!!!! 

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Mamma Mia!!!!

     

     While I have eaten many times with Italian friends in restaurants, one thing that I have wanted to do since coming to Florence is to enjoy a traditional meal in an Italian home.  This opportunity finally came.  With excitement my friend Karen, Libby and I headed on the train to Prato to spend the afternoon and night in the home of an old Italian friend of Karen's.  She warned me to be prepared for all of the food and wine.  We skipped breakfast and lunch wanting to make sure that we were famished when we arrived.

     The trip took an unexpected twist when as we arrived in Prato and Libby began to diarrhea in my Michael Kors purse.  She had been fine the night before, so to say that I was shocked as I dared to look into my purse was an understatement.  Just as we were trying to decide what to do with a dog covered in diarrhea and a purse that smelled....well you can guess...Karen's friend pulled up.  Like a true Italian he did not see it as a big problem.  While Italians are very passionate it really does take a lot to get them upset.  With most things they have a "this is not a problem" attitude, which is probably why they out live us North Americans.  

     As we arrived at Orianno's home I handed Libby over to his wife so that I could deal with what I saw as a molto grande problema - diarrhea all over the lining of my Michael Kors purse.  Purse hanging on the line to dry and Libby bathed it began - the on-slot of food and wine starting with the traditional Italian before dinner drink of prosecco.  I was full after the second course, but the food just kept coming.  After the second course I remember sitting back in my chair trying to breath while thinking to myself you cannot go throw up from being so full; if they think it is an insult to turn down more food they for sure would see it as an insult to go throw up.  Saying I was full was not an acceptable response when I was asked if I wanted yet another serving.  To an Italian you can always make room for more.  In between courses I had to take Libby out as clearly she was not feeling well.  And when she didn't make it outside my gracious hosts did not bat an eye about Libby having accidents in their home.  Thank God Italians love their dogs as much as they love their children.  

     I was up all night with Libby.  As the night passed I became more and more worried about her.  It became clear that something was seriously wrong with her.  As I sat in the bathroom the next morning feeling as though I was having birth contractions it hit me; the chicken.  Libby and I both ate some of the same chicken the previous day before heading out to Prato.  I ran into the kitchen and pulled the zip lock back out the fridge and as soon as I opened the bag it was clear, Libby had food poisoning.  Thank God I had only eaten a very small amount.  When we figured this out Orianno, our kind host, took matters into his hands.  He called his vet at home and explained the situation.  Despite it being Sunday morning the vet insisted on coming into the city and seeing Libby right away.  While I knew it was urgent that Libby see a vet I must admit on the drive to the clinic I was thinking that this was going to cost hundreds of euros.  In Canada it costs $175 just to walk into the door of an emergency veterinary clinic, before a vet has even seen your much loved pet.  

     The vet could not have been kinder.  After a thorough examination he concluded that indeed Libby was victim to the spoiled chicken.  He gave me some shots to give her and some pills, as well as special food to help settle her stomach.  As the vet was getting the medicine together for Libby I expressed my gratitude to Orianno for taking me to this wonderful vet, and my shock that he actually left his family to come into the city on a Sunday morning to see Libby.  Orianno explained that this is normal care for their much loved dogs here in Italy.  I told him that I was worried about the bill, given the cost that I would have been facing in Canada.  Orianno was shocked at what I would have paid in Canada and suggested that we tell the vet.  I said, "Not until he gives us the bill".  We had a chuckle.  After receiving a bill of 45 euros, yes only 45 euros, we explained to the vet what this visit would have cost in Canada.  The vet was shocked and suggested that such fees were robbery, as he gave me his number to call him anytime if Libby did not get better within a few hours.  While Canadian fees may be robbery, I don't know how he makes money with his fees.  But who and I to argue with how Italians love heir dogs.   

     As we arrived back at Orianno's home at about 12:30 pm he looked at his watch and proclaimed, "The crisis is solved so now it is prosecco time".  And then it began again; the food and the wine.  As we were getting ready for lunch Mamma, his 85 year old mother, came out of her room.  She had slept all through the previous night.  Mamma eyed me up and down and even with my bad Italian I could tell that she was shocked by my height.  By Italian standards I am a giraffe at 5 ft. 9".  Mamma may be all of 5 ft and 100 lbs wet.  As we stretched between courses Mamma came up to me and with zest grabbed my breasts with both hands and exclaimed, "Molto bella!".  Seems my height was not the only thing Mamma was eying.  Poor Orianno was mortified and apologized for his mother as she has Alzheimer's and therefore is not always able to filter her thoughts and actions.  Karen and I laughed hysterically about Mamma's admiration of my breasts.  I asked Orianno if this was a case where it would be appropriate to say "Oh, Madonna".  Italians only use this phrase in extreme circumstances as it is considered profane.  He laughed agreeing that his mother grabbing my breasts would be considered such an extreme case where it was permissible to use the phrase.  While we were all laughing I said to Orianno, "If my dog can diarrhea all over your house and you take it in stride, your mother can grab my breasts anytime".  With that we sat down to yet another course of delicious food and another glass of wine.

     While my dream of enjoying a traditional meal in the home of Italians was not quite what I imagined with Libby getting so sick, I will never forget the hospitality shown to me by this wonderful family, and most of all I will never forget dear sweet Mamma.             

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