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

Preconceived Notions.

The painting of a place I had never been.

"Paint what you know"... Or, paint what you would like to know - what you imagine to be true - the preconceived notions of a place or time.

This painting is part of an abstract series I have hanging in Blackbird Coffee in downtown Milledgeville. It is my idea of a rather specific city that I had never seen........ Until last Friday!

As it would turn out, Charleston is a lovely place. I only made it's acquaintance (I was there not even a full day) but it was enough of a meeting for me to decide I like it there. The cobblestoney streets, gardens upon gardens, NON-floridian-esqe waterfront (it's nothing personal, I'm just not that into Florida as a state), and its ubiquitous charm make the city something special.

In Defense of Flowers.

My senior Capstone exhibit, the work I have been researching and executing over the course of the year, is up!



They say things like "paint what you know," "just put in the hours and do the work," "make art about what you feel strongly about," and so on. Well, such advice proved difficult to follow for someone who is constantly fascinated by new things all the time, who knows an average amount about a lot of things but isn't an expert on anything really, and whose strong feelings are better left in personal conversations or on the pages of my leather-bound journal tucked in a cubbie of my coffee table.

Only a few weeks before Christmas break I checked out a book from the library called How to Know the Wildflowers. I thumbed through the pages, bookmarking pages containing melodious excerpts from Frost or Emerson, and botanical illustrations whose lines or composition appealed to me. On rectangles of mat board left over from cutting mounts for a photography final I began to sketch the shapes of specimens I found especially alluring - whose lines, planes, patterns, all seamlessly work together to comprise something wonderful. In lieu of black line drawings, color - vibrant and bold.

It took me another month or so of paintings to realize what I was doing: painting what I know, doing the work, and making art about something I feel strongly about. And somehow, these things have culminated in a body of work that revolves around flowers. Flowers. I still get tickled over the fact that I ended up making paintings inspired by the most painted subject know to man for my senior exhibition, but I also don't plan to stop any time soon...

Blackbridge Hall Gallery
Milledgeville, Georgia 31061

In Defense of Flowers
Statement by Lucy Reiser Williams

            In my work I explore the pertinence of flowers across multiple facets of day-to-day life, and the often-overlooked role certain visual elements of botanical specimens play in the development of modern designs hastily deemed synthetic or manufactured.  

The practice of botanical illustration suggests a very human compulsion to attach terms and explanations to objects existing outside of our control. Flowers are used as tools for our own self-expression, taken out of a context and relocated to vases on a coffee table and pots on out front porches for the purpose of decorating a space. In essence, flowers are a medium of their own.

Since the onset of botanical illustration (traced back to the year 512), the way we have documented and shared the natural world has evolved. Photos of perfectly curated floral arrangements are constantly posted to the Internet where the specimen becomes seamlessly assimilated into a further detached, entirely non-physical world. The idea that something so notoriously delicate can withstand millennia of ecological, cultural, and societal transformation while maintaining unwavering relevance is noteworthy, to say the least. Through processes of isolating elements of design within the form, stylizing, and abstracting, I explore the notion that visual components of botanical specimens play an integral role in the development of manmade modern designs. 

When flowers, though commonplace and arguably cliché, are more thoughtfully examined, they reveal foundational truths of the human condition and help make sense of the aesthetic world around us. 

Homestretch.

A couple days ago I presented at the Georgia College Student Research Conference. A few other friends of mine also presented in their respective ares of study. The conference went well for a few reasons, the first of which being that I finally had a reason to wear the closest thing I own to "business/professional" and walk into the building with my Econ-major friend decked out in the classiest of navy suits. This experience made me feel like something I will never be: a semi-powerful CEO.
The other reasons the conference was a success are non-sartorial. My presentation focused on the work I have been producing over the course of this school year, the research and thought-processes that went into it, and technical elements of the paintings (use of negative space, composition, reason for square format, why oil for some and acrylic for others, etc..). Essentially, the conference gave me an opportunity to explain what I've been doing for the past several months, and why - things that can't simply be inferred by viewing the finished products alone. Also, some ray-o'-sunshine roomies and friends came to watch me. Too kind, I tell you. Too kind.

Coming up on Wednesday the senior Studio Art majors will install our exhibition. Eleven paintings of mine - the colorful, tedious, incredibly time-consuming paint-baby I have been spending the last four months producing - will at last make its grand-ish debut into the world, via collegiate group exhibition, Synchronicity. In the exhibition my show is tentatively titled In Defense of Flowers. A show within a show, that is. Much like Inception, only with lower stakes and fewer famous people.

On Sunday, several more of my paintings will be popping up downtown in Milledgeville's very own Blackbird Coffee. This past week was, this weekend is, and this coming week will be quite paint-centric, but despite the fact that producing two bodies of work at once can be a bit of a work load, it's very exciting. Huzzah for the homestretch!