A few blues

 

At last ~ a new post (my apologies for the long absence), with a few blues for this month's edition of ROY G BIV*, the photo challenge inspired by artists Jennifer Coyne Qudeen & Julie Booth...

The view through an airplane window is pretty commonplace for most of us these days, but I haven't witnessed it for a very long time. Heading over to the US this week, after a seven year absence, gazing out of the little airplane window gave me quite a thrill (and I probably took enough photos to make quite a substantial flip book—people must have thought it was my first time on a plane!)... For me, this glimpse out in the great blue beyond also illustrates my word for this month: 'Imagine'. After a period of transition, new possibilities are now filling my imagination.

My mother's enormous bushes of hydrangeas seemed like another perfect subject for 'BLUE'—and the timing couldn't have been better. There are dozens of blooms in various states of flower, and almost all in my favorite shade of hydrangea-blue (sprinkled with a few verging toward purple-y-pink).

 

I am very behind in posting photos of studio projects (as well as visiting other 'virtual' studios), but will enjoy catching up when I return to Italy in a few weeks... In the meanwhile, happy summer solstice to those of you in the northern hemisphere—and those of you in the south can take comfort in knowing your days will slowly be growing 'longer' once again!

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{*A note on ROY G BIV in case you haven't seen it mentioned here in the past... Each month is devoted to a different color of the rainbow—red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo & violet. This is the second year of the photo challenge, and all are welcome to join in; guidelines are here.}

 

Green, part IV - A vertical garden

This may look like it just another lawn—a lawn that could be just about anywhere in the world for that matter—but it might come as a surprise that this particular patch of grass is actually growing on a wall.

As you walk (or drive, or take a bus) along the tree-lined & traffic-busy Viale Giovane Italia, at first you may notice that what appears to be someone's garden is spilling over the top of its wall. But as you draw closer, rectangles of varying shades & textures of green, not so random after all, begin to distinguish themselves.

 
As you come directly upon the tableaux of green, you will probably find yourself stopping to look skyward, and marveling at the arrangement of grass, herbs, ivy & other plants bringing the wall alive, then walking the full length—and back again—as you try to figure out how such a thing came to be...

Crossing over to the other side of the road, it's possible to get the full gist of what's happening on this crenelated wall; interspersed with metal panels, the composition of greenery reveals the geometry behind its design...

With its plethora of road signs, parked cars & a nearly non-stop flow of traffic, it wasn't easy to photograph this seventy-meter-long stretch of wall (which originally bound a convent, then a prison, and now a recently-transformed housing complex complemented by cultural/commercial activities). But these 'obstacles' did give me a chance to spend more time considering the garden from several vantage-points, and I also really enjoyed observing people's reactions to the unusual wall treatment.

I like the three-dimensional aspect, how the shadows (and some of the plants) extend below the rusty edges of the 'box' that contains the garden—not to mention the natural palette of rust that's formed in the few seasons since the vertical garden was a installed (seen in the quartet of images below). All in all, it's brought a rather inspiring, if fairly discrete, new landmark to keep an eye out for when in this part of Florence.

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It's worth pointing out that this recent addition to Florence's landscape alludes to one of the patterns from Christopher Alexander's A Pattern Language—No. 246: Climbing Plants. While the carefully conceived, orchestrated & maintained design means it only loosely follows the premise set out by the pattern—that "A building finally becomes a part of its surroundings when the plants grow over parts of it as freely as they grow along the ground"—this vertical garden certainly captures the spirit of the pattern by helping to smooth the transition between built form & nature. And it is undeniably more alive & intriguing than the continual conglomeration of posters that once covered this wall (fascinating though these fleeting records of city-wide events can be, in their many-layered stages of pasting/peeling).

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I'll close with a photo of my once-blue hydrangea, which has now turned mostly green. It reminds me of how many other photos of 'GREEN' didn't make it into May's series of ROY G BIV-inspired blog entries, but they may well be used for an idea that's slowly evolving from the imagery of the lovely vertical garden composition. It has truly piqued my imagination!

{Click here to learn about Patrick Blanc, the Parisian botanist whose work has led to a recent emergence of vertical gardens in urban spaces.}

{Click here to read about Le Murate, the ex-convent-turned jail-turned-housing complex bounded by the vertical garden (it's in Italian, but there are some photos & additional links).}

Green, part III - Inspired by asparagus

I mentioned recently that my favorite way to prepare most vegetables is to sauté them quickly in olive oil. But another delicious option—for both vegetables & fruit—is to make it the centerpiece of a rustic tart. Whether destined to be sweet or savory, I use the same basic crust recipe, with occasional minor variations/additions (I might use all white flour, a mix of white & whole wheat or nut 'flours', add a dash of sugar or cardamom or rosemary and so on). Besides the apples or pears, or asparagus or onions—or whatever central ingredient has inspired the tart—I also choose a few ingredients as accents: herbs, spices, nuts or other hints of flavor. The asparagus tart shown above is garnished with garlic, chili peppers, thyme & bacon (recipe below).

Asparagus is still plentiful in the markets, so we've been enjoying it a lot these days, either simply sautéed, served with poached eggs, tossed with pasta, stirred into risotto—or lined up in a crust. I love the look of the slender, segmented stalks tied together into fat bunches, with their tender tips curving off in different directions...like a bouquet of stems, still smelling of the earth. Though, if I've ever seen asparagus growing, I probably wouldn't have known it. I was surprised to learn that the plants ('crowns') that produce these extremely green vegetables give way to feathery, fern-like foliage with red berries later in the summer, and then turn yellow in the autumn.

 

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And here are some more of the 'story strips' I mentioned in the last post. I still haven't figured out what they're all about, but continue to enjoy organizing things from my days into these somewhat orderly lines.

 

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{There will be at least one more 'GREEN' entry before the month is over...}

Green, part II - Inspiration from an olive tree

I have had such fun collecting 'GREEN' this month that I don't think I'll actually get a chance to post everything. It feels like we are practically immersed in green right now, so it's been easy to find...and oh-so-welcome after winter.

A visit to the Rose Garden earlier in the week inspired its fair share of green. From up here, overlooking the city from the terraced garden, you can make out the full palette of Tuscan greens: groves of olive-tree green, columns of cypress-tree green, umbrellas of stone-pine green, fresh-spring-grass green & everything in between. In the garden itself, the rose bushes are fully leafed out at last (and dotted with colorful blooms).

You may recall past mentions of my favorite olive tree at the Rose Garden; its branches create a little room of sorts—a wonderful place to sit and contemplate the view. While not as showy or dramatic as the rose bushes, I very much enjoy the olive tree's subtle change from one season to the next. Sprigs of pale green foliage extend from the older growth, gently, lightly curving up at the ends, reaching toward the sun, and spring's delicate flowers will eventually give way to dot-sized olives that will turn from green to deep purple as the months pass. I love how the leaves, distinctly colored & textured on front & back—whether the new growth or the older, more leathery ones—each catch the light in their own way, making the tree appear to glitter. And how the long, narrow leaves project so decisively from the stems, often at right angles, casting an appealing network of shadows on one another. 

A backdrop of cypress trees that borders one edge of the Rose Garden creates a ground of indigo that beautifully sets off the olive trees (seen in first quartet of images below). The second quartet is layered against greens, and the images in the third set reveal pieces of sky between the branches.

 

While sitting under my favorite olive I noticed, nestled among the blades of grass and patches of mint & tiny wildflowers, a fallen leaf in mottled shades of green, yellow & brown. It didn't take long to gather a collection of fallen leaves, each with its own markings. Then I started noticing the even-better-camouflaged, older leaves that had curled tightly as they dried on the ground. I was intrigued by the long, sharp forms, so they, too, went into my little collection cup.

Once back in the studio, the various stages of leaves found themselves arranged into a series of 'story strips' (seen in the image at the top of this post). As part of my ongoing quest to find ways to preserve some record of time's passage, I've been assembling rows/lines of things I encounter in the course of my days (and photographing the results). Though the olive tree leaves stand on their own, my 'story strips' are often composed of strips of paper, ribbon or string from around the studio, which are layered with flower petals, buds, leaves or other objects/shapes I'm working with. I haven't quite figured out what they're all about yet, or where they are 'going', but the inspiration to continue the ritual continues... I will share another one in a future 'GREEN' entry...

 

{More green still to come...}

Green, part I

Here's a little taste of 'GREEN' for my first installation of May's ROY G BIV photo challenge*. This crazy, psychedelic green vegetable—an intimate relative of broccoli & cauliflower—was a frequent guest in our kitchen this past winter. Fascinated by its naturally occurring fractals, and in anticipation of this month's ROY G BIV, I photographed the last broccolo romanesco of the season...it almost could have worked for 'YELLOW' last month, but it is most decidedly, if oddly, green.

As with most vegetables, my favorite way to prepare the broccolo romanesco is to simply chop it into bite-sized pieces and sauté in a little olive oil, along with a little garlic, then season with salt & pepper...quick, easy & delicious! 

 

 By the way, it isn't 'growing' in the pot...it just seemed like a fun way to photograph the broccolo romanesco, and this one fit perfectly.

 
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{More green still to come...}

* The ROY G BIV photo challenge was started by artists Jennifer Coyne Qudeen & Julie Booth last year. Each month is devoted to a different color of the rainbow—red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo & violet. This is the second year, and all are welcome to join in; guidelines are here.

Lilacs for Mother's Day

 

It has been a day of lovely surprises from my daughter. After dashing out in the morning, ostensibly to procure some ingredients for brunch, she returned with an armful of deliciously fragrant lilacs. Then, with the bouquet on the table next to me, I enjoyed a second coffee and the first chapters of a new novel (Glaciers, by Alexis Smith), as more good smells began to float into the living room.

First came a platter of luscious chocolate-covered strawberries (a Mother's Day tradition that she & her father began when she was yay-high, and which she has by now perfected). I had smelled good things frying, so I knew there was more to come, but I was utterly surprised to see what she brought out of the kitchen next: flower-shaped 'rings' of green & red pepper, each holding a gently cooked egg + bacon, sautéed onions & toasted slices of baguette. And glasses of freshly squeezed sanguinello orange juice (few things taste better than orange juice someone else has squeezed for you!).

My daughter & the lilacs

 

In a past post I had mentioned a favorite book, A Time to Blossom by Tovah Martin, and quoted a passage about the bundles of bare branches her mother would encourage the children to collect in late winter. I love what Tovah has to say about lilacs ~

The weekend before Mother's Day, I always went shopping for a trinket for my mother. With my father or an aunt, I picked out a necklace or a bracelet that they imagined she might enjoy. But deep inside, I knew that my mother would really prefer a giant armload of lilacs. They would bring the biggest smile; they would make her eyes well up in sheer pleasure. That was why I sneaked out on Mother's Day morning, barefoot and still in my nightgown, before anyone was awake or my hair was brushed, to fetch lilacs.

Every house I have lived in has had lilacs lolling around somewhere, usually leaning against the back porch or lurking near the front door where the wind might carry the fragrance inside. They were gangly, leggy, and easily overlooked most of the year. When they weren't laden with their lavender blossoms, who noticed them? Except when they drooped in a drought or became dusted by mildew in the mugginess of high summer, they neither drew the eye nor begged for attention. The bushes lacked grace, which made you love them all the more. And their faults were easily forgiven in the flush of flowering. But most critical for my purposes was the timing. They were reliable. They'd be there on that Sunday morning—you could set your watch by it.

Even on tiptoes, I could reach only the lower branches on shrubs that stretched taller than the front porch roof. But with a little effort, I could bend some flexible branches down to retrieve the plumpest clusters. That is, until my free hand became too busy holding on to its impromptu bouquet.

And that's why I really loved lilac: because they fell naturally into a bouquet. They demanded neither skill nor dexterity to harmonize into an arrangement of luscious colors more beautiful than any florist could possibly compose. No ribbon, no tying of bows, no fumbling with filler was required. Lilacs were exquisite all alone. When that clutch of flowers was flourished with great fanfare from behind your back, your mother would smile—she would always smile, and love it.

Later I learned how to strip and smash the stems. Later I discovered how to make a lilac bouquet that would last longer than a few days of wonderful-smelling splendor. But initially, the only lilac bouquets within my capacity were incredibly evanescent. For just a couple of twilights, the aroma traveled with the fluttering of curtains from the dining room table to my bedroom. After a few days and a few lamplit evenings, the blossoms would be wilted beyond consolation. But then, nothing in spring was meant to last, least of all the lilacs.

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Surrounded by sweet Mother's Day lilacs, and with the whole country seemingly in flower—plus a studio-full of projects in progress—'bloom' would be a fitting word for this month. But I'll go a step further and choose 'flourish', which I think fully captures the abundant spirit of this particular moment in time.

 

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To mothers (including my own creative, patient & loving mother), grandmothers, and all women who generously bestow their motherly warmth on those around them (plus little girls who take such good care of their dollies—I'm thinking of my thirteen-month-old niece & her first baby doll):

Happy Mother's Day!

Dancing in the street

April nearly slipped away without the chance to post a monthly pattern from Christopher Alexander's A Pattern Language. I had chosen a pattern & taken some photos for it, but there hasn't been time to do the writing part...so I decided instead to focus on No. 63: DANCING IN THE STREET. I like the idea of this pattern, but have wondered a few times how I might work it in. Considering the warmer weather/change of season, as well as what's happening in Florence tonight (more details on this below), it seems quite appropriate for this last day of April. 

'Dancing in the Street' is of course fairly self-explanatory, but I will describe where Alexander goes with the concept. He begins by asking, "Why is it that people don't dance in the streets today?" As he points out, many cultures have managed to stay in touch with what he believe is a basic need, but outdoor dancing is quite absent in 'modern' societies. The pattern suggests a resolution that includes some type of covered structure with a raised platform & space for refreshment stalls, which is surrounded by a paved area. Realizing that the mere existence of a simple built form is not enough in and of itself, he suggests building them in places where there are a number of local musicians who might otherwise not have a place to share their music. Citing the controversy over regulating street musicians in the San Francisco Bay area (in progress at the time the book was being written), he says, "It is in this atmosphere that we propose the pattern. Where there is feeling for the importance of the activity re-emerging, then the right setting can actualize it and give it roots."

For me, this seems to be the key to the pattern: as opposed to the common wisdom that form should follow function, sometimes the form (i.e. structure) is what invites/permits an activity to occur in the first place. Time and time again, I have found that creating a new space—or reworking an existing one—can influence/encourage/stimulate an activity that may not otherwise be possible. On a small, personal scale, this has certainly been true for the homes I've lived in. It brings to mind something I read once about how much easier it traditionally was for 'housewives' to be writers than painters. I recall that one writer used her ironing board as a desk—talk about efficient! On the other hand, painting large canvases can require a considerable amount of space. Sometimes I dream about having enough room for multiple easels and all of my canvases, but as it is, when I want to oil paint I need to do some furniture-rearranging first (and it therefore doesn't happen as naturally or often as I would like).

Getting back to the pattern at hand, while the 'architecture' that Alexander describes to facilitate it doesn't seem to have evolved anywhere in Florence, this doesn't mean there's no dancing in the streets. One place you might see people dancing is Ponte Vecchio, Florence's oldest & most famous bridge. From when spring first begins to warm up the city, and lasting until it's too chilly to strum a guitar outdoors, music wafts from the bridge as Claudio Spadi plays his guitar while singing Italian, English, Spanish & Portuguese songs in the evenings (often accompanied by his guitar- and violin-playing friend). Sometimes it's a young couple dancing, perhaps on their honeymoon, and intoxicated by the setting sun, a familiar, favorite song and the romance of walking across a bridge that's stretched across the Arno for nearly seven-hundred years. (One time, after a couple had finished swaying to a ballad, the man got down on his knee and proposed!) Or it may be a pair of four- or five-year-olds twirling, fascinated by their skirt-flaring potential. Other times it's a local care-giver who does enough clapping & dancing for both herself and the wheelchair-bound woman she brings to the bridge.

Another example was one night last summer, when the little sandwich shop in the narrow street that runs below our apartment stayed open late to host a birthday party. As those so-familiar strains of tango music started up, many people were drawn to their windows to witness the dramatic tango-esque strutting happening down in the street. I love how some of the passersby would pause to join in for a few minutes of impromptu dancing...

And I can't help but think of the final scene in the movie Pane e Tulipani (Bread & Tulips): there's a merry little music-filled gathering at the edge of a Venetian canal, with the main character dancing happily with her recently-found soul mate.

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As I mentioned in my last post, celebration has definitely been in the air as the earth wakes up again. (And my, is it full of good smells these days!) Liberation Day was last Thursday, which meant a ponte—a 'bridge', i.e. long weekend—for most people...and tomorrow we are heading into a mid-week break for Labor Day. Plenty of reasons to dance. But 'Dancing in the Street' is especially relevant tonight, which is a notte bianca ('white night'). For the past several years, Florence has sponsored at least one of these long evenings of art & music. Performances are organized in piazzas all over the city, and many shops, restaurants & museums will stay open as late as 3 or 4am. A program for this year's notte bianca, with the theme 'volare' (to fly), can be found here.

As my daughter & I walked along the river at dusk tonight, we came upon the first sign of the special night ahead: yellow LEDs spelling 'BE HAPPY' along Ponte Vecchio. Here's one last gesture of celebratory yellow for the month—and a little reminder to 'be happy'...

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And this seems like a fitting way to end the post ~

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{Past entries & more information about Christopher Alexander's patterns can be found here.}

A time to celebrate

{And now for 'Yellow: Part Three'...}

 

Architect Louis Kahn said, "The sun never knew how wonderful it was until it fell on the wall of a building." As it soaks up the last of the day's sunshine, Palazzo Pitti's stone façade beautifully illustrates Kahn's observation. Perhaps an even better example is the effect of the buildings reflected on the Arno at sunset, when the weathered yellow & (off-)white buildings turn golden.

The photos in this post show some of my favorite shades of yellow...

Photos above ~ Bold yellow text announces the latest special exhibitions taking place in Palazzo Pitti's numerous museums, adding a shot of color to the monochromatic façade.

Photos below, taken out & about in Florence: Pink-tinged yellow rose & orange-spotted yellow iris at Florence's Rose Garden; balcony perched off of one of Ponte Vecchio's supporting piers, with yellow building catching the morning light in the background; various Arno reflections; street lamp shadow falling on the wall of a yellow building; golden light in a shop full of sparkling chandeliers.

 

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As I've gathered photos for the ROY G BIV challenge this month, I can't help but think that yellow seems so apt for April. It's such a celebratory color, and 'celebrate' definitely feels like the right word to characterize this month. With the streets and piazzas filled with people enjoying themselves, the trees leafing, the birds chattering & singing and the sun shining, there is so much to celebrate.

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I'll leave you with a couple of photos showing Florence at its most golden
(left: Building reflected on the Arno & right: detail of Palazzo Pitti) ~

Lemony-yellow goodness

And now for the second 'installation' of YELLOW that I promised in Thursday's post—lemon cupcakes! I wish I could offer one to each of you who enjoy such things. Since photographing a trio of beautiful lemons, leaves still intact, I have been wanting to create a lemon cupcake recipe. I came across a really good one a couple of years ago, but don't seem to have made a note of it anywhere—I am, however very happy with how light and lemon-y these came out. Inspired by those used at the local bakeries, I made 'liners' from squares of parchment paper, but a phone call I got while filling them resulted in a rather haphazard distribution of batter (which I happen to not mind). I love the effect of the parchment paper 'wings' cradling the cupcakes.

A note on the recipe: Using the zest of four lemons total (between the batter & the frosting) will add extra lemon-y goodness, but you will likely have leftover juice...perfect for lemonade, lemon curd, etc.

If only the scent of those blossoms from Florence's rose garden (shown in the first set of images above) could be transported through cyberspace. I must admit that there've been times when, guiltily, I have pinched a lemon blossom to bring home with me because I couldn't get enough of the fragrance.

Speaking of lemons/the rose garden, I thought I'd share a handful of photos of the limonaia, which, at least this past winter, was used to store orange trees rather than lemons. I have always thought the long, narrow structure, with a rear wall of sun-lit stone and its length of rose-bordered windows, would made a wonderful studio.

The limonaia in spring

The limonaia in autumn

The limonaia in winter

The limonaia also permanently houses two of artist Jean-Michel Folon's studies for sculptures whose full-sized versions are in sitù elsewhere. They are just two from the collection that Folon's wife donated to the city of Florence (at the artist's request) upon his death in 2005. The other nine full-scale pieces were installed throughout the grounds of the rose garden in the autumn of 2011, giving even more meaning to one of my favorite spots in Florence. (You may have noticed photos of some of these sculptures in my past entries about the rose garden.) I would love to share my research & writings about Folon, but am still trying to figure out the best way to give shape to all that the artist has inspired. Perhaps, little by little, it will emerge on my blog, though I hope to create something more 'formal'/tangible one day.

It seems fitting that some of Folon's work has come to be in Florence's rose garden; he felt a deep affinity with this city. In fact, the "exhibition of my lifetime" (as he called it) took place in multiple venues in Florence and its surroundings during the summer/early autumn of 2005, closing just weeks before he passed away on 20 October. In a video created especially for the exhibition, as he's shown looking around his studio prior to the exhibition, Folon comments that he will feel like an orphan in the absence of the 300+ works headed for Florence. I love how he then adds how delighted he is that the pieces will have the chance to "go on vacation to one of the most beautiful places on earth." I have to wonder if they made it back before his death, as the exhibition was extended into early October...

I am sure he would be thrilled to see his work engaged in an ongoing 'dialogue' with this city he loved so much.

Folon's studies for Pluie & Quelqu'un, accompanied by poster-sized photos showing the full-sized pieces in sitù.

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So, from lemons to lemon cupcakes to the limonaia & Folon. I try to stay focused, but it doesn't come naturally. (More thoughts on this and how it relates to being an artist another time...)

For now, I'll leave you with some drops of wisdom I have gleaned from Folon ~

If you don’t know quite where to begin, it can help to keep in mind that "life decides"—Folon believed that our job is to simply watch and to listen, then transmit what we witness.

If you feel overwhelmed by ideas, take comfort in knowing that, for every ten ideas, Folon was able to execute only one.

And if you fear you may never accomplish your goals, consider how Folon’s resolution to simply "create every day" multiplied into a vast collection of work.

Then there’s the cherished pearl of wisdom that Folon received during his memorable encounter with film director Federico Fellini: Give life to your childhood dreams. Folon clearly lived by those words.

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{P.S. More yellow to come in the next post.}