Teatro Marcellus

Up crap of dawn. Roberta takes us out to Bussolengo where the gruff but sweet-natured care-taker, son of the Padrona we first met back in March, checks in our poor little Mary. Our train is over an hour late arriving. We wait on the platform in the shelter with a group of Irish tourists, three sets of retirement age couples, some of whom are pretty tipsy at 10:00 AM. One of the men holds a brimming wine glass of red wine. I assume it’s his wife or partner who suddenly says, somewhat irritated, “now where did you get that wine?”, to which the man responds “from a bottle, Susie-want some?” No one says the word “bottle” like the Irish.

Finally, we are on the train heading south to Lazio. I have made sandwiches for the ride. We eat and then settle in for a travel nap. I am reading “Anthills of the Savannah” by African writer Achebe. Both this and an earlier novel, the famous “Things Fall Apart” were given us by the California Inghams. I loved “Things Fall Apart” but am finding “Anthills of the Savannah” to be over-wrought and stiff, like he’s trying to do too much. Still, an interesting point of view and some excellent prose.

We arrive in Rome on a breezy, sunny afternoon, find our proper bus easily and are soon at the address of the apartment we’ve rented for the week. It’s a working class neighborhood of high-rise apartment buildings, pretty recent construction but already shabby, even slightly grim if bursting with human life energy and activity. We will be able to easily catch a bus into the main parts of Rome. The apartment itself is fine, well laid-out and full of light, perfectly clean and tidy. The fellow we’re renting from is relieved we speak some Italian as he has no English; makes us feel pretty smart.

We hop the bus to the Isola on the Tevere River, a cool spot with a Roman footbridge and the Ponte Rotto (Broken Bridge), a remnant chunk of another, much grander Roman bridge which stands, isolated, in the fast-moving water below the Isola. The quality of light this evening is perfect. We view the Porta Ottavia and the Teatro Marcellus, on our way to the Jewish ghetto section of old Rome. It’s our first taste of this city’s vast network of ruins. Incredible, the grand structures with their smudged and weathered aspects built into and absorbed by the restless city. We see chunks of stone broken off the many vanished buildings and arranged in piles, just a bunch of rubble till one peers in more closely to make out the bits of carved ornament, the ribbing in the columns.

Near Palazzo Farnese with its ivy-hung arch designed by Michelangelo, we see the eerie, carved skulls on the facade of Santa Maria dell’Orazione e Morte. We continue along Via Julia where a scruffy Roman hipster plays beautifully on a classical guitar, singing in Spanish a Gypsy sounding song. We find ourselves on the rocking Campo di Fiori, full of drinking tourists. The old part of Rome is charming in the manner of these Italian cities, not as ramshackle as Siracusa, vaster and way more trashed than Verona; a Medieval urban jungle. Everywhere we come across these fontane with that sweet, cold Roman water, a civic touch we think is most hospitible and humane.

We have dinner at an only OK place, chosen randomly. We’ve read that tourists get jacked in Roman restaurants often, are given inferior fare or whatever, so we’re kind of paranoid. L. orders risotto and that ain’t what she gets, was more like something from Uncle Ben. In spite of our growing facility with the Italian language, we do not complain. At least the price was low.

Last day of work before the Rome jaunt. I have done a drawing from a Washington Post photo of a Lebanese woman screaming in anguish during the Israeli bombardment of Beirut. It’s kind of my salute to those tortured images of Dora Maar Picasso painted in the late thirties. How long must people suffer for the vanity of the war-makers? Sadly, the image of a screaming face reflecting trauma and despair and the limitless suffering of innocents is relevant in every age and will continue to be so.

We have made a reservation at the pensione in Bussolengo for little Mary. Poverina! It will be sad, not having her with us, but this is no vacation for a dog; too much city and sightseeing. Roberta has offered to drive us out there tomorrow AM and drop us off at the stazione. We have done our homework and are ready for Rome.

Tonight we have a little festa at Josh and Audrey’s to attend. We visit the stationery store on Via Mameli, buy some pens and quadernini (little notebooks) as gifts for Audrey- it was recently her birthday. I make a stack of my stamped cards, colored with ink and brush, and wrap it all up nicely. We are to meet Audrey at FNAC near Piazza Herbe and drive together to their pad way out in the wilds of Borgo Roma. We are running a little late, but Audrey is not perturbed. She compliments us on our improved Italian.

Josh and Audrey share a two bedroom apartment with an architect friend named Vera, a girl about their age, I think; they are all in their late twenties. Their building is pleasant and tidy with a spacious giardino for dining al fresca. Audrey tells us how Josh made a point of fully cleaning their pad for us, having noticed several times how neatly we keep the Bixio. She uses a great word, pulitissimo to say “very clean.” One thing about Borgo Roma, it’s a rather cold, industrial neighborhood, not nearly so charming as Borgo Trento or the area around San Zeno.

On his recent trip to the States, Josh picked up a bunch of Tex-Mex ingredients one cannot find in Verona. He has made a taco salad and offers us genuine bean dip. We five, Josh, Audrey, Vera, L., and I are joined by two more ladies and two fellows whose names I cannot recall. We had met them at the Communist Par-tay back in May, so I should have a better idea, but such is memory. They are pleasant people, low-key and comfortable with one another, and it’s a beautiful sound, the way they chat. L. and I manage to throw down a few phrases, with some prompting from Audrey who, though French by birth, speaks perfect Italian. We have wine and appetizers while Josh cooks up backyard burgers. Audrey has made a quiche. No one knows what to do with the bun and burger approach at first; they are used to eating the meat pattie alone on a plate as a secondo. We Americani have to offer a demonstration. It’s a cultural mash-up.

Later, we chill on the patio. Josh has potted plants everywhere, a green screen against the concrete span of the grocery store parking lot directly facing. On the roof of the building next door a huge TV antenna gleams in the light of a streetlamp. Driving back to Bixio with Josh and Audrey we see the prostitutes of Borgo Roma lined up on the sidewalk, a rougher vision of ancient, dreamy Verona.

I’m trying to finish eight of these SLM Comics illustrations before we leave for Rome, am working hard in the afternoon and in the evenings as well, after the gym visit and recovery phase. L. is slogging away at her UVa. gig, fine-tuning the design before sending it off to the printers. At times, it feels like we could be anywhere, as much as we stay up in the apartment working, but then you hear the foreign siren, the Italian voices drifting up from Nino Bixio, the frequent jingle of bells on bicycles; you’re not in Kansas anymore! Breathe in the difference, Americani, and don’t forget how lucky you are to travel!

One cool thing that happened today, Sig Sorenson, forever friend of my brother Ted and the Ingham family in general, phoned L. and me from all the way in New York City, the first time I’ve spoken with him since Spring 2005 when the four brothers did our East Coast jaunt. We have an awesome chat and I may end up doing some portraits of his kids- would be a fun gig, as lovely as those kids are!

Il Fuoco

I start a vigorous campaign to re-establish my Dog Donne ties. I still have two finished dog commissions which have not been delivered since the vacations of early August, the portrait of Zara for Patrizia and my oversized drawing of Athos and Ollie for Elvira. Rocco and Otta’s Mom, whose name I recently learned is Adriana, re-unites post-ferie with Mariella this morning and we three have a nice chat. I am getting much better at comprehension, can even throw in a salient comment or two. Fil’s Dad, Livio, is back from ferie and asks how L. is doing. I tell him the sad tale of “the fuoco.” Slowly but surely he and I are beginning to understand each other- a few months ago, “buon giorno” was all we could manage.

Today, L. and Roberta went to the discount grocery, Lidl, where L. buys a ton of good stuff cheap. Roberta wants to trade a portrait commission for Italian lessons which will be a good deal. Programs we’ve looked at here in Verona cost several hundred Euros per person and, while Josh is a good teacher and has useful tips, he’s not a native speaker. Roberta has pretty righteous Italian, having been schooled here in the North, and her English is near perfect. She could even teach us a bit of Veneto slang. We’ll continue with Josh as well; he such a great guy, it just cheers us up hanging with him.

Tonight, we do a two hour session with Roberta, then take the dogs out for a walk in San Giorgio. Man, Roberta likes to chat! She lets Kimba wander all over the park, strolling very slowly, then accompanies us back up Nino Bixio where we linger at the gate for ten minutes more.

FLOS
Art. 31

It’s glass, approx. 24 inches in diameter, with a metal inset. It takes four bulbs, one in the center and the others inside the globe. No cracks or nicks! This lamp runs for about $1000!

I’m having fun with these new SLM Comics images. I will not use my dots. Today, there’s a struggle with the San Zeno in the rain piece; it’s my favorite chiesa in Verona and I must get the facade just right. There’s a kind of blocky, hand-made grace to the proportions and it’s tough to translate this quality into simple line and tone. I end up re-drawing it twice to get a satisfying effect.

Mariella has returned from her vacation in Toscana as have some other of The Donne. Our period of social isolation is coming to an end. Somehow, I had thought we would have another week of this ghost town vibe, was enjoying the relative anonymity. What an anti-social person I can be! I mean, it’s not like we don’t spend plenty of time by ourselves, doing our own thing with little outside pressure. We don’t want to waste this opportunity to foray into a new and interesting culture, to make human contact in this far-flung reality, but now that we have established several friendships I feel maxed out. Seems that every day we have some obligation, some invitation, something to either buck up and take on or to avoid.