arzigogolare ~ to let your mind wander

Piazza Santo Spirito

Tue, 16 Feb 2010 23:59:40 +0100

I’d like to introduce the latest ‘Spotlight Piazza’: Piazza Santo Spirito. If you’ve read past Arzigogolare entries or The Piazzas of Florence you probably know that this is my favorite Florentine square. It’s a daily event for us: we pass through each morning on the way to my daughter’s bus stop, walk over to take care of errands in the afternoons, and meet friends here after school or on the weekends. While the façade of the church that sits at the north end of the square is the plainest of all the major churches, I just love the imagery of its curvy outline as a blank canvas waiting to be decorated . . . such possibilities. I enjoy watching for the piazza’s seasonal variations: the stone paving has been sprinkled with multi-colored confetti from carnevale lately, there will be showers of bright green seed pods next month, and golden leaves to mark the return of autumn—and I will always remember how magical the square looked as a giant snow globe one Friday night last December.

Between the morning market, the gatherings at the fountain and on the church steps, the lively café patios and the neighborhood celebrations, there always seems to be something going on. This past Sunday, as the new moon ushered in the Year of the Tiger, the festive atmosphere of the flea market descended on the square, as it does each second Sunday of the month.

On our way over, we passed a woman leaving Piazza Santo Spirito with a tray of primroses—the same purchase I had in mind. But first we wandered through the stalls of books and paintings, jewelry and beads, furniture and linens, olives and cheese, dried fruit and candy . . . and just about anything else you could imagine. We eventually made it to the row of plant-sellers along the southern edge of the square. After going back and forth, examining the many choices, I, too, was able to carry home an armful of gorgeous primroses to liven up the windowsill (and some new herbs to liven up our meals).

And now today, Shrove Tuesday/Mardi Gras, is the day of the official annual carnevale celebration, which not even the rain could thwart. A rainbow of umbrellas bobbed together at one end, but the grey paving stones were as thick as ever with coriandoli, streamers and schiuma (the foam that kids love to spray at each other, despite—or more likely because of—the shrieks elicited from their mothers). I accompanied my daughter to meet her friends and stayed just long enough to give my orange feather boa, which is looking a little sparse after four years’ worth of carnevale, an airing, and greet a few friends who had also brought their children to the piazza. I did a couple of quick errands, then picked up a bag of light, crispy, powdered sugar-covered cenci before heading home with a dozen or so megabytes-worth of blurry, badly-lit photos that will still manage to recall the color and energy of this year’s carnevale festivities.

I love how even the pharmacy gets into the spirit of the holidays and seasons with its window displays (if you’ve read the Piazza Santo Spirito chapter you may remember that I commented on the bizarre lice product-inspired display that coincided with the children’s return to school). As I passed the Farmacia Santo Spirito, I snapped a photo of their carnevale-themed window, which also gave a nod to the festa di San Valentino [shown above].

* * * * *

These Arzigogolare entries have come full circle; the earliest ones talked about the conclusion of carnevale 2009 and my windowsill ‘garden’—and here we are again, wading through confetti and enjoying fresh primroses at the windows. There’s something comforting in the rhythm of the rituals that repeat each year; I suppose this keeps one always looking forward. But, even as I impatiently await the day it’s warm enough to sit on Pitti ‘Beach’ and feel the warmth of the sun on my bare arms again, I am remembering to enjoy the clementines and pomegranates; soon they’ll be gone.

Click here to visit the Piazza Santo Spirito page, where you will find passages from The Piazzas of Florence, as well as a detailed map, photographs and a list of ‘things to do’ in the square.

Click here to read an excerpt from the Piazza Santo Spirito chapter, which appears on Florence from the Heart, a website devoted to articles written by locals who love this city.

Seeds of beauty

Tue, 26 Jan 2010 23:43:37 +0100

I had intended for the photo of the pomegranate to introduce my last Arzigogolare entry, but the thrill of being able to post a picture of Florence under snow delayed my original plan to write about this gorgeous seasonal fruit. With the shape of an organic Christmas tree ornament and bursting with festive red seeds, the pomegranate has become one of my favorite symbols of winter. If the fruits weren’t so (satisfyingly) heavy I would hang them from the branches of my Christmas tree, in place of traditional ornaments; and if the seeds could somehow remain fresh and bright, I would string them onto a golden thread and drape the tree chandelier-style. (I can just imagine doing this with red glass beads in the shape of pomegranate seeds . . . )

While the pomegranate is an eye-catching fruit, beautiful in a rustic sort of way, I don’t recall being aware of it until I came across the cover of a book by a woman who led a memorable Writer’s Workshop at Vroman’s (a wonderful bookstore in my former hometown of Pasadena) many years ago. The stunning jacket of Fruitflesh: Seeds of Inspiration for Women Who Write entices readers with the image of a partially opened pomegranate revealing the luscious seeds; I can’t picture a more fitting visual metaphor to convey the title.

You just know by looking at the fruit, with its ‘crown’ left in place of the original red blossom, that it holds the promise of something amazing; it’s no surprise that the pomegranate is traditionally linked with good luck, abundance, hope, fertility and other bountiful symbols. Since I have lived in Italy, the melograno has taken on new meanings for me as well, and now I associate pomegranates with leisure, indulgence and health.

While I was working on deadline for The Piazzas of Florence there was very little time to do anything but repeat the cycle of research, write and edit, over and over, for months. Because the melograno requires time and care to prepare—the aril-encased seeds need to be extracted and carefully separated from the bitter pith that encases the multiple sections, and the juice from the arils squirts (and stains) easily—we rarely ate pomegranates when their season arrived that year. It seemed a shame to miss out on the benefits of the nutrition-packed fruit but, to underline how stressful that period was, we were washing socks and forks . . . and just about everything else . . . on an as-needed basis. (Thank goodness for the quick-to-peel, vitamin C-rich clementines.) I kept telling myself there would be time for pomegranates when the book went to press, and I still remember the sense of serenity I experienced when I finally had the luxury to properly prepare one.

Pomegranates originated in Asia, but they’re now cultivated in many other parts of the world, including California. I saw convenient containers of pomegranate seeds for sale at Trader Joe’s the last time I visited the US (three-and-a-half years ago), but I have to admit that I find value in the meditative process of separating the seeds myself. Although I do buy pomegranate juice whenever I come across it, juicing a fresh pomegranate seems like a waste of the seeds’ complex taste (at once sweet and tart) and their unique texture. Plus you miss out on the sensation of the juice releasing as the arils burst against your tongue—not to mention the fiber.

Many of the pomegranates sold here have been imported from Iran, but the local contadini grow them too; while not as large and brightly colored, they are equally tasty. I had written in The Piazzas of Florence that my daughter wasn’t interested in melograni until Rosa, a contadina who sells fresh produce in Piazza Santo Spirito, “gave her a torn-off chunk of pomegranate, with its bright jewels dripping with vitamins [...] We bought a bagful and went to sit on the church steps, leaving behind a trail of red juice and a feast of fallen seeds for the birds when we got up. Who knew there was so much pleasure in a pomegranate?” It was such a gentle way to encourage my daughter to try the unfamiliar fruit—food often seems to taste better when eaten with your hands, especially in the fresh air.

The seeds are amazing on their own, but recipes from a couple of my friend Tessa’s books (Falling Cloudberries & Apples for Jam) have inspired me to adopt some other ways of eating melograni, like scattering the seeds on a salad of mixed greens, toasted pecans and thin curls of a hard, aged cheese. (This salad accompanied our last Christmas dinner, though it was my mother who extracted the pomegranate seeds . . . once again, I was in the position of not having time to do it myself!) Tessa’s recipe for Greek yogurt dressed with pecans, pomegranate seeds, cinnamon and honey gave me the idea to create a stunning parfait with alternating layers of the seeds and plain yogurt (and then drizzled with honey).

My daughter’s sixth grade class has been reading the stories from Greek mythology, which reminded me that pomegranate seeds play a part in the legend of how the seasons came to be. As with all of these stories handed down through the centuries, there are many versions, but the one my daughter learned unfolds like this . . . When Persephone is kidnapped by Hades and taken to the underworld, her mother (Demeter, the goddess of grain and fertility), becomes frantic with with worry and anger, and the earth stops producing its usual bounty. Demeter’s husband, Zeus, finally convinces Hades to return Persephone to her mother, but the god of the underworld cunningly arranges for her to eat a few pomegranate seeds (the number varies) before she leaves. Since food and drink are forbidden in the underworld, Persephone is bound to spend part of each year there as her penance. During the time she is away the earth lies dormant; only upon her return in spring does the land come back to life.

* * * * *

While spring is still almost two months away, we have been lucky to wake up to many beautiful days in Florence in the past couple of weeks. The clear skies may bring colder weather, but this is preferable to the womb of drizzly grayness that we had been existing in since December. Although Christmas lights no longer brighten the city, pomegranates still add sparkle in my kitchen. As the days slowly lengthen, we’re beginning to see colorful coriandoli* scattered along the streets and squares—and melt-in-your-mouth cenci* appearing in bakeries. It’s carnevale, carnival season, once again.

* A few language notes:

Coriandoli is what we would call ‘confetti’ in English (in the singular - coriandolo - it means coriander/cilantro). Although the derivation of our English word ‘confetti’ is Italian, in Italy confetti generally refers not to bits of colorful paper, but rather to the small colored candies that were traditionally tossed to crowds of children during carnevale.

Cenci is the plural of cencio, ‘rag’, so-named for the irregular strips of pastry dough, which are fried and then dusted with powdered sugar.

For translations I often refer to this website, sponsored by the Corriere della Sera. A tip: the word must be in the singular form, and correctly spelled, when using the searchable traduci (translate) function; i.e., cencio, not cenci.

Twelve days of Christmas ...

Tue, 5 Jan 2010 23:00:57 +0100

Today, the twelfth day of Christmas, is also the eve of Epifania. We are nearly at the end of the holiday season, which in Italy concludes with Epiphany on January sixth. Tonight a fabled witch known as the Befana will visit the homes of children all over the country, leaving them a final gift (usually a stocking full of sweets) before they return to school on the seventh. According to the legend, the Wise Men stopped to ask an old woman for directions en route to visiting Baby Jesus. When they invited her to join them she refused. Later, regretting her choice, the Befana filled a basket with sweets and set out in search of the baby—a mission that, luckily for Italy’s little ones, seems destined to last for all eternity.

Tomorrow the beat of the drums and the heavy swish of the flags will summon us to ’Pitti Beach’, the departure point of an elaborate procession of citizens dressed in historic costume. Men, women and children in fine velvets and brocades will slowly make their way north, cross the Arno (which is alarmingly high at the moment) at Ponte Vecchio, then head for Piazza del Duomo to participate in a ceremony held between the cathedral and the baptistery.

* * * * *

The holiday season is a magical time in Florence; I have collected so many beautiful images during the six Christmases I have spent here. My memory holds snapshots of poinsettias and cyclamens in festive shades of crimson and fuchsia and purple overflowing in the city’s Thursday plant market; red tablecloths, guest towels and blankets bringing jolts of color to the stalls in Piazza Santo Spirito’s daily market; tinsel and twinkling lights, evergreen boughs, pine cones and Christmas balls embellishing everything from the farmacie, the cartolerie and the tabaccherie, to the department stores and designer shops on Via Tornabuoni.

And then there are the Christmas lights that appear along Florence’s streets. I still remember watching them being put up one November when I was visiting many years ago. Unfortunately my return to the US was scheduled one day before the official illumination on the first of December. But now, witnessing the hanging of the lights in November holds the promise of a season that will be ‘merry and bright’ as we weather Florence’s rainiest month.

Each year a string of lights follows the battlemented profile of Porta San Frediano; a tree is set in Piazza della Repubblica, and another up at Piazzale Michelangelo (which you can see from down in the city). The design of the lights strung across the streets change from one year to the next. This time Borgo San Iacopo has brightly lit ‘snowballs’ suspended between garlands of lights, and illuminated star shapes outline the black night as you as you leave Ponte Vecchio to enter the north side of Florence. Walking along Via Calzaiuoli, the major pedestrian street linking the civic heart of Piazza della Signoria with the religious center of Piazza del Duomo, you feel as if you are sheltered beneath a ceiling composed of tiny lights, which adds an extra measure of delight to Christmas shopping excursions. I am not generally a very enthusiastic shopper, but I do find that doing the holiday shopping on foot, in the festive streets and piazzas, with wishes of ‘Auguri’ ringing out along with the church bells, is fun—and it’s a relief to not have to spend time sitting in traffic and waiting for parking spaces. (I have to admit that struggling home with a three-story dollhouse for my daughter one year was hard work on foot though.)

What says ‘Christmas’ for you? My favorite moments of the season are bringing home a freshly cut tree . . . walking under the lights . . . opening our Christmas trunk—one of those great old traveling chests covered with embossed metal, wooden slats and decorative hardware—to rediscover the treasures we’ve collected over the years. I love the holiday food and drink . . . the fragrant scents from the spice box as I take out cinnamon, cloves, star anise and cardamom to spice up apple cider . . . panettone toasting in the oven for Christmas breakfast . . . hot chocolate topped with freshly whipped cream . . . baking cakes and cookies. Of course it’s even better to have others to share all of these things with, and we were lucky once again to have family visiting.

Christmastime means snow for many in the northern hemisphere, though it’s rare in Florence. But this year we received the treat of a snowfall one week before Christmas—enormous, magical flakes that settled on tree branches and car roofs and soon turned the terracotta rooftops white. The view from the east side of Ponte Vecchio encapsulated a classic winter scene (shown in the photo above), the steep sides of the cathedral’s cupola briefly turned white, and Piazza Pitti’s broad slope became a drawing board for footprint designs, to which we left our mark with a couple of snow angels. We have been out of town when it’s snowed in recent years, so I cherish these new images of Florence blanketed by winter.

With the holidays drawing to a close, I find myself thinking back on the last few weeks. While Christmas provides us with an interlude of brightness during the short days of winter, it is not without stress—a stress that always seems pointless when I look back. But somehow, every year, the twenty-fifth seems to arrive so quickly that I find myself disappointed at not accomplishing everything I’d hoped and rushing through much of what I do. I repeatedly resolve to approach this period with more serenity and grace, but there still seems to be chaos everywhere—plus recipes untried, cards unsent, handmade gifts unrealized and a dozen small extras that, while nonessential, would have gone a long way towards satisfying my creative spirit.

Yet again, the twenty-fifth passed in a blur, but as I went about bringing some order to my home before going out of town for the New Year, The Twelve Days of Christmas popped into my head. I realized that it was still only the fifth day of Christmas, and a new idea began to take shape: why not try spreading out the festivities over twelve days?

That fifth day of Christmas, when

“my true love gave to me . . .
five g-o-l-d-e-n rings”

has always been my favorite part of the traditional carol. It’s one of those songs that goes on longer than is perhaps necessary, so I welcome the change of tempo, the dramatic lengthening of notes—and the reminder of the value of interludes, whether found in this season of lights and giving, through escaping for a weekend away, or simply by building some breathing space into a busy day.

* * * * *

Between the twinkling lights, the Christmas trees and the spiced apple cider, this month of celebration has brightened up the darkest days of the year, making it easier to forget how far away we still are from spring. We have finally turned the corner though, and there is much to look forward to.

Here’s hoping that your Twelve Days of Christmas were full of joy, and that 2010 turns out to be your best year yet . . .

A bouquet for Scatizzi

Thu, 10 Dec 2009 22:00:24 +0100

Today was my favorite kind of Thursday morning. With the excuse of needing to pay a bill, I crossed the Arno, then made my way to the central post office in Piazza della Repubblica. I had a couple of other stops in mind too; whenever I’m in Piazza della Repubblica early in the day I like to pause at Caffè Gilli’s bar for a quick cappuccino . . . and I had intentionally chosen Thursday for my little excursion since I always enjoy perusing the weekly plant market.

Usually I’m content to just walk through the loggia that runs along Piazza della Repubblica’s west side, enjoying the visual feast of the season’s offerings, but today I had a purchase in mind: roses, in memory of artist Sergio Scatizzi. (Read my entry about his recent exhibition here.) When my daughter and I exchanged our books at the British Institute’s library last week, I had decided to check out the book of Scatizzi’s work again—the one that had opened up the world of his painting to me a few years ago. When the librarian saw the Scatizzi book on the counter she said, “You heard?” I thought she must be talking about the exhibit that had just been at Palazzo Pitti, but quickly gathered that she was referring to the news that the artist had passed away the day before.

He lived a long life—ninety-one years—pursuing his passion. And he was internationally recognized, admired and respected. But none of this make his death any less sad, less final. While it’s possible to focus on the ‘positive’—he lived long enough to see his most recent exhibit to its conclusion, he was lucky enough to be appreciated during his lifetime—it’s no consolation for the fact that his brushes and palette knifes have been forever laid to rest.

From one of the plant sellers I chose the seven remaining orange roses; of the many kinds of flowers Scatizzi painted over the decades, roses were his favorite. Then, once home, I trimmed their stems and through them wove a length of hand-dyed silk ribbon I had bought, many years ago, in Pasadena. I spent some time photographing the bouquet in that muted but intense light that’s so typical of December, with the idea of including the photo with this entry dedicated to Scatizzi. But as I was going through my collection of ribbons, I came across another hand-dyed one, in faded browns and bluish-greys—not the usual warm colors that attract me, but their subdued shades inspired me to try another idea. With Scatizzi on my mind, I suppose it was natural that palette knifes were too . . . and so I devised a ‘bouquet’ of palette knifes with the second ribbon (shown in the photo above), my own special tribute to the artist and his richly layered work.

When looking for articles commemorating Scatizzi, I came across one written by a journalist who Scatizzi mistakenly called when trying to reach his doctor the night that he died. (Please follow this link for the article, in Italian). She comments that, despite losing precious time, he spoke with her in his usual solicitous, gentlemanly manner. Scatizzi ended up being taken to a local hospital, but passed away a few hours later, in the early hours of December first. I must have heard the ambulance as it whizzed along Piazza Pitti before making the hairpin turn onto Via Maggio; a fresh deluge of rain had woken me shortly after I went to bed, and I didn’t fall back asleep until just before dawn.

Oddly enough, after noting in my last entry that “you will likely spot a Scatizzi painting in the display window of one of the many art and antique galleries” when walking along Via Maggio, I have not seen one since. Still, a reminder of the artist lingers in his discreet brass nameplate on the palazzo across from Dolcissima (I wonder if Scatizzi used to enjoy their pastries too?), which I pass daily on Via Maggio. And I have a feeling that I will always associate orange roses with Scatizzi from now on; each time I look at my bouquet (below), I can’t help but think how wonderfully their blossomy fullness would translate with a palette knife.

With a magic palette knife

Wed, 25 Nov 2009 23:51:21 +0100

If you walk along Via Maggio, a street lined with Renaissance palazzi, you will likely spot a Scatizzi painting in the display window of one of the many art and antique galleries. Swathes of variegated color applied with a palette knife characterize the artist’s distinctly tactile work, which he has been creating in his studio on Via Maggio for many years.

I received my introduction to Sergio Scatizzi while browsing the shelves at the library of the British Institute. When I brought my stack of books to the checkout desk, enthusiastically commenting on the Scatizzi monograph I had found, the librarian told me that she was fortunate enough to “sleep beneath a Scatizzi.” After familiarizing myself with his technique I began recognizing the paintings that appeared in the Via Maggio shops as his. And, as I walked along Piazza Pitti earlier this autumn, I was delighted to see that one of the crimson banners fluttering on Palazzo Pitti advertised a show of his work. Entitled ‘Il Barocco Informale di Sergio Scatizzi’—The Abstract Baroque of Sergio Scatizzi—the exhibition was composed of sixty-one pieces that represent the artist’s flurry of activity in the first decade of the new millennium.

It’s a shame how infrequently I manage to visit the countless museums in this city (especially when I think of how I would long to be able to do so before moving here)—but of course it’s unrealistic to retain the routine of a tourist when you’re not on vacation. I am usually reluctant to disrupt my work schedule, but last week the preparations for my daughter’s twelfth birthday presented the perfect excuse to abandon my routine for a few days. It was good to have a change of pace, and I really enjoyed getting out into the city during the hours that I’m normally in my studio. Besides the errands on the north side of the river, a few serendipitous opportunities took me to parts of the city I haven’t seen in a while: the vast green space of Le Cascine to the west of the center, the hill of San Miniato to the southeast, and a number of neighborhoods in between. But I have to admit that simply walking across the street to Palazzo Pitti to see the Scatizzis was the highlight: those paintings opened up an inspiring new world.

After climbing Bartolomeo Ammanati’s monumental staircase (which gives a good sense of the building’s enormous scale), I reached the Gallery of Modern Art on the top floor. The pleasant, familiar scent of oil paints greeted me the moment I walked into the exhibit—a reminder that many of the paintings were completed only this year. I found myself surrounded by vibrant landscapes, which surprised me with their large dimensions (the paintings I had seen along Via Maggio were generally on the small side) and their colorfulness . . . I had previously associated the artist’s work with an abundant use of white. But here, a rich palette conveyed everything from Tuscan landscapes to flowers posing for still lifes and abstract compositions that recalled the shape and form of books arranged in semi-orderly stacks and rows. As I examined each painting up close, I experienced an overwhelming desire to touch the thick layers of paint, to feel the texture with my fingers. I’m sure no five-year-old would be able to help him or herself.

I wandered back and forth through the temporary rooms that had been created within the Sala del Fiorino, a one-time ballroom where the ghosts of grand ducal families, the king of Italy and Anne of Orléans (the last resident to inhabit this wing) may still dance once the palazzo falls silent at the end of the day. Scatizzi’s abstract oils created a stimulating juxtaposition with the opulent early-nineteenth-century frescoes that decorate the room’s walls. As I processed the contemporary master’s work—taking notes, considering the paintings in light of one another, returning to my favorites, trying to figure out which colors had been used to create a landscape or the petals of a flower—I also enjoyed another aspect I look forward to in the presence of art: simply seeing where my mind wanders.

Admiring Scatizzi’s frosting-like application of paint, I recalled how one of my painting teachers in college had criticized my technique of building up the paint with a palette knife, saying, “This is not a sculpture class.” As I wondered about the many steps along Scatizzi’s ninety-one-year-long path—his first chicken scratches at age two, the things he had been told during his education, the conclusions he had drawn from his own experiences—another past art teacher came to mind. He had insisted on giving me a ‘B’ for a watercolor that he considered ‘A’ work, claiming that he thought it was a fluke. He also tried (unsuccessfully) to talk me out of including the one piece in my portfolio that ended up being chosen for a city-wide exhibition of high school students. I sometimes wondered if these incidents had anything to do with his own experiences as an art student; his most memorable story was of the time his art teacher asked the class to bring their best work to the next meeting and then ordered them to destroy it. “If you can do it once, you can do it again,” she told the indignant students.

I’ve shared these tidbits with my daughter, hoping they’ll be of comfort during her art education. Already, the encouraging, supportive environment she’s had up to this point is disappearing. One of her current art teachers dismisses anything that strays from being purely abstract, and recently tore up (and threw away) several students’ sphere-shading exercises. This kind of dramatic gesture seems counter-productive to me, but I’ve no doubt there’s a lesson in there somewhere. Looking back, I realize that the most valuable lesson I learned along the way was to believe in, and trust, myself.

Not a day goes by that I don’t think about painting, of how I would go about translating a composition, a color or an idea with my oils. I have been concentrating more on writing lately, and very much miss the act of transforming a white canvas into one filled with colorful, geometric layers of paint. I do think that all of the experiences we have, the thinking we do—the percolating—is an integral part of the creative process, but if anything, seeing Scatizzi’s latest work has made me long to have the smell of oil paints permeating my studio again. One of my current endeavors is a multi-media project about favorite cities—Hong Kong, New York, Venice, Barcelona and, of course, Florence—which will include work in oils, so I expect to be able to share some new pieces in the upcoming year.

I could have happily spent the rest of the day at the Scatizzi exhibition—it was difficult to leave knowing there was so much more to absorb, that the paintings would be taken down the following day. Finally, I made my way toward the exit, where the exhibit concluded with a footnote of sorts: a handful of seventeenth-century Florentine paintings. Chosen from the Scatizzi’s private collection, they were intended to provide some background on the evolution of his own paintings. Although he conveyed his subjects in an abstract manner, Scatizzi clearly borrowed from the same tradition of richness, immediacy, movement and emotion that characterizes Baroque painting.

A last thought to ponder, a quote of Picasso’s that I came across the other day:

There is no abstract art. You must always start with something. Afterward you can remove all traces of reality.
- Pablo Picasso

I don’t know the context of the quote—the last sentence could almost be tongue-in-cheek—but I like the “you must always start with something” part. It’s the how . . . and the why . . . the artist chooses to interpret the Something that intrigues me; herein lie the infinite, marvelous possibilities.

Sergio Scatizzi was born in Gragnano, near Lucca, in 1908. He has been living and working in Florence since the 1950s and keeps a studio at the far end of Via Maggio. Click here to see some examples of Scatizzi’s work. (If the link does not work, try a search for Sergio Scatizzi on Google Images.)

Shown above: Paesaggio a Torregalli, 2007 (82 x 126,5 cm)