the pockets that carry you through the day

Quote of the Week So Far:

"Oh, no---sorry. I was dealing with venomous reptiles and potential death."

---PETER, apologising for not having
our assignments graded.

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Just back from the Museo della Scala, where I wandered through an exhibit of Gordon Matta-Clark's work. The guy who pulled apart houses and then put them back together before they were demolished by the city to demonstrate ideas of homelessness and architectural form. I have to think about it for a little while longer until I come to any real idea of what I would say in response, but until then, a page from one of his journals:

"Our European heritage is a one directional formal tyranny the same dependence of Grece-Roman now German-Anglo form bags applies to the moment as much as for Wright-Solomon revolt.

America has no forms all its own except (1) Anarchistic distortion of European monumentality the (2) production line billboard and the (3) tragedy of an exterminated native population.

In view of a formless word syllables being formed by non-functioning mouths

Anarchitecture refers to ways of functioning---we are anti-formal."

DISCUSS.

I predict our next art class discussion to be wildly out of control. Forget Peter's eternal "What is art?"---let's try "What is an artist?"

In Matta-Clark's defense, there were some real gems among his scribbles, namely the post title above, and thoughts like

::: High voltage and danger zones! A radioactive landscape. A room with a wasp in it.
::: Drawers full of time/human places beyond memory/the elephant's burial ground
and
:::short term eternities

Waiting for my photos to upload, I think I understand exactly how that last one feels.

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This morning, when Muzzi asked the usual "Come vai oggi?" I responded with a rather bitter "Frustrata." And when she asked the necessary "Perchè?" she got some serious ranting.

I am frustrated because I can't speak Italian, or at least I can't speak it well. At night, when I'm falling asleep, I think only in Italian. Words, phrases, entire paragraphs. In my dreams I speak Italian---rapidly, perfectly. Then I wake up; nothing. The English invades.

She listened to my vent with a sympathetic smile, nodding as I tried to explain. "Bettina," she said, letting me take a deep breath. "It is the same for me. I speak the most beautiful English in my sleep. But you are trying, and that is what matters."

I wish I could believe her. But I am getting very tired of not being able to communicate.

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THREE THINGS E. SHOULD NEVER BE WITHOUT

1. camera
2. pen
3.paper

My nightmares revolve around the absence of these things. I turn a corner into a perfect composition of shadow and light---no camera. I love a particular Madonna's smile and have no page to sketch it on. I spend the afternoon in a museum full of wacky wordings, leaving my bag at the coatcheck. I have to ask the docent for a pen (Italian panic all on its own) and scribble on the back of a receipt (1.40 euro for Firenze foccacia), run out of blank space on said receipt, and then ask for a scrap of paper, too.