namaste

Yes! I did it! Baby Bean (I'll call her "Bean" for now) is sleeping upstairs and I've worked up enough energy to get myself back to The Blue Room.
I've been thinking about the meaning of namaste - the way we end each yoga practice, hands to our hearts, head bowed, honoring ourselves and each other. This Sanskrit word has a truly beautiful meaning...

Namaste = My soul recognizes your soul, I honor the light, love, beauty, truth, and kindness within you because it is also within me; in sharing these things there is no distance and no difference between us, we are the same, we are one.

Above baby Bean's bed, there's a painting of the seven chakras.

I painted it when I was seven months pregnant with her. Every night I put her to bed, I look up at it and then at Bean and truly feel the weight and significance of namaste, like I've never felt before. I don't know if I'll ever create anything as important or amazing is the little Bean; I don't know if I'll ever feel the same exhaustion, confusion, joy, frustration, bliss, fear, love all rolled into one like a did when she made her grand entrance into the world! She is me and I am her. So when I look down at her every night and then look up at this painting above her, I finally get the meaning of namaste.

new creations...

The summer solstice is a time to celebrate the light within ourselves and all human beings, and embrace the change, maybe taking the time to create something new! Here are some new creations coming out of The Blue Studio and new things coming from the MacLaughlin-Galligani clan in the summer of 2014.

Hand-painted, bamboo notebooks/sketchpads on Etsy.com from The Blue Studio

These little notebooks were painted with the purpose of their owner to take some time and be creative, whether it's journaling or sketching or creating a new recipe or writing a letter to someone special. They're just small enough to slip into a pocket or a bag.

But my best creation yet will be arriving at the end of August - it's a collaboration :)

Introducing....The Blue Studio!

There's nothing like plunging into the world of entrepreneurship - it's scary, exciting, time consuming, and satisfying simultaneously. I've been painting since I was a little girl, selling my work here and there, a few commissions, many paintings gifted to friends and family, but nothing constant. This year I finally decided to take the plunge and with the end of summer came a new beginning: I opened my "store" on Etsy.com (a hub for artisans, craftsman, collectors and vintage vendors) with gusto.

My online shop is called "The Blue Studio" - inspired by this very blog - and I sell hand-painted illustrations of recipes, watercolor postcards, bookmarks, children's alphabets and more. The most interesting development since opening "The Blue Studio" has been the opportunity to participate in a local arts and crafts fair that takes place every autumn/winter called La Fierucola. I've always been an avid supporter of this event ever since I first lived in Florence five autumns ago, so now it's especially exciting to be one of the vendors. Below is a picture at September's Fierucola del Pane...

The Blue Studio, photo credit J. Garcia (thanks buddy!)

It had such a good time, being part of this community of craftsmen, artists, farmers, cheesemongers, etc. that I can't wait to return on the first weekend of November for the Fierucola di S. Martino (patron saint of wool weavers). The theme is all things wool (weaving, crocheting, knitting, felting) but there will also be the regular fruit and veggie guys selling their enormous pumpkins, the honey lady smoking her hand-rolled Pueblos and the very kind lavender oil lady, who was set up next to me in September (great smells were drifting my way all afternoon)! So if you're in Florence, and actually reading this, come over for a visit!

Apart from the constant sketching, painting and brain storming (which is the BEST part of taking on this new, second job) is the constant shameless self-promotion...this part is a little more difficult. The branding, promoting, updating the website, promoting, updating the facebook page...did I mention the promoting...is enough to make your head spin, but hey, someone has got to do it and up until now Winnie still doesn't have opposable thumbs.

So thank you all - family, friends, faithful readers (whoever you may be) - for all your support. It's only the beginning and "Rome wasn't built in a day", so I really appreciate all your kind words that you've sent my way over the past few months. Now, go be like Mr. Fox and have an autumn adventure (while the weather is still nice).

Mr. Fox, watercolor on paper, Lauren MacLaughlin 2013

ferragosto

Sun-washed walls in Tuscania, Lazio (right over the border of Tuscany)

Buon ferragosto! Today is August 15th, otherwise known as ferragosto in Italy, a holiday that dates back to 18 BCE. In Latin, it was known as Feriae Augusti (Augustus' rest) and was meant to celebrate a long season of agricultural labor and the upcoming harvest. I just love living in a country that celebrates ancient Roman holidays...sigh...Nowadays, most Italians spend the 15th of August at the beach or eating a big meal with family and friends. Actually, the majority of August is spent doing this. Shops and restaurants close, all the chic Florentines head off to Forte dei Marmi or Punta Ala (we poor Florentines go to Livorno). In the past two weeks, our neighborhood has become a veritable desert, the exception of course being myself, Alberto and Winnie - the latter of which is always on vacation.

Winnie in paradise

We've already taken a vacation down to the Maremma - the southern most part of Tuscany - and we had a fabulous time. We visited a few Etruscan tombs, did some mountain biking, some swimming (with jellyfish), took a night-time dip in the thermal baths, ate some really tasty local grub and played a lot of chess. It was, in a word, un successo. 

The town of Pitigliano is constructed on a very porous rock called tufo - see how it seems to be growing right out of the mountain? Pretty sweet, huh? It was once an Etruscan settlement and parts of the ancient walls are still standing.

So it seems that we'll be spending ferragosto at home, reading, painting, watching Mel Brooks movies, eating homemade popsicles and on Friday performing the Decameron in the mountains outside Pistoia...actually, that sounds like a pretty good vacation to me!

I is for Ice-cream, from the Alpa-baby series, watercolor on paper, 2013

summer scent, summer memory

Summer in Tuscany is a feast for the senses: the sticky, sweet smell of a fig tree, the color of sunset on custard colored palazzi, the sound of swallows diving for morning breakfast, the taste of sweet melon and salty prosciutto makes your taste buds explode!
Perhaps the sense that hits me the hardest are the smells of summer, scents that bring back a flood of memories from summers past, both in Italy and in Pennsylvania...

Burning wood
August, Girl Scout camp. Right after dinner we did flag ceremony in the field, as the sun was setting, and then we would take the girls back to their camp site and get them settled in for the night. I would build a little fire and then walk up to the mess hall through the woods, in the dark, to get supplies for making s'mores. No flashlight. Just the moon. And the smell of campfires burning. Knowing it was the end of summer, autumn just around the corner, and that this simple task was so comforting and simple.

Three red feathers (watercolor on paper), 2013

Jasmine
My first summer in Florence. Nighttime, near midnight. Sitting on the balcony of Alberto's apartment in Piazza Antonelli, eating watermelon and spitting seeds down at the stray cats circling around the umbrella pines. The scent of jasmine at night would be so strong (and as it turns out, I'm allergic) that it would fill up the bedroom and cling to the mosquito nets above the bed.

Tuscan Moonrise (watercolor on paper), 2013

Linseed oil
Ambler, PA. My grandmother's art studio had a sky-light that would flood the wood paneled space with warm light and make the scent of linseed oil even stronger. It was right off the kitchen, and when she cooked eggs in the morning, the smell of oil paints and linseed mixed with the smell of toast and dippy egg. Dippy egg. Now there's a Pennsylvania word.


In any case, when it comes to senses and memory, Proust knew what he was talking about:

"No sooner had the warm liquid mixed with the crumbs touched my palate than a shudder ran through me and I stopped, intent upon the extraordinary thing that was happening to me. An exquisite pleasure had invaded my senses, something isolated, detached, with no suggestion of it origin...And suddenly the memory revealed itself. The taste was that of the little piece of madeleine which on Sunday mornings at Combray...my aunt Leonie used to give me, dipping it first in her own cup of tea or tisane. The sight of the little madeleine had recalled nothing to my mind before I tasted it. And all from my cup of tea."

- Marcel Proust from "À la recherche du temps perdu"

what the fig?!

Three figs, watercolor on paper, 2013

One summer, Zio Giovanni gave us a crate load of figs. I mean, a. crate. load. of. figs. Approximately 70 figs total. For two people. These figs were so ripe, that they were practically bursting their figgy sweet insides all over the place. The kitchen smelled like a sweaty orchard and within two hours of their arrival, fruit flies had arrived on the scene. Time was limited. We tried to eat as many figs as we could in two days, but when all was said and done - our bellies aching, shouting, "BASTA!" - there were still about 50 rotten figs stinking up the kitchen in Piazza Antonelli. What a sad day...don't tell Zio Giovanni.
Time has passed and I've learned how to make fig jam, fig preserves, fig pie, fig cookies, fig and walnut cake, figgy pudding (just kidding), you name it, so never again shall a fig go to waste under this roof. In fact, when the first figs of the season arrive at the market, I come running home with a bagful. They're like giant gemstones, varying in color from the most beautiful deep purple and maroon to a shocking, zesty green. Crack them open and their fragrant, fleshy insides are the pinkest pink. Too beautiful to eat, I take to painting them first...then I slice them up with a little prosciutto crudo, some fresh pane toscano and dinner is served.

macaron, mermaids and mint

I've been painting, sketching, photographing up a storm in the Blue Room! Taking inspiration from our balcony herb garden, favorite French sweets and American folk music, the themes are as varied as the mediums used to create them. Coming to www.etsy.com (ASAP!)

Macaron, watercolor on French book page mounted on paper, 2013

Trois, watercolor on paper, 2013

The Mermaid, mixed media with acrylic on canvas, 2013

"'Cause her hair was as green as seaweed
Her skin was blue and pale
I loved that girl with all my heart
I only liked the upper part
I did not like the tail."
- from a sea shanty, "The Mermaid"

The Green Willow Tree, acrylic on canvas board, 2013

From a ballad bought to America by the early colonists. The Green Willow Tree is supposedly about  the famous British sea captain Sir Walter Raleigh (1552-1618)

Herb series, watercolor on paper, 2013

mastering the art of...

After a particularly gloomy winter in Florence, void of light but full of rain, I'm back in the Blue Room - writing, painting, cooking, planting and blogging (finally). There's nothing like a little bit of sunshine and a bike ride in the park to set things straight and jumpstart the spring. There's a big jar of rosemary and laurel in my kitchen, ready to be used for new recipes. The cat is spending his days on our newly restored balcony, eating wheat grass and trying to catch pigeons. I'm sitting in the Blue Room, paging through my new book: Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking. For Alberto's birthday, I tried one of Julia's cake recipes -  gâteau à l'orange (orange spongecake) with orange cream filling. I think I'll spend today working on my watercolors and try to write another article for Florence Magazine.

Coming out of hibernation and throwing myself back into my writing and painting and all the other things that I wish paid the rent, makes me wonder: will it ever be possible to master the art of anything if your interests are so varied? And what about all these hobbies/passions/unpaid jobs that I  love doing in my free time - if they become my job, will they still be fun and relaxing? Julia Child wasn't always a famous cook/writer/foodie - she just started cooking because she loved food and wanted to know more about it. But what then? When it was a "real" job, was it still fun for her? How do you balance the fun with the work? 
And another question: at what point does a hobby actually become your profession? Can I call myself an artist, even though my paying gig is as an English teacher?  A week ago, I was listening to Terry Gross's interview with David Sedaris (my favorite contemporary satirist) on NPR. He was talking about how early on, he worked other jobs while he wrote (for himself) on the side: 

"I was never the person that thought that having a job during the daytime made you any less of a writer. I never thought, 'Well, when I can quit my job, that's when I'll be a real writer'." 

What a breath of fresh air! I often fret about labeling myself a "real artist" and I never know how to respond to the question, "What do you do?" And I must admit that one of my biggest fears is that I'll never be able to make the transition from "employee" to "self-employed" artist, and that I'll lose myself along the way or abandon my projects or never manage to find that happy balance between pleasure and work. But people like David Sedaris give me hope, and so does my husband - a working (!) actor - and my good friend Sharon, who works during the day and dances/choreographs/performs whenever she can and my college roommate (the yin to my yang) Julia, who loves teaching yoga but also loves writing and photography (two talents she puts to good use in other jobs here and there). 

But think Picasso posed the most serious quandary - "Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once we grow up." Adults are cynical, we've lost our innocence and sense of wonder, which makes it harder to create. Another big problem is that we've also gained a sense of responsibility, which makes it harder to put ourselves out there or take risks (creatively, emotionally, economically...). Plus we have this need to label ourselves as one profession or another, which in the end can be a real downer and over-simplifies our lives.
Can't we all be Renaissance men and women, and just leave it at that? Why do we insist on labeling ourselves as our profession, reducing ourselves to one single word? "Hello, I'm Lauren the teacher". That's too simple. "Hello, I'm Lauren and I like making things, trying new recipes and dancing to folk music."
Let's do it all and forget about distinguishing what is work and what is play. Maybe that way, can master the art of staying true to ourselves - the greatest job of all!

O body swayed to music...

Jeff Warner and Jeff Davis

When I was a kid and my parents would load three suitcases, a big cooler, some beach chairs and a mini travel grill into the Nissan, I knew that without a doubt - no matter where we were going - that it was time for folk music. I loved my cassette of "Old Time Songs for Kids" by Jeff Davis and Jeff Warner - a compilation of folk music (not really for children) accumulated and recorded by two first rate musicians. Sometimes we would all sing-a-long together, sometimes I would listen to it privately on my mini-walkman. Whichever the case, the music made the hours in the car fly by.

I hadn't listened to those songs for about fifteen years, until last summer when my dad made a CD of my now aged, beat-up cassette (shout-out to B. Whalen for the help). Listening to that folk music again for the first time in years brought back a flood of emotions, memories and now, understanding. The music moved me in a different way and it felt really comforting to have that old sound rocking my bones again. Now I take the music with me on my iPod when I ride my bike to work, sometimes I listen to it at home while I'm cooking or working on the computer; it's the same as a bowl of mashed potatoes - it's "comfort food" (but it nourishes the soul, rather than the belly). For me folk music communicates a pure and simple joy, connecting us to our ancestors and our community. It's a sort of "blood memory" as Martha Graham would say.

I've grown to enjoy Italian folk music just as much as American folk music, and even though Italian blood doesn't run through my veins, the music still moves me profoundly. When I was living in Florence in 2008, I made this video in Piazza Santissima Annunziata during one of the fierucole (autumn harvest festivals) when some improvised folk music (and dancing!) took place. The various vendors - cheesemongers, bakers, weavers, wood sculptors, etc. - kicked up their heels in the late afternoon, needing a break from the long hours passed standing behind their wooden tables. There was laurel and rosemary thrown on the ground of the piazza and the dancing created this fantastic aroma of herbs, wool and sweat. The way they danced and clapped and laughed with the music was so pure and natural. The blood inside them moved them automatically, effortlessly. This short video only captures the beginning of the dancing, because a few minutes later, these two dancers became about fifteen dancers (me included) and the bee keeper grabbed my arm and pulled me into their circle! It may have been the best performance that I've ever participated in and surely one of my favorite memories of my time in Italy.

                                          

"I feel that the essence of dance is the expression of man--the landscape of his soul. I hope that every dance I do reveals something of myself or some wonderful thing a human can be."

- Martha Graham, Blood Memory

milan and the living dead

After New Year's but before la Befana (Epiphany) my husband gifted me a trip to Milano. I've never set foot in Lombardia and I was anxious to see the differences between my golden, glowing Toscana and the foggy land of Gauls and Lombards. The real reason for the trip wasn't just site-seeing, but to check-out an exhibit called Dracula e il mito dei vampiri ("Dracula and the Myth of Vampires") at the Triennale di Milano. Alberto has always about my secret not-so-secret love of Bram Stoker's gothic horror novel "Dracula"(published in 1897), as well as my penchant for Eastern European folklore. Since 2006, I've started reading "Dracula" about once a year and any time I come across a copy in a bookstore I always have the urge to buy it (I only have three copies...not nearly enough).

This whole morbid love affair with vampires started when I was 11 or 12 years old and I wandered into a dark corner of the local library. There I came across a strange book about Slavic myth and folk stories; to my horror I discovered that Stoker's Count Dracula was based on a real person! Vlad Ţepeş was guilty of some pretty shocking crimes (mass impaling, torture, nailing turbans to the heads of Turkish ambassadors...) and apparently, "real" cases of vampirism have been recorded as far back as the 17th century. At age 12, the lines between history, fiction and reality were far too blurry for me to understand, so I spent a few months taking precautions: a rosary hidden under my T-shirt, a bulb of garlic under the bed. Since then, my child-like fascination with the "un-dead" has subsided a great deal. But my love of libraries, research and the mysterious blending of fact and fiction has only grown.

The exhibit at the Triennale was really excellent: an entire section on the man who inspired the novel (Vlad Ţepeş), along with first source materials like maps of Walachia and Transylvania, 17th and 18th century manuscripts and pamphlets on Vlad, outbreaks of vampirsm in the Balkans and advice on "how to defend yourself from the un-dead." Then there was an entire section dedicated to Bram Stoker, which included one of his diaries and the first printed edition of "Dracula." The rest of the show was covered Dracula in film, fashion and pop culture, which was all equally well presented and interesting. This section also featured clips from varying vampire films and costumes from Francis Ford Coppola's "Bram Stoker's Dracula" (1992). My favorite part of the exhibit? The two unsettling portraits of Vlad (see the catalogue above) - one of which had his eyes scratched out by an unknown owner.

So in Milan, with vampires, torture and death on the mind, I discovered that the gloomy metropolis is really a city of the living dead, filled with relics of the past that are venerated in its churches and museums, kept eternally for the next generations of historians (and vampire hunters) to discover. You just need the time, and the stomach, to look for them.

17th century automaton, Castello Sforzesco

St. Ambrogio, Sts. Gervasio and Protasio, Basilica di Sant'Ambrogio

St. Bartolomeo holds onto his flayed skin by Marco d'Agrate 1562, Duomo di Milano

year in review

After a whirlwind year of new jobs, new dances, a new cat, a new tattoo, traveling in Italy, traveling in Pennsylvania, painting, cooking, writing, photographing...a girl needs a break, and time to process the end of the past year and start making plans for the new one. I'm a sentimental sap and have never been a fan of New Year's Eve - save the spumante. And I especially despise the inevitable ritual of "New Year's resolutions": lose weight, eat healthier, save more money, be more positive...everyone makes the same promises to themselves and then breaks them by the time Valentine's Day rolls around. I didn't make a single resolution last year and I don't intend to do so this year. But I can rejoice in a beautiful year well spent full of positive energy, learning experiences, new experiences, love, joy, nurturing old friendships and cultivating new ones. To all of you the five of you who read my blog, I wish you a 2013 full of good stuff, peace and happiness.

Buon anno a tutti!

January, La Veneria Reale, Torino

February, Massimo makes necci at La Panca

April, Occupazione Farsesche, Teatro Puccini, Firenze

April, i bring warmth with Sharon Estacio, Firenze

May, Mr. Winston takes a nap, Firenze

Summer, "English Through Art", Mugello

July, Roberto Benigni Tutto Dante, Santa Croce, Firenze

September, laurel tree courtesy of Joshua Ross at Mind's Eye Tattoo, Emmaus, PA

September, Decameron at University of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

October, chestnut season, Palazzuolo sul Senio, Tuscany

December, Christmas with Mom and Dad, Firenze

bite of autumn

Winnie guards this season's harvest

In honor of autumn, a favorite apple recipe.

Apple Spice Cake

Ingredients:
1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, melted
2 cups flour
2 tsp. baking soda
1/2 tsp. baking powder
2 tsp. cinnamon (or more...I'm heavy handed on the cinnamon)
1/2 tsp. ginger (dried is good, fresh is better)
3/4 tsp. salt
1 cup sugar
1 Tbsp. honey (I used chestnut honey, it's kick ass)
2 eggs
4 apples, diced (Granny Smith are good, but anything locally grown is even better!)

Preheat oven to 170 C (350 F). Butter and flour an 8 in. round cake pan.
In a medium bowl, whisk together flour, baking soda and powder, spices and salt; set aside.
In a large bowl, whisk together butter, sugar and eggs; fold in apples.
Add flour mixture slowly until just combined (don't over mix - it makes baked goods tough).
Pour into pan and bake for approx. 45 minutes. Cool and dust with powdered sugar.
Buon appetito! Enjoy this little bite of autumn.

divided: an expat's two homes

self-portrait, in progress

Being an American living abroad usually means that every so often, we head back to the "mother county" and pay a visit. I'm due for mine next week. Every trip back gets harder and harder - harder to say goodbye to my life here in Florence, harder to re-adjust to American culture, harder to fit back into a routine that hasn't changed much in my 24 years...it's just hard. 

After two years in Italy, I feel myself a woman divided, neither Italian nor completely American, living in a kind of limbo state. Don't get me wrong, I feel like my home is Italy and this is where I belong. But ever since my love affair with Italy began, about four years ago, I feel like wherever I go a part of me is missing. 

It's no surprise that my only close friends over here are expats themselves - it's obvious, we can relate to each other. We share the frustrations of having to spend 45 minutes in line at the post office, just to send one letter. We can snicker together at the irony of Florentine women, who on the outside look polished in their Ray-bans, high heeled Hogans and Gucci purses but as soon as they open their mouths sound like country bumpkins, cafoni. We hate how Italians will talk and talk and talk and talk about change, and then give up, lascia stare!, and go have an aperitivo. These friends of mine are from Maine, New York, Nantes and Lyon, but they are my Italian family in this mixed up world of "expatriatism"...yes, I just invented a word.

self-portrait, in progress

But I'm beginning to realize that even if I feel divided between two countries, those two countries are my homes. Two homes! I'm lucky really, with two families to love, two sets of friends to visit, two cultures to explore and enjoy, two parts of myself to cultivate. I always wanted to be a "global citizen" and I feel like I can finally call myself one. 

In the end, my home is where I make it. For now, I'll just have to lighten up and consider how fortunate I am to be a woman divided.

"I leave you my portrait so that you will have my presence all the days and nights that I am away from you."                  - Frida Kahlo

come on back

Consumed by children, summer camp, a new kitten, a new project, a new painting, The Blue Room has been abandoned for a month! But it's okay...there are pictures to sum it all up.

Sir Winston doing his homework

Sushi dinner in Via dei Cairoli

Mini-Matisse and her mamma

to the fates, of summer

Toes at Riotorto, Toscana

You know it's the start of summer in Florence when the air is so thick with jasmine that you feel drunk, giddily perfumed by the little white flowers. The days are hot and sunny, the nights are crisp and you grab a scarf for the bike ride home. Scarlet cherries, duroni, suddenly appear on the stands of fruttivendoli, and by Friday night most Florentines have evacuated our city, taking to their mountain retreats in the Maremma or to the sea in Cecina.

It's best to start the summer with a poem, I think - a prayer for a season of creativity and new experiences.
_________________________________________________________________

To the Fates

Grant me a single summer, you lords of all, 
A single autumn, for the fullgrown song, 
So that, with such sweet playing sated, 
Then my heart may die more willing.


The soul, in life robbed of its godly right, 
Rests not, even in Orcus down below; 
Yet should I once achieve my heart's
First holy concern, the poem,


Welcome then, O stillness of the shadow world!
Even if down I go without my
Music, I shall be satisfied; once
Like gods I shall have lived, more I need not.



- Friedrich Hölderlin (trans. Christopher Middleton)

site-specificity

Theater is a verb before it is a noun, an act before it is a place.  - Martha Graham

i bring warmth a site-specific dance performance by Sharon Estacio with Lauren MacLaughlin at Palazzo Pitti, Firenze - photo by Alberto Galligani

i bring warmth, Sharon Estacio and myself - photo by A. Galligani

trees in the forest

Among the trees, Monte Asinaio, Toscana

Two years ago from yesterday, I graduated from college. I'm known to be a sentimental sort of person who appreciates anniversaries, relishes in looking back on the past while reflecting on progress made. Nowadays, when universities are more expensive than ever and finding a job in your specific field of study is a job in and of itself, I think many college graduates are prone to take a look at their degree and think: did I do the right thing? Was it worth it? Everyone said, "Get an education and you'll get a good job" - where are those people when I'm up to my eyes in student loan debt and still living with my parents. Etc. etc. etc.
For me, the fleeting thought that passes through my mind is: "Am I wasting my education?"
I defiantly answer myself: "No! How dare you think that!" Four years at Pitt have taught me that post-grad life isn't so black and white.

For me, a college education isn't just a degree and the hope for decent employment or a decent paycheck, it's an experience that teaches who you are and who you want to be (dear reader, sorry for sounding so trite). I think that today, it might be hard for students to see the practical benefits of a college education - those promised jobs, promises for a stable future, a house, a family (the American dream, right?) have all but been dashed to the winds. Call me naive, but what if that's okay? What if we continue school just because we want to know ourselves better? Because we want to learn, to understand the world and relate to it? Is that so bad?! What if we say, "Fuck practical - I'm doing this for myself without ulterior motives for becoming Joe-College-Grad with his white collar job, SUV, wife and kids in suburbia heaven."

I think it's important, more than ever, for the class of 2012 to look forward to all the non-practical benefits of four more years in school: independence, abandoning your comfort zone, learning new things for the sheer joy of it, questioning others and yourself, demanding the truth, ending blind acceptance, making a contribution to the world, living! Living!

One of my favorite professors at Pitt once told me that "You have to see the forest for its trees." Whenever I feel consumed by details, all the small stuff, or like Dante in the selva oscura, "dark wood", I think of his words. So high school grads, college grads, take this advice and don't despair: you aren't wasting your education, you haven't wasted it and you won't, just as long as you see the forest for its trees.

i bring warmth

Click HERE for video

i bring warmth: a site-specific project


Two American expats revisit threads of Polynesian dance (learned in Pennsylvania) as a means of grafting themselves to their Mediterranean abode


Direction: Sharon Estacio
Creation and Performance: Sharon Estacio, Lauren MacLaughlin


Underpass at Piazza delle Cure
By the Arno, under Ponte alla Carraia
In front of Palazzo Pitti
(Firenze, Italia)


details to follow shortly:
http://sharonestacio.com/

impressions

Olive picking, Mugello

I've been living in Florence for almost two years now, but my love affair with this city goes back to fall 2008, when I was a student here. Sometimes I feel like the city throws me into sensory overload, and I wish I had my camera or videocamera to capture my experiences, just so I could take them home, go over them and process. I thought it might be fun to put some of these impressions into words...

_________________________________________________________________________________
Golden sunlight streams through olive leaves. Oxtoa clambers up the limbs like a cat, or better, his cat, Gaston (aka. Mini-Cat).  Our harvest leaves a deep purple trail. White nets are like ghosts. Wine is dark, like our olives.

7am, summer in Via dei Cairoli, windows open and the smell of fresh bread, croissants - yeasty and thick - waft through the screens. Good morning!

Francesca, a Thursday morning wedding

Near the Campo di Marte train station, there is a run-down villa, the color of dirty parchment. The walls are dripping, oozing purple wisteria from top to bottom.

The children in the elementary school behind our house sing and dance to Shakira. The headmistress, a stern old nun, interrupts them for a "pensierino alla Madonna" - "a little prayer for the Madonna"...I guess she means the Virgin Mary, not the pop star.

A stylish gentleman, Saturday afternoon, exits from the Four Seasons wearing beautiful, bright red, leather shoes. He has horn-rimmed glasses.

Antique shop, Arezzo

Tuesday: walking through the market at the Cascine, along the river. Sicilian cheesemongers shove samples in your face. The street smells like fried dough and salami. A baby in a stroller is wearing sunglasses and laughs as his mother tries on yellow high heels. The plant stand is being stormed by Florentine grandmothers; they complain about prices but praise the selection.

The color of black sesame gelato? Light grey. The taste? Sweet and peanut-y. Who knew!

Fields of sunflowers, on our way to the beach. They look to the sky, waiting.

Sara pulls out a giant cheese ziggurat. It's goat cheese. It's beautiful, creamy, white and tastes like heaven. Her friend tells us, "There's a farm in Tuscany where you can adopt a goat." We jump into the ocean.

My bicycle creaks, squeaks, creaks, squeaks down the street on my return from work. White, fuzzy flowers rain down from the trees on the viale.  Just in time to see the hot pink and orange sun set over the soccer stadium.