arzigogolare ~ to let your mind wander

Seeking balance

Tue, 1 Jun 2010 23:26:40 +0200

We unexpectedly ended up at the Giardino dell’Iris one afternoon a few weeks ago. With our books and journals and pens, my daughter and I had set out with the hope of spending some time at the Giardino delle Rose, which usually reopens each year on the first day of May. The lower gate was locked, so we continued up the steps that lead to the upper entrance. An elderly man whom we had passed below joined us as we were reading a notice on the locked gate: apparently the rose garden would not be open this spring.* We briefly shared our disappointment with the man, who told us that he had planned to walk through the rose garden on his way to the Giardino dell’Iris (which lies on the other side of Piazzale Michelangelo). His reminder that the iris garden was open for its annual three-week period inspired us to wander over too.

The irises were especially beautiful this year—and I couldn’t resist stopping to photograph what would have amounted to an impressive bouquet’s-worth—but I found the pond at the bottom of the garden to be even more intriguing. I was drawn to the resulting compositions, especially that of the image above, with its repetition of countless lily pads, in their various stages of growth and furled/unfurledness, and the space between, rich with layers of reflections and shadows. It reads like a map—a mass of lily pad ‘continents’ separated by a pond-water ‘ocean’. In looking at the photo I experience a strong feeling of balance, which is the underlying theme of my latest artist’s book, Four Rooms of One’s Own.

The book’s concept was inspired by the Indian proverb that says we are each a house with four rooms: emotional, physical, intellectual and spiritual. I first heard about this metaphor in Rumer Godden’s second memoir; its title, A House with Four Rooms, alludes to the proverb. The British writer, who grew up in India and also lived there as an adult, recommended that we visit each room every day, “even if only to keep it aired.” Her advice made sense, and the wish to further explore the concept of balancing my time within these four rooms has remained at the back of my mind ever since I first read her book many years ago.

To see photos of Four Rooms of One’s Own, follow this link. For details about the book’s content and notes on the process of designing it, please continue reading.

* * * * * * *

My artist’s book explores the activities, people and places associated with each room. It begins in the most public room—that of emotions—which is largely defined by our relationships with others. Expressed in terms of a typical home, the activities of the emotional room would take place in the communal spaces (the family room, the dining room, the front porch), as well as extending into the world beyond. Next is the room devoted to the care of our physical selves, the place where we nurture our bodies with food, sleep and exercise . . . things that happen in the kitchen and the bedroom, at restaurants and cafés, on the tennis court, at the park and the gym. Then we come to the intellectual room, which could be imagined as a sort of virtual office or study that’s furnished with things we use to feed and stimulate our minds and organize our lives. The final—and most intimate—room is where our spirit resides. Closing the door (whether actual or metaphorical) to everyday distractions, the spiritual room serves as a place where we can contemplate who we are and who we want to become. This may happen in the garden, on the yoga mat or within the pages of a journal . . . while following the melody of a song, sipping a cup of tea or praying.

Most of us know that regularly taking time for the activities in all four rooms helps us to find a sense of balance, which in turn leads to more harmony in our lives. I am the first to admit what a challenge it is to strike a healthy balance in the four rooms; I imagine we are each naturally drawn to spend more time in the rooms where we feel most comfortable. For me, these are the intellectual and spiritual rooms. While I have often envied the beauty of a team working together, and the resulting synergy of many minds, I work best with endless hours of solitude. Fortunately, my daughter’s activities and needs draw me into the physical and social rooms regularly, so I find that being a mother helps me to maintain more balance than I would otherwise achieve.

* * * * * * *

Keeping in mind what a big motivation a deadline is, I chose to design Four Rooms of One’s Own for a specific exhibition. I like how ‘rules’ not only give direction, but that they also encourage me to try something I might not have otherwise attempted. The book was created in response to a call for submission by same gallery that accepted my last artist’s book. The single requirement was that the artists’ books incorporate some hand-drawn content. While this left plenty of room for interpretation, it certainly influenced the final form of Four Rooms of One’s Own.

As my ideas began to take shape, color emerged as the most important element. I envisioned the pages of each room in a different vibrant color, and able to be arranged to form four individual rooms. The early stage of experimentation is one of the most exciting; I love the process of exploring the seemingly endless possibilities . . . of going to sleep with ideas churning and waking excited to try out the ideas that have developed overnight. After creating a number of mock-ups from scrap paper, I finally came up with a modified accordion. Next I started sifting through the collection of brightly colored Canson Mi-Teintes paper that I’d been gathering. While experimenting with mini versions in different combinations, I eventually figured out the right size and shape of the pages. Everything seemed to come together when I found a sheet of paper marbled with strong colors that played on the ones I had chosen for the pages; it was perfect for the portfolio-style cover that I would create to house the book.

Once I was happy with my choices for the book’s form, I began thinking about how to convey the activities and concepts associated with each of the metaphorical spaces. I had no idea at this point if the visual elements would be literal or conceptual. In fact, I initially envisioned the rooms as composites of the specific spaces where the relevant activities took place, with actual doors leading from one room to the next. For example, on the pages of the intellectual room I drew bookcases, a desk, a comfortable armchair with a reading light and various tools associated with this room’s activities—reading, writing, organizing and planning.

As I worked on the visual element, I also considered how to handle the narrative—whether the text should be general, or personalized to reflect how living in Florence influences the way I experience and ‘use’ each room. In the end, I chose to keep the focus more general, but I did realize how simply living in Florence is conducive to ‘visiting’ each room regularly. For example, the piazzas and bars (in Italy the ‘bar’ is not only the place you might go for an evening aperitivo, but also where you drink your morning cappuccino and multiple espressos throughout the day) are the hub of social life. In terms of the physical room, nowhere else has it been so easy to eat well. And since I walk everywhere, I find the entire city is my answer to the gym; everything we need must be carried home, and there are always fifty-five steps to climb before reaching the apartment, so exercise is naturally integrated into my daily routine. (Getting an uninterrupted night’s sleep in a city is the tricky part.) With its storied architecture, countless museums and tangible connection to the past, every outing in Florence informs and inspires, so visiting the intellectual room is also a natural part of each day. And, while this may not be the case for everyone, Florence also satisfies on a spiritual level. I can’t fully express what good it does my soul to follow the melody of the church bells throughout the day, and relaxing in a public gardens, spending some time in a church or visiting the hills that surround the city also go a long way toward restoring my inner harmony. Even a simple walk through the chaos of the city can instantly bring me into a zone that’s conducive to contemplation.

* * * * * * *

It turned out that the one required element—the hand-drawn content—presented the most difficulty for me; it challenged not only my skills, but my confidence. I think of a drawing’s potential strength/simplicity as the artist’s equivalent of poetry. For one who is comfortable with layers and colors . . . with collage and oil paints and palette knifes . . . distilling an object’s essence into mere lines is intimidating.

As I moved between words and the graphics, I drew away from the initial idea of a literal visual representation. I considered embellishing a series of collages with a few hand drawn details, but then decided to look at this as an opportunity to embrace the drawing aspect. I toyed with the idea of designing a single symbol to represent each room, but it seemed too perfunctory an approach. As my journal filled up with sketches recording my ideas for the structure and configurations of the book, I even wondered if perhaps I might submit the sketchbook itself as the artist’s book (while the resulting book about the four rooms would serve as an almost an incidental inclusion).

As the deadline loomed, I still hadn’t settled on what form the drawing element would take. But then I began to experiment with creating a still life of sorts, using objects that I associated with each room’s activities. I decided to incorporate many of the quotes I had recorded during my research into the objects. A quote from Laurie Colwin’s found its way onto an invitation among the grouping of objects in the emotional/social room: “The table is a meeting place, a gathering ground, the source of sustenance and nourishment, festivity, safety, and satisfaction.” On the ‘label’ of a relaxation-inducing jar of bath salts in the physical room, I placed Susan Glaspell’s words: “I can’t think of any sorrow in the world that a warm bath wouldn’t help, just a little bit.” In the mental room is a bookmark with a quote by Dr. Seuss: “The more that you read, the more things you will know. The more that you learn, the more places you’ll go.” A tea bag next to a tea pot in the spiritual room shares these words from Thích Nat Hanh: “Drink your tea slowly and reverently, as if it is the axis on which the world earth revolves slowly, evenly, without rushing toward the future. Live the actual moment.”

I waffled about producing the final drawing until the day of the deadline. I had completed dozens of sketches and studies, spent hours contemplating and rearranging my chosen objects, yet I was still nervous about committing. That last night before the deadline was a notte bianca in Florence—a ‘white night’, when the piazzas and streets are full of music and people, and shops, restaurants and bars stay open until 3 or 4 am. The timing couldn’t have been better; it really helped knowing I wouldn’t be the only one staying up all night. I flung the windows open to let in the music playing down in Piazza Pitti, and it kept me company long into the night.

At 2:30 am, a few hours before midnight in Denver would mark the deadline, I picked up the walnut-colored pencil and recreated the objects I had portrayed so often over the last several weeks—objects that had by this time become quite familiar to me. My hand found a rhythm, and the process became a meditation of sorts. I held my breath as I affixed the finished 40-inch-wide drawing to the booklet that I had printed with the text, and somehow the weeks of work magically pulled together. Finally, it was ready to be photographed (the submission is made through two photos that one hopes will convey the intricacies of the project).

As I mentioned earlier, the experimentation stage is wonderful, but nothing could match the euphoria that came over me as dawn broke. Too excited to sleep, I didn’t even mind at that point if the book ended up being chosen for the exhibition. I was just amazed that it was finished, and that I deemed the drawing to be a success. I suppose that we experience a private victory any time we accomplish something we didn’t quite believe possible.

* * * * * * *

Four Rooms of One’s Own will be appearing in an exhibition of artists’ books entitled Interior Markings, on display at Abecedarian Gallery in Denver, Colorado, between 2 July and 7 August 2010.

* The sign attributes the Giardino delle Rose’s closure to a restructuring project that will be well worth it; several sculptures by Belgian artist Jean-Michel Folon are scheduled to take up permanent residence in the garden.

The beauty of a shadow ...

Tue, 4 May 2010 13:50:42 +0200

I have often claimed that all I have to do in order to be inspired is walk out the front door of the building I live in. But that’s not strictly true; I don’t actually have to even leave my apartment to find inspiration. Four stories up (three if you’re counting all’italiana), among the terracotta rooftops, there’s plenty to engage me. I love being able to hear and to watch the street life below, and lately I’ve been keeping a discreet eye on two pigeons who are building a nest under the eves (rather unpoetically in a gutter, to be precise). At dusk they perch, in profile, on opposing sides of a pair of arched shutters, often tail-to-tail—almost as if they’re ‘going to bed angry’. Sometimes they face inward, toward one other, or they might both strike identical poses, with all eyes trained on the nearby nest.

Even up here, in my own sheltered nest of sorts, I am surrounded by inspiration. From the apartment below us, notes from a grand piano resonate through the building for several hours each day, and I can glance into the studio of the painter who lives across the sdrucciolo as I work in mine. The woman across the hall is also an artist (as well as a mother of four); even her four-year-old’s exclamations of curiosity and general busyness often inspire me. Somehow it’s reassuring to know that those around me are also expressing themselves, in whatever form.

* * * * *

I have noticed that the new moon often ushers in an upward shift in my creativity level. Whether this theory stems from seemingly corroborated proof or mere coincidence, my creative habits definitely follow a cycle of perceiving/thinking/doing. There will be a period where I can hardly write down the ideas quickly enough—a time with much exploration and experimentation, which leads to more ideas. Next is more of a planning stage, when I tend to focus on working out the logistics involved in executing particular projects; the exploring/experimenting from the initial phase continues, but with more direction. After all of this preparation comes the moment when I feel ready to commit to producing something tangible. Then, once I am feeling confident about being able to successfully complete the current work, my mind once again returns to a state of generating new ideas. The cycle will repeat many times during the course of long-term projects, but I always hope to find myself with something new at the end of each cycle.

At the April meeting of a writer’s group that has recently formed in Florence (FLOW), we discussed our sources of inspiration. I find it’s something that usually begins inside me—a thought, a memory, an experience—which means I don’t suffer from the proverbial ‘writer’s block’. (It’s more a case of having more ideas and possibilities than I can find time to execute; having a variety of simultaneous projects seems to keep the creative energy flowing.) Inspiration often comes to me in the form of ‘possibility’—a train of thought that begins with the title of a book, the curve of a line drawn in ink, a color I notice. Even though it might not have anything to do with the original, the interpretation of the thoughts and feelings that are provoked provides an never-ending supply of inspiration.

There’s no doubt that living in a place that is filled with so much beauty also inspires me; I feel as if a basic, integral need has been met, which in turn frees me to be more creative. Instead of being distracted by the depressing sight of ill-proportioned and bizarrely-scaled strip malls and a plethora of pre-fab chain stores, fast food joints, Neo-this and Neo-that, architectural styles cobbled together with no regard for context—and other built forms that offend my architectural sensibilities—my surroundings give me a sense of contentment that I am grateful for literally every day.

Another source of inspiration is my daughter. At the writer’s meeting I used the example of how, if she wants to draw a horse, she simply sits down and starts doing it—whereas the thought of drawing such a complex creature with which I have little familiarity intimidates me no end. I admire her ability to express herself without inhibition and judgement, to not over-think things, and to trust her instincts. She is also great company; I love to look across the long studio table and see her working on her own creative projects as I work on mine. Like me, she has managed to grow up without knowing the concept of ‘bored’.

I am also lucky that my daughter is so supportive of the intense periods I spend working toward deadlines. She cheerfully puts up with having the floors and other surfaces strewn with piles of books and large sheets of art paper, as well as things like the dwindling stacks of clean clothes and clean plates (what habits she is learning!)—not to mention an utterly absorbed and rather exhausted mother. While she is a child who generally appreciates order, she seems to recognizes the benefits of having what is essentially an in-house art store, and I think she quite enjoys the spontaneity that characterizes these periods.

With la festa della Mamma (Mother’s Day) just around the corner, it’s the perfect time to acknowledge my mother as a creative inspiration. I grew up thinking she could make anything, and I continue to be in awe of all that has come from her two hands: porcelain dolls, Washi paper angels, oil and watercolor paintings, necklaces made from beads collected on her wide travels—and countless other creations. When we lived in Brazil she cultivated a passion for dollhouses. Teaching herself to unholster, sculpt and carve in miniature, she crafted much of the furniture herself. Her masterpiece was a fireplace that she carved from soapstone and faced with individually-made miniature bricks, then finished off with a carved wooden mantle and hinging doors for tiny cupboards. If I’m ever struggling with a project, I remember the realm of possibility represented by this fireplace, and the ‘where there’s a will, there’s a way’ attitude that my mother lives by . . .

* * * * *

With the renewed light of this season, I have become more aware of the return of the shade and shadow that the grayness of winter tends to suppress. Through notes and photos, I have been recording shadows I observe from my window. I think the beauty of a shadow lies in its deliberateness; while the form of the object itself may sometimes be hard to read, on a sun-filled day the shadow is always certain, direct and clear. What a contrast is created, for example, by the shadow of one of those small brackets that holds an open shutter in place—by the strength of its line against the warmth of the yellow plaster. Compared to the compactness of the bracket, it’s surprising how far the shadow’s length stretches.

One recent morning, an elderly man pausing to read his newspaper in a patch of sunlight drew my attention when I looked down onto the sdrucciolo. As I thought about how glorious it feels to be able to stand in the warmth of the spring sun, I noticed more of these little ‘rooms’ (or pockets) of light all along the edge of the sdrucciolo; the profile of the varying roof outlines had projected a pattern of tooth-like shadows that highlighted the sunny spots.

To these and other shadows I owe the title of this Arzigogolare entry, ‘The beauty of a shadow’. The image at the top of the page derives from a photo I digitally altered to emphasize the distinct swathes of shade, shadow and light that I observed on the plaster wall of the palazzo across from me. The top third indicates the shade that results from the building’s roof overhang, while the lower section comes from the shadow cast by the roof of my building (with the serrated pattern mimicking the roof tiles); the space in between portrays the sliver of sunlight that falls between the shade and shadow. After my experiments with the photo, I was especially interested to see what happened within the area representing the sunlight: the distinct, dark line that resulted along the top, and the fuzzier white and pink undulating lines below.

In summing up this rather organic exploration of inspiration and creativity, I can only conclude that you never know where these complementary concepts may find their origins—anywhere and everywhere, it seems.

I have just completed a new artist’s book (which is why it has taken me so long to pull together several weeks’-worth of random notes into the latest Arzigogolare entries). I will share some photos and thoughts on the artist’s book, Four Rooms of One’s Own, once I’ve had a chance to reflect on the process…

Spring party

Tue, 20 Apr 2010 23:00:02 +0200

This Arzigogolare entry first began to take shape before Easter, after I took a series of photos of Rivoire’s display windows. The upscale café, positioned to allow for a sweeping view of Piazza della Signoria, is known for its signature chocolate, in the form of bite-sized artisan chocolates and their famously thick cioccolata calda (hot chocolate). While enticing window displays are a year-round attraction, Rivoire outdoes itself for the major holidays. At Christmastime there is usually an elaborate Nativity scene constructed of chocolate highlighted with gold and, in the weeks leading up to Easter, large chocolate eggs wrapped in a selection of gorgeous papers, fabrics and ribbons dress up the windows.

When I stopped to record this year’s gorgeous Easter offerings with my camera one afternoon (shades of poppy-red and spring-green-wrapped eggs nestled together in one window, and silver-papered ones set off by a palette of fuchsia and pink decorations in the other), I ended up being more fascinated by the unexpected reflection of the piazza in the glass than the display itself. I was so busy admiring the eggs that I had failed to notice this new perspective of the piazza, how the warmly glowing stone buildings that define the square, with its ceiling of blue sky , had superimposed a new layer upon the display (shown in the photo above). While this photograph may no longer be timely, it still serves to remind me of the unexpected—and inspiring—things we find when we take a moment to examine the view through the lens, whether that of a camera or simply our own eyes.

Inspiration is an ever-present topic that has been on my mind even more than usual lately (which I will explore in the next Arzigogolare entry), but I did want to share a few notes on the changing of the season first. I love the anticipation of the period leading up to Easter; prettily wrapped chocolate eggs brighten up shops and cafés (some places string them overhead, so you find yourself walking under a ceiling of colorful, shiny egg-shaped packages). Colombe also pop up everywhere, either in impressively large boxes with ribbon handles, or packaged in cellophane at bakeries. While there are a number of flavors on the market, and each region seems to have its own variation, this light, yeast-based cake is traditionally studded with candied orange peel or raisins and embellished with a sugary topping made with egg whites and almonds; its unusual shape of a dove-in-flight symbolizes peace.

I especially like anticipating the approach of midnight on Easter Eve, when the church bells that have remained silent since Holy Thursday swing into motion once again, filling the air with joyful music as they call people to the first celebratory Mass. Unfortunately, daybreak did not bring the most glorious of weather, so it was not an ideal morning for little girls to show off their Easter dresses. But a holiday hush—with voices and footsteps more prominent than whizzing motorcycles and tour buses—set the day apart from the others, and the rain held off until the afternoon.

Easter definitively marks the beginning of the serious tourist season; as spring progresses, the center will only grow more congested and difficult to negotiate. There is so much to look forward to in this season though. Each spring I visit the city’s Thursday plant market in search of a blue hydrangea to place on the kitchen window sill; this year it’s complemented by a purple-blossomed periwinkle plant that has just started blooming again. The herbs are at their best (soon they will be suffering from the heat), and lend an extra hint of personality to our meals; plus there’s plenty of thyme for sore throats (infused with cinnamon bark and mellowed with honey from the Sunday flea market in Santo Spirito), and sprigs of mint to refresh glasses of iced tea, though it is not yet hot enough to brew sun tea.

As I look out at the roof tops, I see fairy gardens of moss and wind-blown seeds sprouting across the tiles. Fluffy white clouds puff across a blue sky one day; the next, angry rain is blown against freshly washed windows (which the sunny skies had inspired me to clean!). It’s an interval of change all around. Spring also signals that it’s time for the cambio di stagione (putting away one’s winter clothes and bringing out the warmer weather wear) … if only we could perfume our woolens with the branches of sweet lilacs that are for sale everywhere.

We’ve moved into the festive period when it sounds like there’s a party going on all day long, and late into the night. I often hear someone tapping out a soulful rhythm on a drum somewhere in the neighborhood. On sunny days, Pitti Beach is packed like the shoreline in July, and people sit below the windows of our palazzo, eating lunch in the strip of shade, chattering non-stop; the noise is further compounded by construction work going on in an apartment across the narrow sdrucciolo. The city is loud, especially so in the season of open windows! People who call us often interrupt the conversation to ask what that ‘godawful noise’ is (usually a motorino in a hurry, or the trash trucks emptying the dumpsters, which can make it almost impossible to hear yourself think).

But, on a sweeter note, spring also brings the return of our favorite musician, Claudio Spadi (click here for an article in Italian). In the evenings, he sets up his guitar-related equipment in the piazzetta that lies at the midpoint of Ponte Vecchio and plays a repertoire of both classic Italian songs and a mix of international ones, interspersing the lyrics with his cheerful whistling. My daughter is always thrilled when he sings his rendition of Buona Sera (‘Good Evening’) … the impromptu words are tailored to greet those walking across the bridge: La signora in bici che parla al telefono (the woman on her bike, talking on the telephone); le ragazze che camminano in fretta (the girls walking in a hurry); l’uomo con la maglietta verde mela (the man with the apple-green shirt); la commessa col caffe in mano (the salesgirl holding a coffee). He also includes those who gather to hear him perform: i bambini che ballano (the children dancing); il vecchietto col bastone (the old man with a walking stick); gli innamorati (the couple in love). The song is full of fun and energy, the beauty of the small details of everyday life. We try to plan our return home from outings in the center so that we can stop and listen to a few songs …

Dreaming of Venice ...

Sat, 27 Mar 2010 16:32:00 +0100

As I looked out of the living room window one morning after a night of rain, the glistening street below reminded me of a Venetian canal (I tried to capture the effect in the photo above). I love how Venice’s canals each reflect such a rich and varied palette. The buildings overlooking them (which change color according to the time of day and the light) . . . the boats bobbing along the edges . . . the weather conditions of the strip of sky overhead—these all affect the ever-changing mood of the canals.

I have only been to Venice once, so I always appreciate a chance to ‘visit’ the city through books and movies. One of my favorite Italian films is Pane e Tulipani, which for the most part takes place in Venice. In a pivotal early scene, Rosalba, the main character (played by the appealing Licia Maglietta), struggles to retrieve an earring she dropped in the toilet of an Autogrill. Meanwhile, not registering her absence, Rosalba’s husband, two sons and the rest of the group they’re traveling with board the tour bus, which leaves without her. Rosalba decides to forego the rest of the tour and head home, but Serendipity brings her to Venice. Here the rather oppressed, middle-aged Italian housewife experiences a quiet epiphany, and ends up creating a new—and much more fulfilling—life for herself. While Rosalba’s personal transformation takes place against the magical backdrop of Venice, I like that the story takes us through the quieter campi of everyday Venice, giving us a taste of its less known beauty.

While certainly not as dramatic, my introduction to the city known as La Serenissima was memorable. My parents had decided to host a family trip to Venice in celebration of my fortieth birthday a few years ago. Walking through Piazza Santo Spirito on my way to pick up my daughter just before our departure, I experienced the shock—and delight—of turning around to find that the American voice politely asking if I would take a photo of he and his wife belonged to my brother. They had come all the way from California in time to join us in Venice, which made the weekend feel like a real party.

I still enjoy returning to the memories and impressions I collected in the journal I kept for this visit to Venice. One of my favorite pages contains lists of the five things each of us hoped to do during our four days there. I’m impressed that every item is checked off, though our wishes were deliberately realistic: I think we each somehow knew that the best things about Venice are the unexpected ones. ‘See how easy it is to get lost’ was at the top of my list. I have an innate sense of direction, but did manage to briefly experience the excitement of losing my way—until I got the hang of the numbering system for each of the sestieri . . . I felt like a piece moving on a life-sized game board as I followed the increasing numbers that finally led me back to the B&B.

There were many wonderful moments, spent in the company of my family, or wandering the narrow zigzagging calli on my own. One memorable discovery came when my sister-in-law and I stumbled upon an exhibition entitled ‘Chandeliers’, by a Venetian artist named Fabio Bianco. His enormous, vividly colored canvases featured elaborate chandeliers in rooms composed of endless reflections, which seemed to capture the very essence of Venice’s dazzling splendor.

An afternoon at Santa Maria della Salute stands out as another highlight. The church is stunning from an architectural standpoint, but I also simply enjoyed spending time in the space. I found a bench warmed by a long ray of sunlight, and caught up on my journaling between taking in the church’s many beautiful details: windows glazed with circles of thick glass in delicately nuanced shades of blue, purple, pink and peach; trays of tea light candles with dancing flames whose sparks recalled Fourth-of-July sparklers from my childhood; impressive clusters of ornate columns encircling the open, central plan. And then there was the marble floor, so intricately detailed . . . the beautifully worn patterns undulated gently across the vast basilica (in my journal I expressed this as a ‘warble in the floor’s voice’). A large area at the center was cordoned off, but too inviting for a two-year-old to resist—as she danced under the enormous chandelier suspended overhead, I couldn’t help but imagine the gracious space as the setting for a masquerade ball. Such hyperbole never seems out of place in Venice.

* * * * *

When I think back on Venice now, my imagination conjures up a long, narrow ribbon of land, intricately detailed, but almost insignificant between the expanse of water before it and the stretch of sky that hovers above. Contrasting with this strip of skyline running along the horizon is the full, almost voluptuous plan view of the city, with the Grand Canal sinuously curving through a lacy mass that is stitched together by characterful little bridges.

Translating all of the inspiration I carried away from Venice into the creative projects in my mind is going to be a long process. As a start, sorting through my photos has prompted a new page on my website:
Glimpses of Venice.

Other links to follow . . .

For a listing of books and films, news and other info about Venice, visit:
Fictional Cities
(You will also find the link to a comprehensive site dedicated to Venice’s churches.)

Cookbook author Tessa Kiros’s latest books beautifully portray Venice through a collection of recipes, her writings and the visually stunning work of her creative team:

Venezia: Food and Dreams
&
A Venetian Journal: Food, Travel and Dreams

Forty days & forty nights

Tue, 9 Mar 2010 12:03:21 +0100

Visions of letters have been dancing through my head lately. During this period of Lent, known here as Quaresima, the latest seasonal treat in the local bakeries are quaresimali [shown in the photo above]. Composed of sugar, egg whites, flour, cocoa powder and miscellaneous ingredients that vary from one recipe to another, the cookie batter is piped into the letters of the alphabet before baking.

The story of the cookie’s origins possesses that same elusive quality I have stumbled across time and time again when researching anything pertaining to this country’s far-reaching history. One source claims that nuns at a convent near Florence invented the Tuscan version in the mid-1800s; their choice to shape them into letters is said to be symbolic of the words of the Gospel. I’ve also read that the cookies assumed the form of letters to amuse the younger set, for whom they were mainly intended. In any case, the light and not-too-sweet quaresimali were once the only sweets allowed during the period of Lent; while perhaps austere compared to other dolci, they are nonetheless satisfyingly crunchy, with a whisper of chocolate. The inclusion of cocoa powder may seem out of place during Lent (I can’t help but think of Joanne Harris’s novel, Chocolat), but tradition says that it was added to make the cookies dark in color, out of respect for the religious season of mourning.

I imagine the bakers in charge of piping out endless alphabets during these forty days must trace letters in their sleep, but my excuse for breathing and dreaming letters more than usual lately stems from the days and nights I spent working on an abecedary (which I recently submitted for consideration in an exhibition of abecedaries at a Denver-based gallery). I find the concept of these books that follow the alphabet, unfolding one letter at a time, to be very inspiring—it’s a solid structure with endless possibilities.

I love the potential inherent in the design of an artist’s book, and notice the same kind of parallels I used to appreciate between my Treasure Boxes and buildings (a basic structure/exterior, an interior and the accessories/decorative details). Despite the intimate scale of a one-of-a-kind book, the cascade of decisions can feel overwhelming. But ultimately it’s satisfying to see a book through from beginning to end—to have control over every choice, from the theme, content and layout, to the size, medium, binding type, construction and cover. And I enjoyed the process of letting it evolve in a way that balanced the designated structure with the available time (of which there never seems to be enough for this kind of thing) and materials.

In fact, I was thrilled to be able to salvage just enough ‘scraps’ of the creamy, heavyweight Rives paper that first brought me to the path that led to The Piazzas of Florence. I still remember that July day, nearly eight years ago … I sat in the light of a sunny window, admiring the paper’s slightly toothy texture and deckled edges, knowing I just had to create something from it. I am fascinated by books that open in unexpected ways, revealing new layers . . . little surprises . . . so I started experimenting with miniature books whose pages folded out. I ended up with chapters that began with a historical background of each of Florence’s main piazzas, which was then followed by pages that unfolded to reveal different types of increasingly more ‘personal’ information: excerpts from the writings of past travelers, watercolored maps that could be personalized by readers, ‘Invitations’ to inspire creative expression and blank space to use however they wished. When I was ready to present the proposal for my ‘interactive travel guide’ (the original concept for the book that eventually became The Piazzas of Florence), the package included a mock-up chapter showing how the various elements worked together—which I constructed from the gorgeous Rives paper.

But back to the abecedary . . . One of my goals for each of the places in my multi-media Cities project is to create a one-of-a-kind book. For this one I chose to focus on the familiar, but endlessly enthralling, city of Florence (I can’t imagine ever running out of ways to express the many rich layers that characterize my adopted home). From the Arno to the Bridges, the Cupola, Dante and so on, I interpreted each element through an arrangement of photographs and accompanying text (for which I used Arno Pro, a font named for the river that I cross almost daily). After several rounds of experimentation, I decided on a modified accordion binding, a format I am drawn to because it can either be experienced like a traditional book or expanded for display in a series of ever-changing forms.

How good it was to work with paper again, to let my hands guide me wherever they were so inclined. Even photographing the book was rewarding as I manipulated the accordion folds into different shapes, allowing me to appreciate the sculptural quality of the piece. [Please click here to see a few photos.] Although I am very happy with the end result, I can’t help but reflect on other things I would have done if time had permitted (an inevitable part of the creative process). For example, I had originally envisioned individually hand-designing the letters, as well as creating collages to complement the photographs that portrayed each letter’s theme. I wish there had been more time to contemplate the cover too but, in retrospect, I like how the juxtaposition of corrugated cardboard with the more refined gold and cream-patterned paper alludes to the contrasts that are intrinsic to Florence.

Now that the deadline has passed and my studio and life have regained some order, I am no longer breathing and dreaming the letters of the alphabet. But still, I find my brain wandering restlessly through the night, turning over ideas for other artist’s book: I am already planning the next one…

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New growth is emerging from tender buds and birds have been twittering among the trees and the rooftops as local temperatures begin a general upward trend. But, as is typical of marzo pazzo (crazy March), winter isn’t ready to blow out of town just yet . . . in fact, snow flakes have been flurrying through the air much of today. A visit to the enticingly sunny Pitti ‘Beach’ over the weekend lasted about five minutes before the bone-chilling wind sent us inside. And after spending yesterday afternoon standing in near-zero temps while my daughter participated in a middle school triathlon, we could hardly wait to get home to our cast iron radiators, feather duvets, hot water bottles and steaming bowls of stew. After we had warmed our numb feet and purple hands and noses, we indulged in tiny cups of potent hot chocolate served with a handful of crispy quaresimali—the perfect accompaniment.