I went on my first
summer trip alone at the beginning of July. My destination was Ledbury Poetry
Festival. I was eager to meet some Italian poets who were reading on the
Saturday. I had planned it two months in advance, booking the tickets for the
train and the readings. The travel worried me a bit, not only because it lasted
for four hours but because I had to change trains twice on the way out and four
times on the way back. Would I get all the connections right?
I set out early. It was
warm and sunny, I took poetry to read during the journey, my crochet work and
the books I wanted the poets to sign. I had booked two readings: Jamie
McKendrick and Judy Brown, and two Italian poets: Valerio Magrelli and
Antonella Anedda, translated into
English by Jamie McKendrick.
Ledbury is a pretty
little town with neat gardens and charming shops. I reached the centre and venue easily: the idea of meeting some of my
favourite poets in person was really exciting. I was especially happy to meet
Valerio Magrelli. I read all the poetry collections he published and studied
some of his poems for my MA in creative writing. He is beautifully translated
by Jamie McKendrick in The Embrace
(2009), but I also had my Italian edition published by Einaudi.
I never get tired of
reading his witty, unusual poems. Irony, often self-irony, and cleverness are
his main characteristics. His poems are detailed reports of our world seen
through a magnifying glass and filtered by his brain, or should I say filtered
by his body. There is an ‘intellectual physicality’ in his writing that I feel
very Mediterranean. An acceptance of our body as a measure and a way to
understand and explore reality. He is professor of French literature and
sometimes this academic background comes out, but at the same time he keeps a
realistic everyday vision of human experience, of this immeasurable, misleading
world.
I was able to introduce
myself and chat with him before leaving to catch the train back. I also enjoyed
Antonella Anedda’s prose poems and Jamie McKendrick’s new book, Out There. I had already read Crocodiles and Obelisks, which I loved,
and I seized the opportunity to speak Italian with him and have my books
signed.
Between the two reading
events, I had time to explore Ledbury High Street and visit two exhibitions on
art books. It was engrossing. I spent over an hour talking with a lady who took
part in one of the exhibitions and worked on some of the art books. As I did a
course on art books and creative journals myself last year, I was overjoyed to
find so many examples and creative ideas grouped together. Unfortunately I had
forgotten my camera but I bought a few samples to bring back home. The most
interesting pieces were travel journals with tickets, sketches and photos of the
country visited, and also abstract paintings on cards and tickets to testify
again an attempt to come to terms with, remember and understand the world
around us.
The other exhibition
was about textiles, books and cards with textile covers and concertina textile
books. It had fewer items but all were interesting and beautifully made.
The travel back was
smooth and relaxing. I caught all the trains in time and managed to make only
three changes instead of four. An extraordinary, exalting day.
My nephew was visiting
us from Italy in July. He attended an English course at Dallam School where he
practised the language, took trips out and met nice people. We wanted to show
him the beauty of the area so my children took him around Lancaster. They went
to the Castle, the Priory, Williamson Park and the Butterfly House, and they
had a walk around the centre (they took him to Greggs and Pound Land, two
places he had to experience according to them).
On a sunny Sunday we
asked him if he preferred to see a Museum, a Hall with gardens, or if he wished
to walk in an area of natural beauty. He opted for a walk and we decided to
take him to Malham. We couldn’t have chosen a better day: warm and sunny, with
plenty of people around, but not so many daring to face the steep path and
reach the top. To be honest I made very slow progress owing to my asthma, but
finally managed to reach the goal. The view of the valley below was fantastic,
a bit scary if you weren’t safely back from the edge of the cliff. The
limestone pavement looked like a huge sculpture you could interact with:
walking on it, jumping from one stone to the other, feeling it. It looked
ancestral and contemporary at the same time, something eternal.
The walls of the cove
(seventy metres high) are so steep and well modelled that they seem to be built
on purpose by human hands. I can imagine people climbing it, but only thinking
of doing it myself gives me the creeps.
We had our lunch in a
pub with air conditioning, good, tasty English food, and an ice-cream (not
Italian unfortunately). A very successful day I must say. I hope my nephew took
the best of it.
My daughter and I
decided to dedicate our holidays to art. Besides the week we had planned in
Paris, we went to some exhibitions in England as well. At the Tate Liverpool
there was Chagall. How could we miss that?
The exhibition showed
Chagall’s development and traced his life and interests very well. It was a
sort of introduction to our Parisian art tour.
Chagall’s life from
provincial Russian countryside to bustling and artistically thriving Paris, the
support of his family, his love for his wife, the dreamlike memories of his
Jewish and Russian background, all were clearly and interestingly documented.
It was a journey through the mind of an artist who was part of one of the most
intense and fruitful artistic periods in the whole history of western art: the
avant-garde movement of the beginning of the twentieth century.
What impressed me above
all was the use he made of colours, as in I
and the village (1911). He doesn’t use many colours, mainly primary: red,
blue and yellow with occasional greens, browns and some greys. But they are so
bright and at the same time their tones are so delicately shaded that they
communicate artistry and masterly skill, They create all the beauty and pleasure typical of a real masterpiece.
His visionary, symbolic
iconography (e.g. The War, 1964-66)
is the other characteristic I greatly admire. Like all great artists, it’s not
only his technique that counts but also a
visionary awareness that shows us how the world is or is going to be.
I enjoyed my day out
very much and being with my daughter was such a treat. Of course we did a bit
of shopping afterwards!
My daughter spotted a
brochure for the Bowes Museum, showing an exhibition of dresses. Considering
her passion for fashion we planned to spend a whole day there.
The museum is in the
beautiful French-style palace which belonged to the aristocrat John Bowes and
his wife Joséphine. Throughout their lives they collected a wide range of
antiques from pottery to porcelain, musical instruments, paintings, silver,
toys and tapestries from around the world: beautiful objects everybody can now
admire.
I was impressed by the
huge variety of interests they had: shoes, furniture, unusual clocks, and
paintings by Canaletto and El Greco. Unfortunately we missed the performance of
the silver swan at about 2 pm. It is a musical automaton more or less the size
of a real swan that moves its neck once a day and fishes in a silver pond. But
we admired it in its glass cabinet all the same.
The fashion and textile
exhibition was fascinating. Besides luxurious, unique gowns, there was a lace
collar so precious and elaborate that it’s unthinkable that someone did really
wear it and not just display it as it is today.
In one of the rooms
there was also a pink gown, a copy of the dress worn by Joséphine in a famous
portrait. It was made by an Italian designer (a video explains how he accomplished
it). Her figure, wearing the dress, was so petite and the waist so tiny (there
is an original metal belt part of the dress to testify to it) that I wondered
how she could fit in it.
In a large dark room
there was an interesting but slightly disturbing exhibition: Tim Walker’s Dreamscapes. He is a fashion
photographer but his pictures are much more than that. His self-portrait in bed
with eighty cakes around him, the bed hanging from the tree; the gigantic
skeleton in a rose garden with a beautiful white-dressed red-haired model,
represent surreal visions, reflecting dreams, or nightmares, obsessions,
evoking archetypes. A brilliant exhibition.
After a few days we
went to Brantwood. Our passion for Ruskin and his work had started with the
visit to the Ruskin Museum in Coniston a month before. Brantwood, his house
near the lake with its lovely garden, is an idyllic site. The day was perfect,
sunny, warm, with a light breeze blowing from the lake. Visiting the house you
have the impression the rooms and wide windows are positioned and built to let
people admire the astonishing views. You experience Ruskin’s love of nature and
his belief in its artistic and religious values when walking around the house
and the gardens. The gardens inspire meditation in a special way. They are
intimate, solitary and open to the mysteries of the world at the same time.
Our last trip before
Paris was at the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford to see the Master Drawings
exhibition. The weather forecast said it might rain in the afternoon but it was
hot and fairly crowded with tourists and students. And I was dressed in black,
which didn’t help.
We spent most of our
time inside the museum in the cool air conditioned rooms. The drawings were
amazing, especially the Michelangelo ones. How could they be so impressive,
even as quickly drawn sketches? They are masterpieces of proportion and
chiaroscuro. I can imagine the long time the drawers spent working on them,
learning the technique so well that they could reproduce them easily in frescoes
and paintings.
I had never properly
visited the Ashmolean before. It is like a little version of the British
Museum, with archaeological artefacts, marble statues, porcelain, glass,
furniture, fabrics and unique paintings. We admired Ruskin’s portrait by
Millais and The Hunt by Paolo
Uccello, such an elegant, almost miniaturistic kind of painting. We loved it.
We had a quick tour
around Oxford’s main buildings and caught the train home.
Finally I had my week's
holiday in Paris. My daughter and I packed one suitcase each, filling them with
our favourite clothes, sketchbooks and books. The journey was comfortable, with
air conditioning and only mildly noisy carriages, except for the fact that we
arrived in Paris three and a half hours late, at about eleven at night. Outside
the railway station night life was starting, taxis and cars were parked
everywhere and what looked like smartly dressed girls were casually hanging
about, the men looking on. We eventually spotted an awfully long queue outside
a side exit, cabs flowing by and stopping. We patiently waited our turn and
eventually reached our hotel in Rue de Brey.
The first places we
visited were Notre Dame and Sainte Chapelle. The morning was warm but not too
hot. A fresh breeze came from the Seine. The facade of the cathedral is
impressive: the statues in the portals and the sculpted stories from the Bible,
the slender columns, carved capitals and balustrades, the windows and rose
windows encased in spiral and notched stone frames and the monster-like
gargoyles. Taking sketches we realized how complex the structure is. It must
have been a never-ending work for artisans, carvers and sculptors. The Virgin
Mary, flanked by two angels above the main portal in front of the west rose
window, looks so small and insignificant among such rich decorations.
Inside it was packed
with tourists, especially Chinese: some Italians and Americans, but the Chinese
groups were overwhelming. They were rural people and clearly enthusiastic at
being in Paris and having the privilege to see such wonderful works of
art. For me, it was my sixth time in
Paris and I could afford to pay attention to details.
Our next step was
Sainte Chapelle, one of my favourite places in Paris. The upper floor is
absolutely astounding with its high Gothic stained glass windows along the
walls, blue, red and yellow light filtering inside as in a kaleidoscope. It’s a
unique experience. Outside I noticed posters publicising concerts with music by
Bach and Vivaldi. I thought it would be a wonderful opportunity to listen to
classical music in such a place. I booked two tickets and a few days later we
dressed smartly and went back in the evening for the Four Seasons. I loved it,
the violin melody filling the high ceiling, the lively dense notes of Vivaldi’s
music almost magically animating the colours and the figures of the windows. An
enchanting evening.
After visiting Sainte
Chapelle, we decided to head to a museum, Musée D’Orsay, which didn’t look so
far in the map. We walked, and walked in a scorching sun, promising to
ourselves never to do it again, not in the heat of the afternoon anyway. We had
the chance to see the Bouquinistes along the left bank of the Seine (they sell
old books, posters and souvenirs of Paris), and the Pont de l’Alma, a bridge
where people lock padlocks on the grilles of the parapet with love vows written
on them. The metal shapes reflected the sun, creating a stunning effect.
The Musée d’Orsay saved
our day. Inside the air conditioning was heaven. We spent a long time on the
ground floor, full of interesting sculptures and pictures from Realism (e.g. Gustave Courbet) and Symbolism
(e.g. Odilon Redon), without realizing that the best pieces were upstairs.
The rooms showing
Impressionist paintings were packed. You needed to queue to see each picture. I
realized once more what a contrast they made to previous art work, not just in
their figures and painting style (sketched, aiming to give the ‘impression’
they had of the subject) but especially in the colours they used. The
Impressionists’ palette is much brighter, full of reds, pinks, yellows, light
blues and glossy greens. Previous paintings are quite dull: their main colours
are shades of brown, grey and dark green. This has a big impact on the viewer,
much more than in the painters' ability to depict a landscape or a sitter with
a few skilled brushstrokes.
When we had finished
with the Impressionists on the upper floor, we didn’t have much time for the
rest. We quickly looked at Van Gogh and Gauguin and headed, alas, to the exit
as the museum was closing.
The following day we
decided to tackle the big one: The Louvre. We left early and planned to spend
the whole day there. We started slowly, savouring the medieval sculpture, Greek
and Roman art (the room containing Venus of Milo was so crowded that you could
look at the statue only by standing close to the walls), Mediterranean and
Islamic art. When we reached the first floor, where the vast collection of
paintings is, we became aware of how much we had still to see and we were
already exhausted.
We caught a glimpse of
Leonardo da Vinci’s Mona Lisa, which unfortunately is not a statue like the
Venus of Milo so you can look at it only from the front, which was so full of people
we couldn’t see much. And we dragged on from one room to the other filled with
superlative paintings, which deserved much more attention and time; lagged
along corridors with lovely watercolours and drawings, probably considered
minor works but still superb. Finally, not to miss the most important pieces,
as the closing time was approaching, we followed the museum map to spot the
unmissable masterpieces before leaving. Honestly I didn’t remember there was so
much to see at the Louvre, especially the painting section. We should have
planned at least two days to cover it, considering that my daughter had free
entrance (being an EU citizen under 26).
For dinner we spoiled
ourselves, eating at an Italian restaurant in the same street as our hotel. It
was a lucky choice because they had delicious food. Besides having the chance
of ordering in Italian, we could taste fantastic tagliatelle and something
really special: Sardinian ravioli and a tomato sauce with an orange aftertaste:
exceptional! We couldn’t miss the dessert; we had panna cotta and millefoglie,
a paradise of flavours.
I must say that after
two days of warm (almost hot at times) weather, walking around museums and up
and down the underground stairs (not many escalators in Paris, I’m afraid), I
felt washed out. I wonder if I’m getting too old for Paris.
What struck me during
my Paris holidays, besides the abundance of art work and the nice weather, were
the homeless people or clochards.
They are a different world, a parallel to the world of tourists and ordinary
people, but with a quirky side. There was a clochard
living at the corner where the street of our hotel met the main street leading
to the Arc de Triomphe (an impressive site in Paris also called the Étoile, or
star, from where one of the most elegant avenues, Champs Elisées, begins). He
had his mobile phone glued to his ear, his mat and all his belongings complete
with lively little dog. Another day, while I was queuing at the entrance of the Palais de Justice (the
Tribunal) by the Sainte Chapelle, there was a homeless woman standing with a
trolley full of plastic bags, her dog tied to the railing. She wore dark
stockings and a red t-shirt with ‘revolution’ written on the back. Once, at the
Ladies', a homeless woman was filling a plastic bottle with pink hand soap from
the soap dispenser. But the most shocking was a woman lying on a mat over a
ventilation grille. It was Sunday morning, she was completely unconscious and
vulnerable, probably sleeping off her hangover.
Our art tour continued
with a visit to the Beaubourg, also called Centre Pompidou, a contemporary art
museum hosting a temporary exhibition on Roy Lichtenstein. The building itself
is a work of art, with red, yellow and blue pipes exposed, metal structures
uncovered, a stripped down, joyful, exciting building. Part of the collection
inside is rather disturbing, especially the most recent works. Honestly, I
couldn’t find bags of sand hanging from the ceiling interesting, or a room full
of blankets, or canvasses of different sizes and shapes painted the same
colour. There were a few interesting works, though. A sort of tapestry by
Alighiero Boetti (title: Tutto,
everything) with the shapes of different unrelated objects sewn or embroidered,
their forms interlocking, the colours bright, catching the viewer's attention.
There was also a picture with ten portraits of Liz Taylor by Andy Warhol, very
appealing as usual. The most interesting work of art was in a dark room, where
several objects rotated on small platforms lit by lamps, projecting their huge
shadows on the wall. The title was Shadow
Play by Hans Peter Feldman, 2011. The effect was fantastic. In the sombre
room the shadows seemed engaged in a mysterious play, reflections of our own
fears and dreams.
My favourite part of
the museum was dedicated to modern art, the period of avant-garde movements in
the first half of the twentieth century. Incredible, unique pictures by
Picasso, Delaunay, Matisse, Kandinsky, Dubuffet, Chagall, sculptures by Henri
Laurens, Brancusi, Derain. It was all so interesting, involving, communicating
the new essence of art they were discovering in that revolutionary period. Such
pieces you find only in Paris.
We then visited the
exhibition dedicated to Roy Lichtenstein, the American Pop Art artist who
painted comics. His apparently simple shapes and primary colours hide a
humorous, ironic intent that teases American life in a friendly way.
We couldn’t miss the
Musée Rodin, dedicated to the great sculptor. His iconic pieces like the Hands, the Thinker and the Kiss are
not only beautiful but reflect a classical background, a tormented yet romantic
attitude and openness to life.
We had a few diversions
from museums from time to time. Besides the concert at the Sainte Chapelle, we
went to the Gallerie Lafayette. The prices were so high we ended at the top
floor, the books section, to find something affordable. While my daughter was
browsing through recipe books, I rested on a comfortable chair under air
conditioning's constant blast, and read a hilarious book about getting old (Les Vieilles by Pascale Gautier) which I
eventually bought.
We also did some
shopping here and there, when we found something we really liked, not too
expensive and that fitted us. I found a delightful black dress with rose
patterns on the sides and also a pair of glass earrings in a shop at Place de
Vosges. We bought delicious macarons (sort of round shaped meringues with custard
inside) in a chocolaterie in Avenue
des Capucines, that looked like a jewellery shop. And bought
presents for family and friends in the Carousel shopping centre.
In the city centre I
noticed that sometimes a man pretended to pick up what seemed like a golden
ring from the ground and asked tourists if it was theirs. It happened to me too
and I ignored it. Luckily I knew it was a scam (I had read Simon Hoggart’s Week, The Guardian, where he explained it). The
golden ring is actually made of plastic painted in gold. If you show interest,
they ask you for money in exchange (five, ten Euros?). After all, it’s gold.
Other museums we
visited were the one dedicated to Salvador Dali at Montmartre, with a good
number of the artist’s weird surreal works and the Musée des Arts Décoratifs,
with an interesting exhibition of corsets, bras and other ‘mechanisms’ men and
women used from the fourteenth century till today to shape their bodies under
the garments to obtain hourglass waists, widened hips, or flattened breasts and
stomach, or, for men, swell their chests and enhance virility. We had a guided
tour of the Opéra (Palais Garnier), a heavily decorated edifice with coloured
marble, golden plaster and old fashioned frescoes. One insuperable thing stood
out: the painting by Chagall on the ceiling. Claude Monet’s paintings at the
Orangerie were absolutely breathtaking, a symphony of colours. I wanted to go
to the Musée de la Poupée (the museum of dolls) as well because of my passion
for dolls and puppets. I found some of the dolls I already have, though the
number of items they had at the museum was impressive compared to my small
collection. The museum shop had second hand dolls, some of them on sale, a real
bargain. I was able to add a few pieces to my collection.
Our last day in Paris
was pretty hot. We went back to the hotel in the afternoon to pack and went out
only to have dinner at our favourite Italian restaurant just down the road. We couldn’t
leave without tasting its delicious food again.
The journey home was
quick and easy. We were looking forward to having a rest.
My parents came to see
us in August. They wanted to spend time
with us but didn’t mind seeing new places. We planned only a few outings as
they are in their eighties and tend to get tired easily. We had great fun watching
some videos they brought, featuring my children when they were little. It was
so enjoyable, sometimes moving, to see my kids when they were only two or four
years old, so different from how they are today. My husband and I looked different as well:
young, slim and much more energetic. There was a piece which I loved, filmed
during the period we spent in Stockholm. The children were dressed up as elves
and recited the nursery rhymes they had learned at the international school
they were attending there. I remember I made the costumes myself using felt
fabric: orange for my daughter, blue for my elder son and green for my youngest
one (Valentina, my autistic daughter, was not with us yet. We adopted her later
and my dad’s video camera was broken by that time). I had made the shoes too
and had sewn little bells at the end of the short tunics and hats.
During my parents’ week
with us, I spent a lot of time with my mum, chatting, cooking, baking, shopping
in the centre of Lancaster and doing some knitting and sewing together. I had a
green blouse and a purple silk waistcoat I had cut some months before but I
couldn’t complete without her help and advice. I also planned to make a purple
and blue evening dress with some fabric I had already bought. We set up work on
the first day. I cut and basted the different pieces and my mum checked the
skirt and the top when I tried them on. We had to make several changes to make
it fit properly, because the skirt was made of two layers, lace and silk, and
the piece of fabric I had bought was just enough. We tried and adapted it till
it was perfectly shaped. We worked hard but I loved the final result (photo
attached). The question now is: when ever shall I wear it? It needs to be a
smart occasion and warm weather. Maybe the wedding of one of my children...if
they marry in summer and if it will still fit!
On one of our tours
round Lancaster centre I also found a nice piece of cream-coloured remnant, and
lace, in a fabric shop and guess what: I made another skirt. The top in the
photo is a lucky find in a vintage shop. Still I wonder when I’ll have the
right occasion to wear it.
I loved being with my
mum, listening to her stories about her hard childhood before and during the
war. She can remember very clearly what occurred in the past but can have
problems in remembering what you have just told her. Sometimes I feel she is
like a child, spontaneous, naive and vulnerable.
In one of our outings
we visited Leighton Hall, not far from Lancaster, on a gloomy wet day. The
countryside around was what most Italian people think England looks like right
through the year, which honestly is not always true...it can be much worse J...or much better, like last July. The house was
fascinating with beautiful Robert Gillow furniture and some nice paintings.
Outside, in the rain, there was a keeper with a hawk and an owl who described
their lifestyle and showed us how they hunt. It was really interesting.
The other trip we took
was to Leeds, where my daughter was starting her foundation course at Leeds
College of Art. We spent the whole day in the city centre, buying everything
she might need, that is filling her fridge
and freezer as if we were leaving her on a desert island. It was a sunny, windy
day, the streets were full of people, the food market displayed delicious
stuff, baskets of bright flowers hung from posts and shops and shopping centres
were busy and appealing. In spite of this holiday spirit I felt sad because my
daughter was finally leaving, though not so far from home. My only comfort was
that we could still share our passion for art during holiday time.
I was sorry when my
parents left for Italy, I would have liked them to stay longer with us. I
especially miss my mum and am sometimes worried about her health, which is
pretty unstable at times. I am aware I can’t do much about it. She is getting
old like all of us.
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