This time last year

On exactly this day last year, this is where I was:


In front of an amazing chunk of history, an effect of architecture, a monument of achievement. A cathedral like this one is not just a cathedral, a building: it's lives and deaths, laws and mystery, religion, belief, families and locality. Ego. Perhaps baser impulses of envy, pride or greed.

This time last year we took the train from Rome to Orvieto. On the tourist trail, I was suspiciously holding myself aloof, even while we piled out of the train station and whooshed up the funicular carriage, climbing the rock to the town.

Our self-catering place was in the unpopular end of town. It required a bumpy journey on a little bus with our big bags - all of which made us grin with glee because it cut out the loud Americans. And I hate loud American tourists in Italy. Sorry. But it's true. Luckily, they won't -- or don't -- walk, so we were spat out by our surly bus driver at a nondescript little square, some judicious directions in improving-but-rusty Italian leading us down an alleyway, to a door, a long dark staircase upwards, and some negotiation.

'You talk into the speaker phone.'

'No, you.'

Poke.
Nudge. Scuffle.

'Argh.'

BZZZ>>crackle-crackle<< -'Eh, umm, Buon Giorno....' We explain. We think we are understood. We start to rattle and babble along in broken words, but she understands: we are the Australianos, but he lived here in Italy, when he was small. Short. Little. Piccolo. The Italian flows around us, long streams of which we gather, 'How lovely! You are welcome. But you were once small! (a poked finger toward his tall frame, and much laughter) My daughter comes soon. She speaks English.' The creased old face of a nice woman, late in life meeting and interested in strangers, much though they present a difficulty of language, perhaps slightly worrying. We're all right. Paying guests who are no problem and who even understand Italian. We get big grins.

Late that night, still jetlagged from the flight from Australia three days earlier, we drift through the deserted town. Sit on cold stone benches. Sigh at the soft light. Stare intently at scultpured reliefs on the cathedral front, carved when the world was young, over 600 years ago. Hands were once alive.




It's like filling up on a long drink of water - or milk, and feeling the sustenance of the art and the power of the images filling you back up again. Yes, this is why I studied art history. This is the Renaissance and its tangled precedents and the master artisans of Europe. The Christian history and its worldly remnants. Myths and legends: of the master craftsmen, now, as much as of the religious rites they depicted.



It's hard to explain my love of Italy and how I feel more alive there, but this comes close. It's something in the comfort of inspiring but understood old friends: art works that I have loved and studied with curiosity since the first days when I heard of them, and saw them in books.


Sometimes life is quiet and sometimes it's loud. Some days, like the day exactly a year before today, it fills you with a richness you can feast on for decades.

Eye spy...

Something that makes me happy.


Last year, we went to Italy. I can't quite describe how happy I get when I go to Italy. We both get a little silly, actually -- he used to live there and I used to go there alot, so it's comfortable and fun. We love the people. We adore the food. And I get quite completely doo-laly when I see a Brunelleschi building, empty, waiting just for us to sit and enjoy.

Eye Spy thanks to Cindy and this week's theme from Iris and Lily.

Blogtoberfest: Excuse me while I step out for a quick break

I almost made it through an entire day without blogging. Of course, I still read a dozen or so of your posts, but I was going to be cavalier, I was going to step outside for a day, I was going to have a quick smoko 'round the back of the Forum ( 'cept I don't smoke.)

But here I am again. Perhaps I ought to be worried?

Sometimes, there's no bus for what feels like hours, and then all of a sudden three come along at once. Well, it feels a little like that with the job-hunt at the moment. I've got a busy week ahead of me, with interviews, 'chats', applications to send in, and volunteer work starting. And it's my birthday tomorrow, so I've got a dinner date with the lovely Mr. Tacc, and I am told that there will be a special trip to a craft shop of my choosing - frahfrahfrah!!

As for the photo - these charming young Romans were spotted outside the Coliseum by Mr. Tacc, who is quick with the camera, but not quick enough to escape notice. Having a smoko. It's probably a historically accurate activity, soldiering being what it is.

I hope you're soldiering on with your Blogtoberfest - with little breaks to keep your spirits up.

PS: just in case you think this is no longer a sewing blog, I'm making myself a summer shirt. Badly. I'll post some photos if I'm feeling brave. (It might just become pyjamas.)

Here's one I prepared earlier....

I wanted to write about the sewing shops I've seen on my travels. In fact, I did write about the ones in Italy, and then I failed to get an internet connection for more than few minutes to upload it, so I here it is.

***

Sewing scenes, Italian style

Travellers tend to notice the things that relate to their interest: bird spotters mutter about species in trees, bike fanciers remark on unusual grades and gearing. Perhaps nuns collect sightings of street shrines or saints’ altars? Kids definitely have a laser beam for zoning in on gelateria.

So, what goes through the mind of a rabid sewer as she traverses the streets of Italy?


At first I couldn’t see any sign of sewing shops. I know that different countries hide them in different places: in Canada, the fabric store is often a box store in a strip mall; in the UK, it’s a little shop tucked away on the cute but slightly less fashionable side of a country village green, and in Australia the best ones to be found are in the Italian and Greek neighbourhoods, where quilting cottons nestle up with wedding silks and Italian suiting wool, and where bargains can be found for those who rummage.

Italian shops in Italy - well, they seem different again. I finally spotted one - a hole in the wall - and popped in, only to shoot back out like a cork out of champagne, much to the amusement of my husband. “It’s scary in there,” I wailed, needing encouragement to have another go.

Why? Well, imagine if you will, a lovely old arcade, let’s say for argument’s sake, it’s a row of arches some 500 years old, and under each arch there’s a wooden shop front and shiny windows with carefully arranged, enticing goods on display. So far, so good.

(Aside: Below is a metal representation of embroidery on the wall of a hill town caled Montefalcino - these plaques illustrated the traditional crafts of the town. - And this is the deserted place where we came across a man, making a pair of leather sandals, using the top of this city wall as a work bench - 20 meters down if you drop your tools.....)


But back to sewing shops....
On the inside, sewing shops are small cupboard-sized rooms with shelves to the ceiling, each one filled with closed boxes – just like a blank wall of shoe boxes. There’s a counter of well-polished wood, and the ubiquitous gang of toughs – I mean – trio of old ladies – standing around talking….. and the moment you pop your head in the door, they All. Stop. Talking.

- “Pronto!”

One of them, the major duomo, says. That’s polite shorthand for, 'what do you want?'

The other three stare.

And if your Italian is about as fluent as a 1972 cinqucento with one gear and a flat tyre, you tend to sputter a bit and turn pink. Or at least, that’s what I did.

The thing about these shops is that they know their customer, and if you are one of their ladies who makes beautiful curtains and comes in with the measurements of your windows and an idea in mind, I bet you could have a lovely long cosy discussion about what kinds of tassels to buy. (Oh, they have tassels, pinned on one wall are samples -- rows and rows of silk, frogged, multi-layered tassels, tassels in every colour).

But if you don’t have a plan, and you love to browse and ogle the fabrics and trimmings, you could find yourself out of luck.

Speaking of measurements, I haven’t mentioned the one other thing that makes the experience intimidating:


It’s the undies.

Now, I’m not the kind of girl to come all over a blush with the profusion of lacy delights that make up the Italian obsession (it is an obsession), with underwear shops. Most of these fancy lingerie shops display prancing dancing mannequins swirled in the barest wisp of gauzy g-things, the most cut away of cut away bathing suits, in gold lame, no less, and even one pink rubbery silky creation that prompted my husband to say, "My goodness, her bubblegum seems to have exploded all over her body!”. These shops are everywhere, and they are also manned exclusively by short tough-looking grandmammas.


(This unfortunate woman appears to have sprouted little angels that hold up her bra. How awkward.)

Now, I don't have the uge to buy undies the way I want to check out the fabrics and ribbons (sorry). However, they are often One and the same shop!

Proof: The House of Buttons.


I'm not sure why. Probably because they make their own. I discovered that when I wanted to find the sewing shops, all I had to do was to look for the very scary advertising of the bras, the bra-making bits and a gaggle of grandmammas....

B

Recovering in Paris

I don't think I've quite recovered from Venice yet. I was cruising online this morning for the first time in what feels like weeks (must be 10 days), and I had to look at this lovely bit of dreaming.

Apparently the population of Venice is falling: fewer and fewer people will actually live there full-time, it being so full of tourists, the upkeep on a palace (should you happen to have a palace darlings), being extortionate as the place slowly sinks, taking your fortune with it....

But a gal can dream.


I mentioned that we were over at the Giudecca having our picnic, and I found this site about John Singer Sargent's sketching trips in Venice and out to the Giudecca.

John Singer Sargent was an interesting painter: when I first came across his work, it was easy to dismiss it as chocolate-boxy portraits of the upper class. And then I went to an exhibition in London and I decided on the spot that the man was a genius. He'll dob on dashes and lines of paint, and a quick strip down the middle, and from a normal viewing distance you would swear it's a fold of silk. It's lush, and so talented as well as skilled.

I love the use of contrast in this portrait, now in the Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge UK.

There are paintings in many collections worldwide: too many to list here, but here are some of the sites I looked at.
- Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge, UK
- Harvard University Art Museums, US
- Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, US

Venetian blinds

I think I need shutters for my eyes. They got a little overloaded in Venice, and it might take a day or three to recover.


I had an idea that on this trip I would sketch and doodle a great deal, however, there's so much to see (and it's all rocking up and down with the motion of the water bus, if you're me) -- that in the end I wandered around in a daze, allowing my camera to do all of the work.

Gondolas near the Rialto (in the background you can see the bridge). Venice was somewhat quieter than we understand it usually is, lucky us, so a lot of the gondolas were parked up while the tourist traffic was slow. I love the black, blue and silver of the prows and the repeated shapes. It's a classic curve.

J. took this photo of the colours of the poles - I'd love to try to include those red and white stripes into a composition in fabric....

Much as Venice is a trove of patterns and ideas, I find that most of them are so rich, so completely decorated, gothic and baroque, that I was looking for quilting ideas in the little corners, where I could focus on one motif or design.


Like this cherub under the landing step of one of the great palaces.


Or this wall sconce, presumably for a massive fat candle, and the plaque of the lion behind. Can you imagine this in candle light?



And how about the designs on these gondola prows in the Naval Museum? (A fantastic place, by the way, if you want to see loads of models and real carved gondolas from the 18/19th centuries).


But finally, I think this was one of my favourites: we took a boat across to the island called the Giudeca, to get away from the tourist souvenir stands. We sat on the edge of the canal and dangled our feet while we ate a picnic of bread, cheese, meat and a bottle of fizzy wine (no-one's driving in Venice!), in front of this fantastic building.



Wouldn't you just love to sing from that balcony, looking out across the water?

Not-so famous sights

Yesterday we went to Santa Croce church, which is where I saw this oddly-detached angel.

We looked at all the famous frescoes and strolled through the cloister before visiting the school of leather working, and finally - the chapel I had been looking forward to seeing, the Pazzi chapel.
The chapel was designed by a chap called Brunelleschi for the Pazzi family, who never used it because they were banished from the city for the remarkable attempt to assassinate the Medicis (Giovanni and Lorenzo), which killed Giovanni but resulted in the expulsion of the whole Pazzi family.


We tried to be decorous, but we had the whole place to ourselves....

The Duke's delights, patterns part 1

Everywhere I go, I'm seeing patterns. (And good cafes, and tourists, and nice young men who want to sell me umbrellas...)

I thought I'd share a few: there will be some more later.

First, this stone scallop pattern in the small town of Urbania (not to be confused with Urbino, just down the road). Urbania was the site of the hunting box (read, small palace), of the Dukes of Urbino, circa 1500s. When we got there, it was girating with excitement at the prospect of the Giro d'Italia (Italy's Tour de France) passing through in two days' time. We got the sense nothing quite this exciting had happened for a long time....

A short rain shower cleared the square and I was able to turn around into a quiet corner to snap this photo: wouldn't that make a great quilting pattern or a basis for an art quilt design?


Here's another thing: the battlements of one of the ducal palaces: scallops and windows and slats and lovely lines for composition.


Then, we did finally make it to Urbino itself, and the main Palazzo Ducale, where we spotted this wonderful marble carved border around the enormous doors. I think this is my favourite pattern of the three..... embroidery, anyone?


Now we're off to see the museum of the works of the cathedral in Florence, and some coffee, and maybe if we are strong, climbing that whopping great dome (from the inside).

Need I mention, it's raining?

Siamo in Italia

I've been away - or, I should say, I'm still away, as I write this from a rooftop apartment high up in the eaves of Florence. Bong go the bells, and the fountain splashes. Or should that be, the fountain 'plasheth'? It all feel unreal.



A week in Italy, and where do I start? I have been soaking, nay, rolling, nay, wallowing in the art. Poor J. He was heard to tell the man on the desk here in Florence tonight when we checked in that he had had enough art, only to find out that the check-in man is a student of art history and off the talk goes again.

Here's a picture or two instead of my several thousand words: