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...