adding to the conversation

Living in a community of artists is far more demanding than I expected. It puts a pressure on me to achieve something, to "add to the conversation" as my jewelry teacher says. To not just learn the craft of interior design or jewelry making but to create something that matters. I think I have had that pressure on myself for awhile now, but Italy makes it tangible.

All that to say, this summer makes me think I shouldn't be an Interior Design major. It doesn't seem to have any lasting meaning. This is probably my attitude because we are designing a high fashion boutique in the heart of Italy. Ehhh. But I am aching to make something that matters. I don't know exactly what I mean by "matters." I don't think it needs to be something that adds to the conversation on a national or global scale, or even just in the art world. It is the idea of creating something meaningful that can make a stranger feel something within himself. It is about saying something that isn't necessarily about God, and being able to express for a stranger a feeling that he or she has had but hasn't known how to externalize.

So the final exhibition went up this weekend. The school rented out this sweet old bulding in Cortona and every student chose one work from the summer to display in the show. The faculty did the same. The show went up Friday and came down this morning. A short run. I was so impressed by the work we had all did. This was my favorite weekend in Cortona by far.

Instead of showing my final interior design project, I entered my jewelery piece into the show. I felt like I needed to but honestly it was mildly terrifying. I haven't created a work of art...maybe...ever. I have completed some paintings and drawings during college that I am proud of, but none of them had a concept behind them. I wasn't saying anything- I wasn't adding to the conversation. But I did with my jewelry piece.

I cast the lids to my seven-day pill box in sterling silver. I kept the plastic base the way it was. And in each of the seven containers I placed objects that have been an escape from taking pills. From being sick. From being scared. There is a tiny camera that I made out of wax and cast in bronze. It represents photography and also the decision to continue creating even when it feels insignificant. There are stones that represent my need to keep everything simple. To not worry or be anxious. There is the silhouette of a tennis shoe cut from the rubber of my own running shoes that represents... running...my most tangible form of therapy. There is a magnifying glass that represents my need to continuing thinking, learning, researching, and figuring everything out. To not stop caring. There is a tiny book, within which I have pasted a couple sentences from a letter that Paige wrote me this summer. Words assuring me that "PSC won't win," and that she is there to fight for me when I can't fight for myself. I cried when I read this part of note, realizing how much I had already let it win, and knowing for the first time that I am not going to have to fight alone. There are two tiny ceramic bowls that Britney made for me which represent communion with people. The community of friendship and the importance of not pulling away from people. And the seventh item is a silver ring, molded out of wax only to fit my finger, which represents the promises of God, that he is good, that he is loving. Promises I easily forget and doubt but the the main truth that gets me though.

I made the piece because I wanted to follow through with what I said I would do - to share. And even if I am the only one that benefits from it, I think I needed to be open. My friend Chris from L'abri is the most transparent person I have ever met. And Heather is a close second. And I don't think I will ever be that way. But I can be honest.

Creating that piece was hard, but I loved it. Britney and I had more than a few brainstorming sessions. The title alone took a whole morning. But...I wish it was possible to care about everything I make as much as I care about that piece. Studio artists are living the dream.

Maybe I'm just ready to be out of college and working with people instead of with my computer screen.

A good friend of mine told me once that he thinks every artist should create a masterpiece. I thought that was interesting, but I didn't know that I agreed. I do though. I don't know if I will ever make one but I understand the longing now.

Feeling whole.

I have yet to say much about Italy. I need to. As I watch Britney and Heather and Joe and everybody around me on this study abroad, I can see Italy making impressions on them. Joe gets all worked up about Bernini. Britney covers herself in stone shavings and clay every single day, finding a sort of comfort in working on something deeply enough that she no longer cares about how dirty or uncomfortable she may be. Heather seems like sometimes she is barely scraping by, but she handles it such grace that I can't help but love watching everything fall apart on her. Haha. Sorry Heather....

Italy is...moments....all strung together into a tapestry more ornate than any I have ever seen. It is bright morning light streaming through pale blue shutters. Hundreds of swallows circling freely overhead in deep blue dusk. Cobblestones. Terra cotta. The crunch of gravel underneath leather sandals. The stone city wall as the sun sets over cypress trees. Italy is the music of guitars and accordions drifting up the hill through our open bedroom windows. Katy flitting around my room singing old jazz and Portuguese lullabies. Three course meals and late night roommate snacks of Nutella and toast. Clotheslines. Baggy jeans. One euro cappuccino. Getting to smile at the same old man and his dog during each morning run through the park. Italy is...comparing sketches instead of photographs. Voices blending flawlessly in the studio early Sunday morning. Plastic chairs grouped together on the fifth terrace. Italy is linen dresses twirling in the wind outside shop windows. Ancient Italian architecture. Layers of stone plaster, and marble. Fifteen hours of sunlight. Concerts in the piazza with gelato and a long journey home uphill. Italy is....mostly moments, which can't be captured in photos even though we desperately try.

Cortona may be the most beautiful place I ever visit. But I still miss home, and I love that (and hate it...). There is something about home that I have been trying to figure out -why is there "no place like home?" What is so desirable about finding a place of home?

I think that home is a feeling of security. And I don't have to be home to feel it - I need only feel safe. But there is a intricate depth to that safety. Maybe home for me is the last place I felt wholly loved. It is kind of like when a girl feels beautiful. Every girl can remember the last time she felt beautiful, if you ask her. And if she hasn't felt it recently enough it is almost like something is missing in her. Not something she can't live without, but something. That's like home.

I think we need the feeling of home at constant intervals or else we get drained. And no matter how wonderful a place it is, or how happy we are there, we still need the home fix. Home is a comfortable simplicity. Simplicity! That's it. And rest. And can you really rest unless you feel wholly loved? Well dang. That right there has been a major theme of my summer- finding a place of rest, and finding out what I need to believe about God, the world, and myself in order to find that rest. Feeling whole. Maybe not even being whole...because as Paige pointed out to me today, maybe we will never be whole here. But I think we can feel it...I think.

Shenanigans

Let’s talk about cute old men. Oh but wait, we can’t. Because old men are on longer cute. They are creepy. And they have weird intentions.

So here’s a good story.
Britney, Elaina and I spent our first two afternoons in Cortona in the Carabinieri (the local police station). No, we did not get arrested. Yes, we did go Nancy Drew on this old man in the piazza.

Let’s start at the beginning. During half time of the Italy-USA soccer game, Britney and I leave the pub where we are all watching the game and go for a walk to the city gate. We see Elaina there walking alone and decide to take the long way back together to the dorm, up through the quieter streets of the city. It is beautiful. When we reach the top of one of the big hills (Brit’s calves are looking good) we see this cute 70-year-old man with his dog. Since Cortona is only a town of 1200 people, it is custom to say hello to anyone and everyone on the street. So of course we greet the man with “Buona serra” (good evening) and we stop to talk. He speaks absolutely no English, so Elaina takes over since she knows about 12 words of Italian. He keeps saying “belle”, which means beautiful. So of course we thank him. While Elaina is talking with him she is suddenly startled and looks at me with a strange expression. I ask her what he said and she only looks at me with that same shocked expression. I look to Brit for help on what I missed and that’s when it all goes down. The old man reaches over and grabs Brit’s chest. Yeah. You weren’t expecting that were you? Brit of course steps back and out of shock all three of us lose it. It is a weird mixture of laughter and confusion. During the mayhem Mr. Creeper reaches out towards me. I throw my hands up and he grabs my arm and isn’t letting go. So that is slightly scary for a few seconds. But I pull away and Brit grabs my arm and the three of us book it down the hill. We find out on our way back that did the same thing to Elaina that he did to Brit – thus her shocked expression that I couldn’t decipher.

We mention the incident to one of our teachers later that night, and the next morning sweet old Rick, the program director, tells us we have to go fill out a police report with the Carabinieri. And that is when the real fun begins.

Imagine us three girls, our translator Enza, and six Italian policemen all in one room. They all crowd around the desk because our case is the most exciting thing to hit Cortona since Rome conquered the Etruscans. None of the Carabinieri speak any English. There are many moments when five of them are loudly speaking over each other in rapid Italian, with Enza translating as much as she can, and me cracking up from time to time because the whole situation is just ridiculous.

The police in Italy dress sharp. But don’t be fooled by the fancy leather purse they wear around their chest that looks like it holds ammunition. When I asked the police chief what it was for, he opened his up and pulled out a pack of tissues. Yep. It is only for looks. He then proceeded to show me that the ammunition is kept in the gun.

After a long day of making official statements and signing my name on a sheet of paper typed only in Italian, we have to come back the next day to officially identify the man. Since Cortona is so small, it doesn’t take long for them to find a picture of someone we think is him.

So you are probably imagining the typical criminal identification that is on TV, with the men who stand in a line, and the victim is behind a two-way mirror where the bad guys can’t see them. And the victim looks at all the options and points to the bad guy. Welp, in Cortona it is a little different. Instead of a two-way mirror they give us a bathroom window. Yep. The three of us, along with two officers, cram into a bathroom on the second floor of the Carabinieri building and take turns peering through a crack in the window down into the courtyard below. They bring our little Italian man out into the open and pretend to have a routine conversation with him while we size him up. Who needs all the fancy CSI stuff?

Sadly we still aren’t one hundred percent it is Mr Creeper. It might have to do with the fact that is was 30 feet away from where we stood in the bathroom…but who knows. Enza wants the whole thing over with, so she has us follow him. She leads us out of the station and down the street and we search through the main areas of town to see if he is hanging around. He is— chillin with his old friends having gelato. We get a closer look at him (we pretend to buy gelato and lurk around inside the store, weaving an elaborate tale about how we are waiting on a friend who is meeting us for ice cream but hasn’t shown). The old man catches on. I see it in his eyes as he connects his random meeting at the police station with our awkward lurking around the gelato shop. But it is too late for him. He is done-zo.

We return to the Carabinieri; sign a statement. Make friends with even more officers. There is one lady, Ramona, who is not much older than us and knows English pretty well. We make plans to meet with her for cappuccino later so she can practice her English and we can practice our Italian. One of the officers (who looks shockingly like the weird older brother on Everyone Loves Raymond) makes the whole experience really enjoyable. He jokes around with us and makes funny faces a lot because he knows very little English. He gives me a hard time because I keep laughing when I am supposed to be serious. But they are all glad we are light hearted about the whole situation. They want us to still feel safe in Cortona. And I do.

But we still see the old man everywhere; He usually whistles when we pass by.

life's not a paragraph

This is the view from my bedroom at dusk...
Last night, Heather read a bunch of poems by e.e. cummings as we sketched on the wall overlooking the valley. Thought I'd share my favorite.

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all the flowers. Don't cry
- the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelid's flutter which says

we are for each other: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph

and death i think is no parenthesis

e.e. cummings