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...