Forty-Eight Hours in the District.

The autumn weekend possesses a certain kind of magic;

Simultaneously invigorating and restorative. 

This one was no different.

Cold mornings, oats and coffee on the roof amidst a garden of terra cotta pots. 

A hike on trails lined with crumbly leaves, overlooking the river. 

A green-lawned winery, reds, whites, sunshine soaking into my face. 

Dinner at a Langston Hughes themed restaurant. 

S'mores over the gas stove and a documentary. 

Two nights of good sleep. 

Marathoners at mile sixteen. 

Monuments, memorials. 

Georgetown. 

Row houses with window boxes. 

Eastern Market: Free samples of pears, hummus, apples and chips. 

Ice cream with a cousin. 

Natural history, Pegmatite. 

An rushed goodbye due to impatient public transportation. 

Airplane pretzels. 

The flight from Baltimore to Atlanta, listening to Goose & Fox, sleepily filing away the emanations of these past forty eight hours: brick, siena confetti-leaves, red wine, love, autumn's chill, the feelings brought forth by Autumn Weekend Magic. 

New Things.

As I sprawl on the sofa in one of my many Comfort Colors sorority t-shirts I have somehow acquired over the years despite having never being a part of any Pan-Hellenic organization, I find myself A) Uncomfortably full from dinner, and B) Thankful for new things, namely: This home, employment, friends.

 

The apartment, lovingly dubbed "The Wardrobe," quickly became home and is slowly but surely becoming attractive enough to not be ashamed of. (Problem #1: SOMEHOW we ended up with all gold-toned furniture in the living room... because we're fancy.) In addition to the new apartment is the new job. I am teaching high school art through January, and as a result I will definitely be paying my rent and bills. VICTORY. Also, I still intend to paint my own work and apply to grad schools. I'm including this information so I have it in writing and therefore have added incentive to actually do these things.

So many people have beef with post-grad life, and while I'm truly enjoying myself over here I'd be lying if I said this phase hasn't come with a couple adjustments. All of a sudden I am responsible for forging my path and finding my own work, not just to pass the time, but to pay for the necessities of life (but shout-out to the government for letting me ride my parents' medically-insured coattails until I'm 26). Then, there are the issues of re-establishing a routine, gaining momentum, making new friends, going new places.

I’ve been fortunate enough to become good friends with some beautiful people in the city, and even more fortunate to go on adventures with said friends. A couple weekends back we made it up to North Carolina for a trip in the mountains, which turned out to be utterly revitalizing and a necessary time of resetting. There is no substitute for hiking through the woods, sleeping outside, eating camp food, and embracing the incapability of taking a shower. And despite an accidental 8-ish mile detour (because who really needs marked trails, right National Forest Service?) in which we quite literally had to swing from branches and rock-slide/rappel down a small waterfall to return to an *almost* trail, everything was perfect. Trees boasted their fiery October shroud and smoky clouds rolled across the sky. A long day, capped off by a Ramen dinner, a fireside evening with campsite neighbors, a satisfyingly cold nights sleep and drizzly morning. All this followed by a drive back to Greenville for a hot coffee and bagel sandwich breakfast: bliss.

{The Art Loeb trail}

There are days that I’d rather sleep in, watch the Today show, make pancakes, and forsake all things work-related. Sometimes I miss the kind of days I spent here. I often daydream about what city I should look for jobs in next. Los Angeles? Portland? Boston? Somewhere in the middle of the Mojave Desert?

I’m not quite ready to be settled somewhere for the long haul, but I’m content with step 1, thankful for the new things.

{Last weekend: Prints by GC ArtTank students at Deeproots Festival}

{Family and Friends making beautiful music at Deeproots}

Postgrad.

For the past month I have been back home in my American motherland. This time has largely consisted of unpacking, babysitting, painting, harvesting tomatoes, and going to various Alabamian cities for weddings, moving furniture, and visiting family.

But let's back up.

Prior to this summer I had every intention of moving to Charleston after I graduated for no other reason than it's a beautiful city that is generally supportive of people trying to make art.
While in Cortona, however, I had some helpful conversations with people in Atlanta (via the interwebz) and determined that I would spend the year here instead, pursuing some opportunities I wouldn't have anywhere else. Flexible planning is my game.

I decided early on I wasn't trying to be into the whole "move back home after graduation" thing. For some people it makes sense, but knowing myself, I need to be living somewhere new with my own space and have the impending threat of rent deadlines to make me snap into a new routine and GET A JOB already (because it's a simple task, right?). It also helped when I realized I have juuuusssst enough saved up to where I probably won't die immediately after being financially independent. Probably. But I'll keep you posted... That being said, shout-out to nannying and commission painting for handling rent this month.

And HERE WE ARE now.

Yesterday I moved into my apartment in Hotlanta with my best friend/cousin, Anna. With the help of my parents, her boyfriend, and sister and brother-in-law, we spent all day yesterday getting settled into our new home. The first thing we did after getting our things inside was eat Chipotle take-out on our living room floor. Priorities. And despite a couple burned out lightbulbs and an unidentifiable white power lightly coating the kitchen surfaces (cocaine?? Anthrax?!?) that have since been wiped down, the place is perfect for us.
Holler if ya wanna help unpack.

Kalimera.

One vaporetto, one bus, and one soul-crushingly long check-in line later, I boarded a plane bound for Athens.  Upon arriving in Athens I was greeted outside baggage claim by a wiry old Greek man holding a hand-written sign that read “MR. LUCE WILLIAMS.” Naturally, I assumed this sign was meant for me. I was correct.  Kostas, the sign-holder, and I waited a few minutes before my long lost sista Kath emerged from behind two glass doors wearing *almost* the same outfit as me. Reunited at last.

Kostas drove wildly through the Athenian highways toward our hotel and all the while gave us tips, restaurant recs, and anecdotes for the road. He was borderline appalled when he learned Katherine and I had not seen each other since Christmas, as indicated by hand flailing and gasps.

Athens consisted of the best Greek yogurt of muh lyfe, exploring the city on foot, Greek salads, free white wine, tzatziki for dayyysssss, visiting the Acropolis, etc. Also included was a trip to the Athenian poet / sandal-maker, Stavros Melissinos, as well the discovery of a shop run by two lovely Greek women who make custom scents from organic oils for the price of a sandwich. Thanks to them, I now smell like a magical autumn morning full of happiness and sunshine, or something similar.

We made it to Chania, Crete via overnight ferry. Chania is where I have enjoyed one of my first pleasant beach days (save for the mad face-burn that thankfully has since faded). Usually I just get hot and annoyed that I have sand stuck to my face and in my swimsuit and bored after a couple hours. Not in Chania. The chatter of nearby beachers was surprisingly pleasant, largely because it was all in languages I could not understand and thus, had no inclination to eaves drop on. ALAS, I just lounged on a chair and read East of Eden and ate pita bread and splashed around in the ocean every now and then.

After nearly – but NOT – missing the bus to the trail head, Kath and I hiked the Samaria Gorge. 14km, saw a satisfactory amount of kir-kri (Cretan Mountain Goats), met one Canadian, no rockslides, finished strong. Spent the night in Agia Roumeli, and the next day took a ferry to Loutro.

LOUTRO. What a gem. Tucked away into a tiny inlet on a scrubby hillside in the south of Crete lies Loutro, a small, whitewashed fishing village. We spent our time in Loutro swimming along the coast, testing baklava, kayaking in the Algerian Sea – the bluest I have ever seen, paddling into shaded caves for snack breaks – caves like the ones where St. Paul was washed up in southern Crete. Maybe the same one… who’s to say? We also spent an impressive portion of our time sifting through the brilliantly colored and patterned rocks on the shore. We sprawled face-down, like beached toddlers, collecting these stones. This was also a great idea because we had overweight baggage to begin with, and everyone knows the best thing to do with overweight luggage is to add rocks!

Loutro to Sfakia, Sfakia to Rethymno, Rethymno to Heraklion. One night in the Heraklion Youth Hostel. Sometimes you just have to ignore Trip Advisor reviews and hope for the best. It worked! No trauma OR diseases. How’s that for beating all odds?

One ferry ride later, Santorini.

Santorini: See Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants. It was essentially the same, only with more legitimate sisterhood and fewer angry grandparents. Similar amounts of forbidden love and magic jeans.

Our host in Santorini was a bold, hospitable Greek woman named Maria who spoke broken English and often referred to herself in third person. “Maria make you coffee now.”

We took the island by storm. Said storming was made possible by our decision to rent an ATV for the few days. Our bright yellow steed of an ATV carried us across the island along stretches of open road where I continued to fall more and more in love with the desert landscape, and through villages like Megalochori where we stumbled upon what is apparently the oldest winery in Greece.  We walked the high trail from Imerovigli to Oia, spent the afternoon on a rocky beach, and got a ride back into town from a Serbian electro-pop DJ just in time for dinner and the sunset.

A note on sunsets: They’re a pretty big deal over there. Hundreds, if not thousands, of people all migrate to the hillside to watch the sun go down every night – as though the sun were a rare sight and had not had the same routine every day from the beginning of time. But nonetheless, the hot pink sun slowly sank until it dipped below the horizon into the glittery sea, without even the faintest hint of stage fright, and the spectators walked home, not one of them disappointed by the show.

Firenze & Ravioli.

Florence was lovely yesterday. FLAMING hot, but lovely nonetheless.
As expected, the Uffizi is bursting at the seams with masterpieces (and tourists) and when I was shuffling through crowded halls of humans and cameras, all I wanted to do was pull the fire alarm so everyone would clear out and I could sit in the Botticelli room alone, fawning over the botanical accuracy in Primavera and the Fortress panel (which I pretentiously think should be made a bigger deal of than is). Surely this plan would have worked.

After a few hours in the Uffizi some friends and I had a shamelessly American lunch of California rolls and veggie friend rice (because what's more American than eating Japanese food in Florence, Italy? ...judge us), then bobbed and wove through the mayhem that is the San Lorenzo marketplace where I found myself accidentally fostering my bad habit of speaking Spanish to Italians, because apparently in my mind, anything non-English=SPANISH!

[As seen in Uffizi. Who doesn't love Medieval pattern work?]

Fast-forward through a 2 hour bus ride (during which the driver BLARED Cyndi Lauper and Alicia Keys the entire way over the loud speakers) to dinnertime back in Cortona. I had the best ravioli I have ever eaten.

This is a big deal, and a bold claim.

I won't say "if you know anything about me you know I love ravioli" because that's not entirely true, but most people who know me really well know that I'm pretty into ravioli.

The ponytailed waiter came to our table of four and wrote down the first three orders (all gnocchi with ragu), and then when he looked at me I whimpered in unpreparedness and asked him what his favorite was. He pointed to the Spighe di Formaggio al Tartufo - Spikes ravioli with Robiola cheese from Alta Langa, honey, and fresh truffle.
I went with his confident suggestion and several minutes later when he brought me the steaming plate of happiness-stuffed love, I took my first bite and nearly shed a tear.

I even waited several minutes to tell my table-mates just how immaculate my food was in fear that they might take it from me (This behavior is a byproduct of growing up with older siblings who would steal food off my plate against my will. To this day, if you move your fork within a certain radius of my plate without at least a warning, I will involuntarily swat or fork-stab your hand in the name of self-defense). But after an internal monologue reminding myself that "it's okay to tell them. They are kind friends. It's good to share," I offered them each a bite. They ate, and agreed. Best ravioli ever.

Firenze. Cyndi Lauper. Euphoria... It was a good Saturday.

New Paintingsez.

One of the greatest gifts of this program is that my daily schedule includes spending hours painting everyday. The fact that the hundreds-of-years-old painting studio is one of the most beautiful in the world doesn't hurt either. The studio is a deconsecrated chapel in an ex-convent. A spiral staircase once used by cloistered nuns is still visible in the top back corner, and a set of gargantuan medieval doors (with enough locks to keep out all the medieval dragons and such) open up to let in beams of natural light, cool breezes, and the occasional curious Swedish tourist.

It's hard to get fully focused in a brand new place. Even after almost six weeks, it still feels brand new. There is so much stimuli to react to, from which to glean inspiration. It is sensory overload in the best possible way, but when it comes to making art, particularly nonrepresentational work for the most part, how is one expected to sift through the stimuli and make something that makes sense? 

Something non-literal, yet complete. Informed, but personal.

Over the past year most of my work has been graphic and abstract interpretations of concrete forms and ideas, but I'm starting to draw from more intuitive places - conversations and street concerts and experiences that are just as real as shapes and colors and forms and light. How do these things relate, and how might the non-physical experiences look in a visual format? 

 texture / layers / reduction / geometry / decay / saturation

Margaret Morrison, the painting professor guiding me through my independent study, is one of the most passionate women I have met. Learning from her is incredibly joyous and challenging. She has pushed me to grow, to experiment, to change, to keep making. She also is to blame for my newfound love of Polycolor acrylics.

AND, I have fallen in love with Severini. More specifically, his cubist prints like the ones in the MAEC Museum here in town.

 

 [My contribution to Etruscan exhibition in the MAEC Museum]

 [*THE BEST ACRYLIC PAINTS IN ALL THE LAND^^^]

[My station, trout smock and all]

  [For funsiez: A mini series (in the works) of Gino's girls, re-imagined]

Cortona.

As for keeping a somewhat consistent flow of amusing and adventure-inspiring blog posts whilst abroad, I am the worst.

I have had a home in Cortona for just over three weeks now and have yet to post a single update about my life these days. Let me just say - this place is absolutely beautiful. For the first week and a half or so there was a cold front in town, a MORE than welcome change from the sweat-drenched frenzy that was Rome, Italy.
Naples and Rome were both adventures in their own right, and I would never turn down an opportunity to revisit either place. However, Cortona is homey. There aren't street vendors trying to bamboozle you into buying fake Ray-Bans or mysterious goo-blobs that make sound when you throw them (this is a very real and very perplexing phenomenon in Rome). The streets are cobblestone, the pizza slices cost one Euro, the bells at Santa Margherita wake us up early, the cypress and poppies make the already-colorful meadows stuffed with gold and green even more picturesque. Window boxes and potted plants sit on every doorstep. The walls and their visible layers of medieval, renaissance, and modern masonry quite literally show a story of the history this city holds. Gelato happens everyday. Sometimes twice. I often eat my in-between-classes lunch on a stone ledge overlooking what could easily be (and actually has been) the backdrop to movies and books and plays and art whose sole purpose is to grant the viewer a respite from anything less than absolute splendor. The air smells like jasmine more often than not. Mornings consist of jogs along a road cut into the mountainside, and painting in a deconsecrated chapel with vaulted ceilings and good music. We do yoga in the golden hour on a hillside terrace-field of wildflowers, my goodness... It's ridiculous. Laughable, even. Whenever I feel like it I can saunter into town and visit The Annunciation or Severini's prints. Puppies. CUTE, cuddly, waggly-tailed puppies are everywhere. I love it.

Cortona, as far as I can tell, is laced with magic.
I know it's still part of Earth and is inhabited by hundreds of humans and therefore is sure to have its occasional flaws and shortcomings, but for some reason they are harder to come by here. I suppose that's part of the beauty of traveling - the inevitable tendency to immerse oneself in the magic of a place and still slip away before we start to question if the rabbit was hiding in the hat all along, or if it was one big illusion; or if the happiness trifecta of gelato/back-alley symphonics/evening strolls is a regular part of life here, or maybe just a fluke... But for these few short months, I'm welcoming the innumerable moments of winsome delights with WIDE open arms. Because it's Italy, it's summatiiiime, it's beautiful, and it's only for a few more weeks.

More photos and tales WILL soon follow. Or so I claim...

On Stumbling Upon a Michelangelo.

The Santa Maria sopra Minerva Basilica has a relatively plain facade - pale, nondescript, three sets of impossibly thick doors across the front of the building. Though Bernini's Elephant and Obelisk sculpture in front of the Basilica hints at the place's significance, the church does not boast a flashy exterior.

But in the likes of another Lucy I know, I curiously stepped through a pair of unassuming doors into an enchantingly beautiful world filled with treasures to discover.

After a few days in Rome I had gone through this routine several times - stretching my scarf down into a shoulder-covering shawl, folding my aviator sunglasses over my shirt collar, shifting out of the blistering heat into cathedral shadows and entering into a room where frescoes, oils, sculptures, gilded detailing, and quarryfulls of marble columns and pedestals fill the vision field of anyone who visits. So when I approached the Santa Maria sopra Minerva I wasn't surprised by the magnificent vaulted ceilings, rich lapiz hues, ancient rosaries and altars. And to clarify, not surprised ≠ not impressed (I would hate to ever get used to magnificence). 

Every detail of design, per usual, was impeccable. This would have been sufficient reason to be dazzled, but then a friend pointed out a marble sculpture to the left of the main center altar of Christ carrying the Cross (Cristo Della Minerva). It's a piece made by a man named Michelangelo Buonarroti in the early 1500s. Michelangelo was an insanely talented man. Duh. He was a Florentine sculptor by choice, a Roman painter largely against his will (note the subtle portrait in the Sistine Chapel of himself being dragged into hell by Bartholomew.. though that part of the painting doesn't get brought up too much), as well as an architect, writer, and he was probably secretly good at things like singing and making pizza. But I'm no expert. Regardless, he is an icon. A distant, remarkable, inconceivably deep mine of artistic ability. No one can argue that he possessed unparalleled levels of talent.

The sculpture of Cristo Della Minerva is unguarded, and apparently is the only Michelangelo open to the public to approach, to touch. Five hundred years later and the masterful work of a Florentine man is revered as equally immaculate as it was in the Renaissance - possibly more so. 

It's incredible how time holds virtually no adverse power over things that are truly beautiful. 

And maybe I'm just saying this because I've studied him, admired his skill, learned about his childhood, and am an artistic person (though of an entirely different caliber), but my goodness. I spent several minutes at the sculpture, running my fingers across the anatomically perfect joints of the Christ's stone toes and the slight contour on the back of his ankle, clenching marble drapery between my fingers and letting the jagged texture of the chiseled base leave impressions on my hand.

It's a crazy/funny/embarrassingly-giddy realization that even though we are separated by centuries and cultures and skill levels, MICHELANGELO AND I HAVE THE FEELING OF RUNNING OUR FINGERS OVER THAT PIECE OF POLISHED MARBLE IN COMMON.

I like to imagine that if he and I ever found ourselves casually chatting at an Italian dinner party, I might be able to give a knowing "ah yes, I totally know what you mean" nod if he were to bring up this sculpture...

Napoli.

One thing that continues to stand out about this place is the intentionality of beautiful design. There seems to be no generic facade. No plain white ceiling. No surface left unconsidered. It's not even excessive adornment - I've seen little extravagance so far. Just incredible attention to beautiful design. 

The marriage of practicality and artistry is everywhere, and it is incredible. 

The sans-serif lettering on the hotel sign doesn't need to be formed with tiny, polished, monochromatic pebbles in order to be read, but someone did it anyway. 

The support beams don't have to be shrouded in cerulean and ivory Moroccan tile to hold the building up, yet they are. 

There's no rule that windows need to be flanked by bright green shutters and window boxes bursting with begonias and lilies, but sure enough, they are. 

And why not? 

Aesthetics are important. Art is important. It might not cure diseases or win battles (though at times it has played a role in both), but it brings great significance and weight to things that are otherwise considered ordinary. 

People gathered the stones, laid the tile, planted the flowers, and chiseled the marble not out of necessity, but out of an appreciation for beauty, and I like to think, as a service to anyone who might catch a glance of these lovely places. 

The Thing About Milly.

Maybe the word is quirky.

But "quirky" has multiple meanings. At times it means charming, eclectic and full of hidden gems. She wears colorful sweaters, uses glitter in homemade birthday cards, only writes with Micron .005 pens, collects cicada shells and arrowheads, and does little tap dances in public places when pleased*. She's strange and hard to explain, but I guess kind of adorable. Other times, it looks less like Zooey Deschanel and more like an annoying middle schooler who can't take social cues. The sweaters are obnoxious, I find flecks of glitter from that birthday card on my desk months after my birthday has passed, the pen thing gets weird, and I start to wonder if the "collections" are actually indicative of the less-endearing habit of hoarding. And if it weren't for that heart of gold I might grow immune to the charm in her quirks.

Whatever the word is, we know it when we see it. And I first saw a very specific version of it August of 2010 when I moved to Milledgeville. Beautiful antebellum homes flanked by corinthian columns, oak leaf hydrangeas, the quaint downtown, the bluegrass band at the farmer's market. The logging trucks.

But sure enough, years go by, everyone learns a lot, we cut our hair, underestimate a few people, grow our hair out, make new friends, change our minds, read books, find new normals, develop passions, get into yoga, get into shenanigans, and witness kale and quinoa go mainstream right before our very eyes.

And as things shift and change in the way things do, the sometimes-precious-sometimes-exasperating manner of life here becomes, more than anything, comfortable. Not the complacent kind, but the cozy kind. It no longer matters if it looks weird, because everyone knows it's weird and is SO okay with that. We realize the only place to find fro-yo is the back section of a warehouse attached to a Cross-fit gym, that you can rent puppies on the weekend from the street corner by Hibachi Buffet, and quite frankly we're proud of the fact that no one has dared touch the knit leg-warmers some anonymous hero affixed to the stone calves of the bobcat statue on front campus a couple years ago. Milly is a special place.
It's beautiful, and it's home.
And after being gone for a weekend, a week, or a month, the feeling of exceptional repose that comes with veering off I-20, rolling down the windows, and heading south on 441 for the last 45 minutes of the drive past pastures speckled with cows, pecan groves, and the glittery lake is still unparalleled.

I'll miss a lot of things about my college years in this weird, funny, beautiful, little miracle of a city:
-Living in the same home and on the same block as my best friends
-Getting up early and curling up on the porch swing with breakfast and a french press in time to watch the rest of the city wake up around me little by little
-Torry, the most fabulous lady/dining hall employee you will ever meet. She is honestly the bomb and I'll miss holding up the sandwich line as we chat about her weekend plans and she fills me in on all the exclusive behind-the-scenes work drama.
-Eating ice cream most days... Though this habit (lifestyle) is actually pretty sure to carry on, it won't take place with the same people, and for that reason I will miss it.
-Not spending money
-Walking everywhere
-Eating meals outside
-Sneakily clipping camellia and gardenia blooms on campus to bring home and put in vases on the kitchen table
-Debatably-legal situation(s) involving displaced farm animals
-Potlucks and pancake feasts with friends
-Living in a culture where wearing real pants constitutes as "looking nice"... And on that note, overall cutoffs are totally acceptable, as are scrunchies and Birkenstocks. (disclaimer: Contrary to what this bullet point may lead you to believe, I don't always look like a kindergartener in the 90s)
-Coming home to find a group of friends playing Monopoly on the coffee table in my bedroom
-Going to the pool at 1:00 on a Tuesday
-Falafel wraps from Metropolis
-Game nights
-The quiet
-The church bells
-Friends with home decor consisting of gargoyle statues, cardboard cutouts of people I actually know, troll dolls, high school trophies, holographic motivational posters, and lava lamps
-All of the other things

And to be fair, there are a few things I won't miss:
-The bountiful quantity of feral cats
-Cockroach season (a.k.a. anytime not winter)
-Waking up to the loud and profane monologue of the same confused man shuffling down the street past my house most mornings before the crack of dawn
-Limited restaurant options
Really, the cockroaches are the main thing. I just can't handle them. Spiders? Sure. Ants? No problem. Cockroaches? NOPE.

In a matter of days, I will no longer be a resident of this fine city. I don't care to answer the notorious "so, what's next?" question, because like all other non-psychic humans, I don't really know! Or maybe I do and I'm just saying that to spite everyone... I'm fleeing the country next Thursday (studying abroad), taking three last classes to make this whole "graduation" thing stick, and then after that I plan on moving, finding a job, working very hard, and making friends, but I'll keep you posted as specifics begin to take shape. Until then, you can find me enjoying my last couple days in Milledgeville. I'll be the one in overalls sneaking past the GC Grounds Crew with a fistful of Gardenias.

*Based on real-live friends of mine