It’s September 11^th.  How long will we remember where we were on this date? A lifetime for most of us I suppose.

I spent the day reading about war today.  Yesterday on the bus, I realized how little I really know and I wanted to justify my own position, as I was having trouble shaking the conversation from my head. I went to Wikipedia and read the full entries on both World Wars. Obviously, this doesn’t make me a historian, but it gave me a good understanding. I found out that Hilter killed himself on my birthday.  It pleased me. Does that make me a bad person?

I am here for the art, so I shall move on.  I only have one week left and I know it will fly by.  In addition, I really want to try to make it to Pietrapertosa, a small village 6 hours south of here where my ancestors are from.  I know the drive, accommodations, and food will cost money that I perhaps should not spend. And really, I came here to paint, and leaving school a few days early might not be a good idea. But I’m so close – comparatively.  I can’t seem to settle my mind. We shall see…

So – meet Lucian Freud. He’s an amazing figurative painter, though his subject matter often suggests his relationship to Sigmond.  He uses huge amounts of color in his flesh tones.  As an exercise, my instructor suggested I try to copy his self-portrait.  Tomorrow I am supposed to use the same palette on my own face. Fun.

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What a day.  We traveled to Orvieto to see the art, then to Todi, mostly for cocktails.  On the way from Orvieto to Todi – I’m really not sure how it came up – but Hitler was brought into the conversation.  We are 6 women from around the world.  We are culturally diverse, and differing opinions about politics are par for the course. Generally, we try not to go there.  But when someone says, “I am pro Hitler”, well shit, I’m not sure how I’m suppose to react.  I am not a history buff.  I don’t know the details or the dates of all the wars. I don’t know a lot of things.  What I do know is that the elementary school version of “Hitler” was my first introduction to the capacity for intense human cruelty.  Until then, I had never imagined that such evil really existed.  Perhaps I was sheltered.  For a short time, did not believe that such atrocities were real.  I questioned my teachers.  Then I cried for the dead.  It was not the last time. I have never fully recovered. Imagine that…with my experience of “Hitler” being completely peripheral, I still cannot read Ann Franks diary.

“I am pro-Hitler, he was a great leader for his country”.  She is sitting in the same row with me, in the mini-van hired by the school to tour us around – tour us ARTIST’S around.  ARTISTS – PRO-Hitlar… artist…how can there be such a thing????? Mother of God, how can there be such a thing? I took a deep breath and looked out the window.  10 minutes went by and I contemplated how I could get off the bus and make my own way home.  “Don’t judge me” she said.  I turned my head and tried to explain that there was no option. I tried, but I could not contemplate any other action.

When I met my husband his many talents repeatedly amazed me.  He could fix anything, and he could accommodate any personality. Being from the east coast, I had a tendency to be defensive and vocal.  Over the years I have absorbed one of his common phrases – “Now… I know what I am dealing with.”  Today it rang true.  I cannot change her mind.  I cannot argue historical facts with her. She says I need to watch some documentaries.  I say she needs to read some books. She is too young and passionate to really listen, and I don’t have the tenacity to fight with her.

I do, however, have the chutzpa to create art, art that sings of peace and the power of love. I doubt my work will ever translate such a history of hatred, and I can only wish that it will help a few people avoid it.

We drove home in silence, my stomach in a knot.

On a technical note – I’m working on flesh tones that are full of color.  As soon as my subjects stop looking like circus clowns, I will send them along.

 

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I stayed quiet this morning.  One of the artists suggested a critique. I knew I would be opting out.  My iPod and I were headed to the studio.  Giovanni’s was closed, and the town seemed to still be sleeping. 

I scraped my palette and loaded it with fresh piles of paint.  I opened the stutter that spills light onto the mirror, shut off the bulb that hangs on a wire from the ceiling, and closed the door.  I put on Beth Orten and took a deep breath.  I looked at myself.  I noticed the way I stand, the way hold my head, the way light hits the wattle that seems to be developing beneath my chin.  I made a very conscious and deliberate decision to delicately observe, and let it go.  I did not need a masterpiece. I needed a release.  I got it.

The painting may have some issues.  My teachers tell me my hips and shoulders are not that big. The white in my eyes is possibly one value too light, and the color of my flesh, one value too dark.  I generally have a happier appearance. None of it matters. It felt sooo good. I painted think.  I painted freely. It’s the zone we don’t always hit, but we paint every day hoping that we will.

After lunch, I went back. I set up a still life, put on Sarah McLachlan and started at it.  I tried hard to use as little white paint as possible and saturate colors. Instead of using white to lighten, I changed the color. I’ve been told this 100 times, but today I think I began to understand it.  I also did very little preliminary drawing and blocked in with the paint.  It moved along, and so did the hours. By the time my iPod got through Sarah, I was reeling in it. I was excited with the direction and I wanted more.  I wanted to see it done. I wanted to keep doing it. I put on the Rolling Stones and spent as much time dancing as I did painting.  I waited for a break in the beat to make my next mark. My brushes beat through the air like I was Charlie Watts himself.  I pulled a few whirling dervish dance moves and thanked God for the private audience.  I’m not religious, but I got a really good dose of saturated spirituality today!

I capped my turpentine and headed to Tilio Market. We’re celebrating with an expensive bottle of wine ($9) and good smelly cheese.  Thanks for all your comments.  They keep me smiling.

 

 

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I want to be fabulous by now.  I want all of my hurdles to be squashed and see myself dancing into a Picasso’esk kind of moment.  I want to recognize the appropriate use of bold color in my own work.  I want to attack every canvas.  I want to capture the spirit of vibrant people in a short amount of time.  I want my vigorous spirit to be recognized and captured, all in the same moment.  I want an intense, extreme, pouring out of my soul, all over the palette, and I want to watch it jump onto the canvas.  I want it so badly, and my inability to get it is crushing.

I have not done any figurative work for two days.  I did exercises in value and bold color instead.  I did what I was told, and I was pleased to be relieved of the choices.  All worth doing, but nothing I plan to show off.

Tomorrow will be a still life.  I hear dead fish are on the menu – perhaps I will be able to capture them by using my killed color… Then onto the landscape where any returned emotion comes from a completely pure place, with no exceptions, no judgment. It just is. Therefore your pleasure, or for your pain. The choice is yours.

I’ll relish the still life and the landscape. But I will ache for something different. I need to paint the (a) figure, a soul, someone that doesn’t care about the outcome; someone that will sit for the sake of sitting. Someone who will sit for me for 4-5 30-minute poses and let me move them around.  Let me throw them all over the canvas – let me paint them blue if I want to.  Let me paint them black.  Right now, they feel black – because I feel black.

It’s late, and skype – as wonderful as it is – just doesn’t cut the cake.  I would like to inspire you every day.  I would like to be inspired every day.  I would like to feel RED tomorrow – and get the black off my palette altogether.

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I see so many changes in my world.  Not just the way my pants fit, or the level of sag in my cheekbones, but the structure of my life.  Our kids are getting older. My husband is fully engaged in a political campaign.  The things that used to plant me no longer apply.  I am so blessed, and I am so restless.

I painted three pieces today.  First was Mira, a young painter from Lebanon.  She sat still, very still, on the floor, looking up at the wall.  She had a peaceful but knowing look about her. Her large dark eyes looked up – and in a way asked the world (or the wall) “what are you looking at?” I tried to capture her.  I didn’t.

Carole was next; an elegant woman from South Africa that is now a permanent resident of this village. She was gracious, well dressed, and lovely.  Halfway through the sitting, she said “I want to be beautiful.” She is beautiful – 60-year-old beautiful women. But I couldn’t get close.

Sandro came.  He walked in. I sat him down, stood him up, and looked at him sideways, again at a different angle.  Yes, this will work.  He sat, crossed his arms as instructed, and looked at me.  I pointed to my eyes, then to his, then out the window.  He turned his head.  Then he came back.. I pointed again, and he followed.  I looked at him for a long time. I let my eyes move around him, and I began to work.  The environment was passive.  There was still the pressure of the ticking clock, but the intensity was gone.

As uncomfortable as his stare made me, I wanted to switch course and get it back.  Perhaps there is something that happens for the sitter as well? Perhaps they come to watch me, paint them.  I removed that equation today.  Mira and Carole looked at the wall, and Sandro just stared out the window. There was no exchange.

I have no paintings to show you today.  I tried to photograph them for you, but not one of them turned out. They were all blurry.  The gods may be telling me to keep these failures to myself.  Tomorrow I may just stick to landscapes, as they have no eyes and no heartbeat.

I did, on the other hand, get my laundry done, and walk the Umbrian countryside alone for over an hour today.   These things alone help quell my anxiety.  Though to use such a word while spending a month in Italy at “art camp” seems surreally absurd.  10 minutes spent on the internet, looking at the real tragedies coughed up by life, should cure any perception of toil inflated by the privileged person – and I am a privileged person.

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I’m not accustomed to having someone stare at me.  But when you ask someone to sit for you, and you’re not specific about where they should look I guess it’s only natural that they would look at you.

Sandro doesn’t speak any English, and my Italian… anyway.  He’s Rita’s brother.  She pretty much runs the school in this little village.  Rita said he would sit for me.  He’s stands with his arms crossed in a “don’t mess with me” kind of way. His classic face with the bent nose indicates that perhaps not everyone has listened.  “He is a good boy” Rita said.  Great!

I premixed warm and cool, dark and light skin tones.  I opened the shutter doors on one side and closed them on the other.  At 4PM I heard the door slam.  “Kelly” he said. “Up here” I replied.  Sandro walked in, smiled and said “Dove?” Uh…here, here.  I felt a small rush of nervousness come over me.  He took his position, arms crossed, and I began.

The stance was great.  I tried hard to get it fast, and I really wanted it.  ‘Put in the arms, chest, shoulders, chin – shit, only ½ a  head.  Scratch, lower everything, repeat… same result.  Momento, momento – I’m down 5 minutes already.  I really want the face –skip the body – QUICK, new canvas.  Clean /white – 7 minutes down…shape the head, chin, neck, nose, eyes – wow, they’re staring at me. I crack a nervous smile and got on with it.  My brush flickers around his face – light, dark, darker, lighter, cooler, warmer…shape goes up and around, nose bone moves out… meets the eyes…  oyh…they’re staring at me… wow, they’re intense…’

I made my way around his face, but I was sweating by the time I was done! I had to repeatedly expel long breaths of air to maintain composure. I lifted my arms like a chicken struggling to fly. I needed to circulate some air! I cocked my neck, shuttered my shoulders, flapped my arms one more time… Move forward; move on. 5 minutes left. He continued to stare.  It was his job, really.  Ding! Done.  Thank god.  I needed a glass of wine and an Advil.  He offered to stay longer but I couldn’t take it. Domani, Domani. He smiled and left.  I stood there taking deep breaths until my heartrate returned to it’s normal state.

It was uncommonly intense – unlike photographs.

Tomorrow I will paint Carole. She will be a more comfortable subject.  Then, Sandro is coming back for another 30 minutes. I want the stance, the arms crossed “don’t mess with me stance”.  I will put him in the sunlight, and make him look down at the street below.  No more chicken dancing for me.  I don’t think they stock oxygen in Monte Castello Di Vibio.

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“Our eyes met in the piazza, we were only 15. For eternity our hearts were locked.” Pietro is a poet.

We found him at the tobaccheria last night watching TV.  I pulled Ellie in with me to translate my apologies for dropping the painting date.  He was happy to have a chat and agreed to meet me today in the privacy of my studio and sit.  Then he began to talk.  I wish I could have understood every word.  From his pocket he pulled four pages of writings.

There written, not typed, were his stories about war, and his poems about love.  He read them all.  Ellie did her best to translate.  I understood the most important parts – love, beauty, and death.

We walked him home and he insisted that we come in.  On the side table in the dining room, next to the table where he writes, are the pictures of his past.  He was tall and very handsome as a young man. His wife was beautiful. Sometimes the pictures must make him happy, and sometimes they must make him sad.  The memories are full. Now he tells me, “my bones are very ill.”  Still, he is a jovial man at 85.

I arrived to gather him promptly at 11 AM.  He sat simply in a chair with the light coming in from the door.  Theresa joined us for the 30-minute pose.  He sat there, proud, still, happy, knowing that (as a friend said) I saw him from the inside. I enjoyed/relished every moment of it. The quick sketch to block him in, the light and shadow on his face, the way his clothes fell… – 15 minutes left, get in the table…, highlight the cane…, his hair… 5 minutes… eyebrows, hands, background color…  I became excited and panicked, in an exhilerating kind of way.  He referenced his Rolex and started to sing – I think it was an old war song – tick, tock. One minute – aaaaaaah… 10 seconds. Glasses… 2 seconds… time’s up.

Pietro stood up smiling.  He walked by to see our efforts. He was genuinely charmed. He leaned his cane against the table and did a little dance for us.  No kidding! He danced a sweet kind of jig that left no doubt. He was pleased.  He was seen, he was recorded, and he was proud. I was proud. Pietro gave us a hug, a kiss on the cheek – and he was off.

He was excited to come to a small show we had tonight. A few of the artists are leaving tomorrow and we produced an exhibition to show our work from the last 2 weeks.

I met Pietro in the square at 6:30. Together we walked to the show. He restored my confidence, and perhaps in some way, I restored his.

For his friends, he imitated me – painting him.  It was a very serious yet playful kind of portrayal.  I now have many of them scheduled for 30-minute posses over the weekend. They are all different kinds of characters. I am a kid in a candy store.

I will keep working quickly, painting my way through the village.  It is fun! What 30 minutes can tell you about a man…

I am feeling blessed, yet sometimes I miss my family so much that I physically ache.  I know I will see them again.  Pietro…Pietro has his poems. I have his portrait.

 

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Two weeks is not enough.  One of my new friends goes home on Saturday.  She planned this trip long ago. Though she loathes her job and her boss, she gave plenty of notice, studied the schoolbook cover to cover and dreamed of her arrival.  Two weeks passed too quickly, and her departure is coming way too soon.

A few of us have encouraged her to phone her boss and inform him that the hate affair they are having is over! She will not be returning.  Then she must call her man, and inform him that the love affair they’re having is about to get a whole lot better.  She is now courageous, brave, vibrant, passionate, AND unemployed.  He will soon learn that such a women is more desirable than a lady sucked dry by a man who belongs in the mailroom, licking stamps.  She, one the other hand, should be running the company – or painting.  Hopefully, she promotes herself to the lead painter position, sooner than later, as later is sometimes not soon enough.

I did not make it to the square today. It’s September.  That means that Giovanni closes the bar on Wednesday’s, and with it goes the richness of the square.  I’ve enlisted back up.  Tomorrow we go to Florence to see art, but Friday we’ll all be in the square.  They will have their cronies, and I will have mine; the mad, sketching, painting, arty types – all of us, a rage of creativity.  I will fade into the group and emerge independently another day, but soon.

I still have 2 ½ weeks.  I have no boss.  I can see the difference in my work, and the path might surprise me.  What I have discovered is that when I try to make it “right”, it’s not so much fun. When I am limited in time, and it doesn’t really matter – everything flows.  My father may not agree. He would find the more well-tuned pictorial images more pleasing – unless he had to paint them.

I will keep doing what feels good, and see where it takes me…likely to many more fascinating places.

 

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I did not have to face “the square” ? though I think I may have tackled it, had we stayed put. Tomorrow…

This afternoon we were invited to a private home to paint the landscape ? and swim. Devine. First, I got in the pool, then I baked in the sun for 20 minutes dreaming. I was the only swimmer. My brain needed a rinse and I took pleasure in it, my own personal siesta. Then a quick landscape, and a quick figurative value study.

These are loose, but they have a spirit for 30-minute studies. I plan to limit myself to short quick pieces for the remainder of my stay here, and I’m looking forward to the results.

For now, I am quite sleepy, and I have s skype date with my handsome husband? so I shall sign off.

 

 

 

 

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Last night the ‘after dinner walk’ wound up at the outdoor café. It is a summertime place where all generations meet. They stay up late playing games, dancing, gossiping. It’s a beautiful thing to see, but I had early rising on the brain?. places to go and people to paint.

Making my way home I passes by the “tobacorria.” This is the other “bar”, the one where the old men play cards. It is also where the entire town gets their coffee, cigarettes, magazines, etc. Really, the social heartbeat of the Monte Castello DiVibio. As I rounded the corner I saw two of ‘us’. One, pleasantly inebriated, the other attempting to steer her home. “I can’t talk to him Kelly, can you help?”, she said motioning to Peitro.

I was able to get out enough Italian to great Jon Marrion and Pietro. I asked Pietro if he would sit for me ? 30 minutes in the square tomorrow was all it would take. In English he asked “why?” In Italian I answered, ?because you have a beautiful face.’ Closing in on 80, he was perfect. We made a date ? 5pm in the square. I headed home and let the ladies fend for themselves.

I woke up this morning so excited. I slept well, it looked like rain ? the first cool day ? and I had a painting date with Peter ? the type of quick practice I really need. The day egged on and the skies opened up. We had fierce rains, the kind I love to smell. I breathed deep, and the fear licked at my brain. I breathed deep again. It didn’t go away. Instead it intensified. I accepted the inconvenience of rain as a nuisance. Still, I carried an easel to the square. On my way, the skies opened up again. “Bad idea” my brain blurted. “Use it! Use the rain as a perfectly justifiable reason to mask your coweredness” some bad internal voice cried. I didn’t fight it. “Why yes, of course, painting outside in this weather is unthinkable”, I consciously concurred. It looked like it might clear, but I carried the easel away anyway.

I showed up at 5. Many of the men were inside playing cards, although the rain had subsided. The outdoor furniture was still puddled and wet. Peter was not there, but it was obvious that the others knew I was coming, and that Peter would be arriving soon. I think I broke a sweat. I explained to the proprietor that the weather was awful and perhaps tomorrow. I rushed to the studio anxious to get out of the spotlight. I tried hard to gather my wits. “Just sketch, yes, that will work, that is reasonable,” I told myself, “and not nearly as much pressure.”

Walking back to the bar I saw Peter ahead. Cane, step, cane, step. I was just behind him, sketching tools and cowardly self in tow. “Pietro?” I called. No answer, I walked a bit faster. Catching up to him, he turned and looked. “Ah, three hours I sleep, but I am here for you, I am here for you.” Agh!… what a lameooo I am right now? “But the rain Pietro, such bad weather”? we walked together. Step/ cane/ me wishing I could blurt out all of my fears so that he could understand them/ step/ cane. I wanted to invite him to my second floor studio where I could paint him out of the weather and public view, but his cane and my Italian stood in the way. “But, I am hear for you” was all I could hear.

We arrived at the door of the bar together. I’m not sure what the conversation was. Some talk about tomorrow and bad weather. I think he was genuinely disappointed. And I was genuinely? uncomfortable, at a loss, desperately wanting to speak Italian, sorry for the rain ? and blessing it all at the same time.

I sat in the bar and sketched for a little while. Soon I flung on my backpack, thanked Peter, and headed to the convent. “But why, look, occhiatta, blue sky is coming” Jon Morrino said. “It will be good.” I pulled out my dictionary and pointed to the word “afraid” coupled with a motion to indicate the many eyes in the square. Together we nodded. He got it. I got it. I went home.

Tomorrow I will drag Jody to the bar with me for morning coffee. She will translate the situation ? and hopefully I will have another chance. Still, the idea of painting in front of all of them, and wanting so badly to capture the gist of the gent sitting in front of me, is almost enough to make my chest heavy. It is so much what I want to do ? and so much the thing I am most terrified of.

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