final jury.

the wrong way: wearing your new shirt while inking your entire final project. Ink wells tip and spill.

the Wright way: roll up your sleeves

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Jury is at 2:30pm; all boards pinned up and ready-to-go by 2. It's been stressful and confusing, but we made it to today! And I literally just stumbled onto a firm's website that could've made an excellent precedent....

They're worth checking out. SAOTA is the acronym for the firm. They have a very flashy website with an abundance of projects, conceptual and built.

http://saotablog.blogspot.com/

http://www.saota.com/

palm sunday.

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Palm Sunday at St. Peter's Basilica. Olive branches, palm leaves, and children running around hitting each other with blessed branches of various Roman flora surrounded Corin, Marisa, Steve, Billy and me for the three hour mass.

Three cantors sang the entire passion, one dropping out towards the end as his voice couldn't withstand. The entire mass was in Italian and Latin. English, Turkish, French, German, and a few other languages were thrown in there, too. After being into the mass for awhile, I looked back behind me. I didn't even realize how close to the altar we were; how many people had come out for this.

Because the mass was so long, my internal translator shut down halfway through the mass, and I focused on space I was in. My thoughts began transitioning to my current project, the facade transformation. Studio was something I had planned later for that day, but our consistency in design critique has made me fluent in the language, and I began translating the facade of St. Peter's into a "tartan grid" strategy that we've been using recently.

I have an appreciation for modern and fascist architecture, don't get me wrong, but I don't think there's very much I'd change about the Basilica. It's too classic; transforming it would be a shame. I'm glad I'm working with a virtually nameless building for my studio project.

vino for alan.

the wrong way: forget your umbrella when the forecast says 'RAIN.'

the Wright way: bring your sunglasses just in case the unpredictable Roman weather takes a turn for the better! It's hard keeping prepared around here.

___________________________________________

Tonight, the gang of us went down the street from our studio to educate ourselves on the topic of wine tasting. I'm sure the intricacies and formality involved left an impression on some of us [and I don't mean grape-juice stains].

We were all excited to read "Wine tasting: 17pm" on our schedules this week, especially in the midst of the facade transformation project we've been trying to tackle. It was a nice breath from studio, even though I'm sure I'm on the brink of a break-through.

Massimo was our guide to our grand sophistication outtake. Although slight in his English, he proved to be a wonderful guide to the unusual world of wines. He also didn't comment when some of us devoured the slices of bread, meant to be used to cleanse the pallet between tastings. So polite.

Wine color, alcoholic content, carbon dioxide, fermentation practices, regions and their effects on the wine, historical importance, and regional preferences were all explained. My favorite part was the explanation of the four common colors of wine [from Ruby to Orange] which you could compare by observing its candlelit reflection on a wine napkin. Then, noting your finger through the wine, you could test its clarity.

In my opinion, the third glass we tried was wonderful. It was a bit heavy, but was fermented in oak so it bore woody tones. It was also tonic, but had good legs- not too watery, and not too alcoholic. Don't tell Alan, but I got him a nice bottle. He's got good legs, too ;D

I love how Italians hold tradition as such a priority. It seems that many Europeans act the same way, from Festivals to daily habits. They mind their wineries as seriously as New Yorkers coddle their stocks. Massimo doesn't keep his wine out on the floor. Instead he displays many empty bottles and has conversations about the wines his customers are interested in. All of his wines are kept bottled in a temperature-controlled cellar below ground, and are upside-down so the liquid touches the cork. Apparently this is important.

I know of some families in the States who keep traditions up, though. My family makes Irish Soda Bread every St. Patty's.

America needs more Irish Soda Bread.

a land as i.

the wrong way: drink the water.

the Wright way: don't complain. You were stupid.

___________________________________________

On Friday we returned from our trip to the Southern regions of Italy. Each place we visited had its own feeling and identity. Napoli was the first city we hit, and immediately I heard the difference between the dialect of the North and South.

I met a friend there named Antony who smoked three camel lights as I sketched sections of two palazzi. He would not stop talking-- with his hands and all [I managed to get all the ash off my pages]. I suppose I would pour my heart out too if someone didn't understand a word I was saying and sat as politely.

We also visited Casa Malaparte, up in the cliffs of Capri. It was about a 40-minute hike across non-regulation stairways and winding cliff paths to reach the area from the main town. The house's keeper, Malaparte's nephew, travels that path just about every day to get to town. For us, it was a bit of a struggle, but we were driven. We spent about three hours sketching, talking about the house, and exploring.

Malaparte was not an architect, in fact he was a writer, but he had a lot of concepts he wanted to incorporate into his design. His concepts had to do with things that he possessed, that he did, or that played an important role in his life. A slave to cell 461, he carried his memory of imprisonment with him as he built his house on those jagged cliffs. His realization of the inability to attain freedom after being released was a crucial epiphany which helped spark the drive to build. He yearned for isolation, yet at the same time felt free, as a performer on a stage. These battling qualities of character were realized, as the architectural self-portrait of Malaparte was constructed on those cliffs.

One of the greatest aspects of the house is how the views are framed. From the outside, the fenestration may seem a tad random or strange, but keep in mind that this house was built from the inside-out. All considerations began from the prisoner's point of view. Each window view on the interior frames a beautiful scene.

The scenes are not just of beauty, but of types of beauty. Making your way down through, you notice that the rooms on the left are built of wood, with views emphasizing the flora of the cliffs and the trees spilling over the sides of the house, lightly protecting it from the elements.

The spaces on the right highlight the element of rock and stone, and the views follow in the same manner.

There is a white fin

that curves on the roof of the house, something CUA has used as a make-shift projection screen for summer lectures. As you walk towards the fin, it grows bigger and cuts off everything from view but the sky and the tops of the cliffs. Standing in a certain location on the roof, you feel like a prisoner to the natural world.

Temple of Apollo ruins

Pompeii/bath complex

roman invasion.

the wrong way: don't wear sunscreen.

the Wright solution: prevent blistering, downsize the peeling and heat, and help your sun poisoning heal faster by soaking yourself in cold tea.

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Well I haven't seen any Visigoths around, but there is in invasion that seems to continue in Rome even now; not by a German barbarian, but by a Frenchie perfectionist.

A street artist known as "Invader" has struck again, this time in Campo Di'Fiori. Invader conquers the urban landscape with his trademark tiles. He has "invaded" many European cities, France being the first to lose its pixel-virginity. This nonsense all began in 1990.

I first noticed his mosaics the first day we got here, and assumed that they were colorful markers of certain streets. After passing a few more, it became apparent that they didn't include street names; they were some kind of local artist's work. Ironically, as time has passed, I've started using them as landmarks.

All compositions are meticulously aligned and positioned in such a way as to be out of reach to those who have intentions of damaging the art, yet within easy view. These little touches are what made them stand out to me [and the colors, and the invader game, and the contrast, and the nostalgia...]. The city seems to positively respond to these invaders. They're very different than superficial vandalism, they have become a small, quirky element of the city's fabric.

The artist has a specific criteria for the placement of the images around cities, too. They're never randomly placed, but have "rules" set up for each individual city. Invader also keeps track of every single work and maps them out. I've heard he's published a book, too.

For example, Montpellier has been decoded: all the mosaics were installed so that, if placed on a map, the locations together form a giant invader character. Talk about keeping the larger context in mind during the design process.

The colorful mosaics Invader installs are made up of tiny squares forming a pixelated image of a little "invader" as influenced by the Space Invaders game. If you don't know what that is, it's a rad game from the 70's [there's a free Blackberry app available].

Since the game has such low graphics, the technique of using mosaic tiles to represent the pixels was clever.

Unlike a lot of urban artists, Invader has a face. He's had solo art exhibitions in many large cities, and shares my love of grids, pixels, squares, and colorful perfect forms; apparent in his studies of the Rubix Cube. I'd love to see one of his exhibitions one day. Steph Cervantes shares my fascination with this street artist.

More about urban artist 'Space Invader'

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A few CUArch went to the beach yesterday, and one of them forgot his sunscreen. It was so bad that we were able to find Justin's skin tone on Sally Hansen's interactive nailpolish color selector. his shade was "Cheerful Crimson."

Since I'm so susceptible to burning, I have a few strategies for dealing with sunburn as bad as this. It sounds strange, but if you soak your skin in cold tea, the tea will absorb the heat from your skin and help it to repair itself faster.

How:

Brew a bowl of Earl Grey or Breakfast Tea, [Lipton is fine, just TEA.] let it cool down in the fridge or on a table, and start soaking paper towels in it. Then lay the cool wet towels on the burnt areas of your body, changing them when they heat up or go dry.

I've had to do this a few times, once I even finished Gone With the Wind in the process. You'll have to soak yourself for awhile, but if it prevents the puffiness and blisters from forming, then 'Frankly, woman, I don't give a damn.'

brace yourself.

the wrong way: Go hiking in Germany with a partially-torn lateral ligament.
the Wright way: If you think you got an injury in a foreign country, even if it means missing a series of site visits in Rome and a day of sketching, get it checked out.

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Yesterday, our group went on a bus tour around Roma. Because I wasn't there, I'm not sure which sites they hit. If you're curious, check out our main blog, cuaarchrome2011.blogspot.com.

So what did I do with my day? Let me begin with my Sunday.
Sunday morning, instead of church, I found myself in a taxi on the way to Fatebenefratelli, the main hospital on Tiber Island. There exists an interesting history about the island and its medicinal practices. A legend about the old Roman god of health being brought to the island influenced its use as a place of healing and rest.

Well I haven't been healing for the past two weeks, but I did do a lot of resting in the waiting room for seven [7] hours [yes. seven hours.]. I sat among the old Italian geezers using their urinal bags in their wheelchairs, nuns praying a decade in a corner, a teenager with the skin around her eye changing from red and swollen to black, blue, and convex, a woman letting out hushed weeps as some liquid from her abdomen turned the pale blue of her shirt a dark dotty red, and bodies on stretchers racing by. Several Italian soap operas and fitness commercials blared in the top left of my peripheral.

At 4:45pm, I got to see the doctor. Claudia came with me to translate, and through her, I learned I needed to see a specialist. The hospital gave me a prescription for pain-killers [which as of late I've realized kick up the acidity of my poor stomach], wrapped up my knee in temporary supports, made me a different appointment, and kissed me good-bye.

Monday and Tuesday were a blur-- a mixture of frustration from limitations, knee/stomach pain, guilt from being snappy at people, and drowsiness from medication. Wednesday's knee appointment was interesting, as a French Italian-speaking doctor used Google.translate and the anatomical sketches I drew on his post-its to figure out what happened to cause the injury. [Long-story-short, I twisted my knee in Germany two weeks ago and continued to walk on it, not wanting to complain. It got really bad on Friday morning after I went running, inspired by the recent 26-mi. Rome Marathon and the marathon that passed through D.C. last week].
Then Dr. Jean and I played charades and "if i hit this, does it hurt?" to diagnose my problem. I also taught him how to say "simple" in English.
He wrote down a knee brace and topical cream to get at the pharmacia, which I picked up this morning. I feel so much better with the brace it's remarkable. I want to go running again, but I think the most I'll be doing is sunning myself on Tiber Island and sketching from a seated position.
Neither is bad, in fact. I could use a few freckles, and my sketchbook does need a touch-up. . .


We leave for Southern Italy on Monday. We're hitting Naples, Pompeii, and Capri for sure. Apparently, it's a lot of walking. On the bright side, Dave will be there! That should encourage everyone, no matter what they're dealing with at the moment. Everyone could use a little bit of home.

_______________________

Last week, Stanley Hallet, a retired CUA professor, visited and helped us out with a photography/film project, assigning us a site and a final due date. We had about two days to work on it. The purpose was to give the viewer an essence of the location with a MacBook based slide presentation, so we had to have a team member with an Apple computer. Andrew was our man for that part of the project. Andrew and I shot the photos, Rebecca did a lot of the editing, and we collectively chose the song for the background music. Here's a link to our final product:

Palazzo Spada

Hallet visits during our field study to give us some pointers

SPOTTED! Andrew helping with the shopping for the final presentation snack table.

Why we sometimes refer to Marina as "mom."

What do you think?

modern transcendence.

the wrong way: don't drink water or coffee all day, even though in the back of your mind you know you're probably going to walk about 3 miles again.

the Wright way: get over your focus on health for just this one day-- share a gelato with good company, and pop a few Tylenol. The migraine isn't worth it. Then remember that keeping yourself hydrated is in fact a really important issue during hot days in Roma.

____________________________

The act of getting to the MAXXI in itself was an art form, or maybe more of an acrobatic feat. Never try to fit 30+ people into a mini-bus unless you're trying to win something. It gets a bit claustrophobic. I would say that we all got a bit CLOSER as a group.

If you've ever been to the MAXXI museum in Roma, the first thing that should strike you is the architecture around the exhibition spaces. The circulation is simple and somewhat muted in order to highlight the purpose of the building, the art itself. But like successful works by Carlo Scarpa, the building maintains a modern aire as it adds subtle charm to the spaces with its materials, texture, and lighting outside of the exhibition spaces.

There are multiple ramps suspended over the main lobby space which carry the flow of people to different spaces in separate quadrants of the building. There are metal grates you can look down through which constantly remind you of suspension, as the landings give you a break from the translucency of material and replace it with lighting, casting interesting shadows and emphasizing the pattern of the metal grates. These ramps are mixed in with some steps [which 9 out of 10 people in our group were spotted tripping over] and are completely separated from the art exhibition spaces, which are absolutely focused on the artists. I felt that the museum was excellent in this regard, and my taste for modern art just made the museum come alive. It was enchanting.

I decided to go into today with more positivity than I've been feeling recently. It helped me to focus more on the experience, and on the art itself. I keep forgetting how I almost became an art major. I constantly get dragged away from compositions in museums. I tend to linger too long for many peoples' tastes. If you ever go to a museum with me, be prepared to be there for a few hours, minimum.

Here are some of the more memorable pieces I took pictures of from today. I didn't get many shots because of the 'no pictures' rule.

merhaba, bro.

the wrong way: forget to blog about the best experience of your life

the Wright way: make a separate blog post because it was so amazing. no, i did not forget about Istanbul. how could you say that?

_____________________________________________

There's never enough time to finish everything I want to. For that, I'll always feel guilty.

Unfinished sketches, thoughts, songs, unfinished poetry, stories, bars of chocolate, cups of tea, naps, movies, moments, goodbyes...

does anyone else feel like that?

Anywho, highlights from Turkey:

There is way too much about this place to summarize. The only way I'll be able to explain it is in small glimpses, similar to how we take note of the world around us.

Upon arriving, we realized that we were actually in the Asia side of Turkey [Turkey is in both Asia and Europe]. Our lovely bus driver and his wife drove us over a huge bridge to the other side. Because of the weather and time of day, we were unable to see much of the skyline. We were distracted by the neon blue of the bridge we were crossing, and the Turkish pop music playing in the bus, anyway.

How cool was it that the Spice Market and Grand Bazaar was within walking distance of our hotel? I have honestly never seen any place like it. You can haggle down anyone you want, for anything you want, by any means you want. We made some odd friends [unintentional of course], I got a marriage proposal from a Turkish spice man who named me "Maria," dogs tended to follow us around, and the smells were phenomenal.

During the trip, some of us visited the Turkish Baths. We found a shop in the Grand Bazaar that sold the same towels that the bath house used, and some people bought them. What a salubrious way to remember a large Turkish man/woman rubbing down your naked body.

Our hotel absolutely beat when it came to views. When we went for dinner there, the floorplan told us to climb to the roof. There we found plenty of typical Turkish fare, and a beautiful view of both Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque. Every morning we woke up to breakfast with the mosques.

We quickly dove into Turkish [and non-Turkish] traditions. Ismet, a carpet merchant who has known Eric for his entire academic career, disclosed a lot of helpful information concerning the dishonesty in the markets, the antiquity of Turkey, and the people and traditions that keep the city of Istanbul alive. We shared stories, meals, and our fortunes with him [Ismet can predict the future through the remnants of your turkish coffee], and were given a rare opportunity to see his collection of fine, old, new, ragged, damaged, simple, intricate, traded, machine and handmade Turkish carpets. A few students dropped some coin and made a carpet from Ismet their souvenir of the trip, something they'll treasure as the time between that day in the carpet bazaar and the present grows. I think it also helped to reinforce our relationship with Ismet's company, establishing Eric's legacy there.

Helping to repair a carpet I ended up purchasing. There were some burnt patches, so I went through a few boxes of extra string to find matching colors [that rose color was a problem. Who could even PINK of using it in a weave?]. The patterns are different on both sides, representative of a tribe of Northern Turkey. It used to be a wheat-carrying device, hand-woven in the 1880s.

Istanbul is somewhere I would never had thought to visit. In the back of my mind, I wanted to know about the Muslim culture because my friend Alan comes from a solely Turkish background, and he practices the religion. He also has an obnoxious Turkish flag covering an entire wall of his house, filtering all the musical equipment in the room a rich, blood red color. I bet he'd be impressed to know that the symbolism of the moon and star isn't foreign to me anymore.

There was a lot of "Strolling Through Istanbul" going on throughout that week, the times when I was completely focused. I love antiquity and ruins. Eric and Marina accidently found a staircase leading to the roof of a han, which of course we scaled. The passages throughout the complex created a sudden hush for me and my thought processes. All of the thoughts of "I'm freezing... i'm very cold... did my toes fall off? What time is it? Where are we? Is that another cat?" completely shut off. I was inside a structure made for someone else, one that was sympathetic to the surrounding ones, connected to a courtyard, had stairs and doors leading everywhere and anywhere... and a rooftop view that literally took my breath away. The wind was that strong.

This was one of my deepest moments of self-reflection. What am I doing here? Do I deserve this opportunity? I was getting worried that efforts to show me the world through specific design and historical-oriented lenses was becoming a waste of time. There were twenty students chosen to leave the country. I was one of them. And I do belong here.

Being the coffee addict that I am, I'm always up for finding new ways to achieve my caffeine overdose [God knows, I'll be investing in some Crest Whitestrips when I get back to the states]. I was actually warned at the restaurant that I wouldn't like the Turkish Coffee they offered because it was for refined tastes. Curious [and feeling challenged], I tried the coffee anyway. I figured if they serve it as a menu item, it's nothing bad. This cultural unfamiliarity "makes my socks go up and down," as Michelle, my professor at CUA, would say.

The coffee was very tiny, and impressively delicious. I'm getting used to this whole "shot glass" style of coffee now, though Starbucks and my associated "gold card" still hold a place in my heart. The Turkish coffee, though, was rich and thick like a hot chocolate, and has about a quarter of an inch of coffee "sludge" at the bottom. Apparently if you read the sludge, you can predict someone's fortune.

I know what you're wondering.... yes I tried to eat the sludge. It was kind of dry.. like trying to eat wet ash.

One of the coolest things we did as a small group was visit a waterpipe bar. As we medicated our stressed-out selves with some tea and smoke, we also designed a 17-sided mosque complex, complete with 15 minarets, a frontal, receded courtyard, tons of floor changes, and a huge front gate.

After that, I walked over to the next room where some of my other peers were, and found they were trying to talk with a Turkish rock band. They gave us a free CD and I got to jam with the lead guitarist. What a night.

As I said before, one of the most charming things associated with mosques is the antiquity and the small pieces that become dilapidated, if only by frequent use.

The Sultan Beyazit Camii is something worth taking note of. It reminds me of the Velveteen Rabbit, really. Something that is so loved and obviously valued, somehow holds onto something very lonely.

I loved the half-domes complimenting the full dome in the center of the mosque. The bouncing ceilings started making me think deeply about the geometries involved in the space, and how they could be manipulated to create a similar effect.

This mosque took my breath away.

There is something in placing yourself in the middle of history. With the context achieved, time becomes the main focus. This mosque has stood for more than 500 years. The complex within which it establishes itself dates back to the 16th century, as well. There is a lot of memory within those walls. There is memory everywhere in Istanbul. You can simply feel it.

I have to go back.

This isn't a choice.

making moves.

The wrong way: the right way.
The Wright way: the left way.
[only in the UK, folks.]

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I'm sitting in a tepid common room with my fiction book resting, reading-side-down, on my left knee like a bag of ice. I can't read just now, I just need the familiarity. It's drizzling outside. And all of the memories of the past two weeks are causing my mind to buzz in and out.

If you've ever traveled, have you noticed how meeting different kinds of people, and I don't mean "different" by clothing style or color pallete, will change your outlook on your own life? This is what I've been thinking about.

GERMANY [,images of].

Sometimes I hang out with graffiti artists. They taught me to make a mark wherever I go. The rest of this trip is dedicated to that idea. You abort a bit of yourself along the way, and leave it to do what it will. Something else is always engaged in its place, and you already have it within you.

[my initials carved into a tree deep in the Schwarzwald]

I was coming back from walking around the enormous park in Stuttgart and saw the walls flooded with scenes made out of drippy spraypaint. Something my horrid memory decided to hold onto.

What is Stuttgart, Germany like? Stuttgart is Chrome.

There are buildings of reflection and glass EVERYWHERE.
Art.
Streets slowly nod the morning down without the intention of returning to lock eyes for long. Building skins complain I can't be like their models.
Fashionable, plastic, unmoving unmovable. So I retreat to shadows.
This one breathes that something understands. Their models snog behind an illusion of privacy. Their models are made of stronger stuff. Their models look through the reflective membrane towards me and see their own flaws, their collective idea of themselves never enough to translate into what I'm feeling. They love often. They love hard. What do I want?

We went to the Museum in the heart of Stuttgart, which at the time held an expose on Rudolf Steiner's works.
It helped catalyze my guilt of ignoring my musicality
Since I arrived in Rome back in January, I found it especially hard to keep up any of my musical interests. My excuses included an abundance of schoolwork, fear of criticism, lack of instruments, and the idea that maybe it was a part of my life I had "grown out of." Now that I've assured myself that the latter is more than ridiculous, I've been trying more than ever to let that part of me breathe. It's my little weed: an unavoidable, stubborn little thing, refusing to be ripped out by any excuse I try to poison it with.

Art.
Her hair was black, the walls white, the piano and shadows which conducted themselves from wordless instructions were a mixture of these perfect movements. Her body is moving to sounds she has made hundreds of times before as she sits. The dress highlights her bones, peaks in her skin which are lit gold by the silk where it hangs. No one needs to listen, watching her create music makes you hear the music, someone says.

I don't know the pieces she played, but she played them well. I've never been to a piano recital in a museum. As we walked through and experienced the different spaces of the building, her music echoed and changed pitch depending on how far away and how many walls came between us. A good introduction to a museum that held a great collection of all types of art by many great artists, only a few who I've heard of.

who wouldn't recognize Albers' "homage to the square?" I didn't know it was here!

Glass envelopes are such a PANE for their building's HVAC systems. Hasn't that become CLEAR to modern architects yet?

The chocolate around the shopping street is amazing. The fraulein would bring out a fresh batch of around six different blends every morning, and we each took turns to buy a daily bar. My turn came after Andrew flew back to Rome to see his family, so Corin and I shared. It tasted better between three.

Chocolate kept me alive during this break. I discovered my new favorite brand, Milka, which is made by Kraft and has the same type of packaging as many of their "cheese products," something my PETA newsletters scold me about.
Brands to avoid: Kraft, Nestle. Brands available internationally: Kraft, Nestle. Brands which are cheap. And therefore, in this state-of-mind, good.

Walking the streets of Stuttgart was just plain fun. My favorite part by far was Theo, the street performer. There's nothing more odd than a German comedian. I have no idea what he was saying.

SCOTLAND [,images of].

I've never tested myself like this before, to the point where the bones in my legs woke me up in the wee hours from pain in a hostel in Edinburgh. It was the lasting effect of hiking in the Black Forest of Germany.

Edinburgh was cold. Rain, snow, wind, & no way to keep my coat closed for the malfunctioning zipper and lack of buttons. Getting the bed closest to the window in the hostel wasn't something we should have raced for, either. The condensation from the exhilation of 14 humans kept my bed cold, moist, and smelling like rot. My tolerance level has boosted about 40 per cent, if I thought it wasn't maxed out, already.

I don't mean to complain. I enjoyed 'roughing it' in Edinburgh. The fact that I was there in the first place cast a positive lens over almost everything that happened.

I made a few friends at that hostel, none of whom have "homes," but who travel all over the UK looking for work and a place to sleep. We shared a lot of laughs over a reality TV show called "Coach Trip," prawns, the habits of people we had to share the room with, Cadbury chocolate, ghost stories of Edinburgh, the "magic" button on the television remote, and other random things. We taught each other a lot of slang terms and about our different lifestyles.

Being the jetsetter I've become, I have seen a lot of different types of people, and have never been able to quite fit in by looks. Having such a mixed heritage doesn't help, either. I'm too light for Italy, too white for Turkey, too dark for Germany, but it seems that I've found my place in Scotland. The moisture in the air curled my hair, similar to the gals there that let theirs go natural, and my skin color matched the porcelain features of the people on the streets. Even proportionately, The Scots have the same body-type as my brother and I, and they dress very similarly [minus the kilts, of course]. Needless to say I was thrilled at this, and found the men in Scotland very attractive.

A funny thing about the UK is that they ALL DRIVE ON THE LEFT. I almost had a heartattack after trying to cross the street a few times, and never quite got used to knowing which way to look first. Now that I'm back in Italy where they drive on the right-hand side like normal people, my skill at crossing the street like a New Yorker has become extinct.

Edinburgh was a bit more structured of a visit, in that we went on a few tours while we were there. The first was a tour of Mary King's Close, a famous close in the Old Town named after one of the most well-known [a.k.a. wealthiest at the time] inhabitants living on the close.

Architecturally, the structure of the entire place is impressive. If you lived in Edinburgh in the 1600s, you lived in a building that could've reached 7 stories high, with a 2 foot wide street separating your neighbor's building called a "close." Since these enormous buildings were made with the sole goal of maxing out living space by building up, plumbing was ignored. Each family had to make use of "the bucket:" a small bucket in the corner of the room for all their nasty business. The two times of day they could be emptied was at 7am, and 10pm. The streets were sloped, so the concept of getting the waste out existed but wasn't successful. While strolling the close, you could be ankle-deep in peoples' "muck."

I guess at that point, you would be sloshing rather than strolling.

At the time the Royal Exchange was built on top of it, they ordered an evacuation of the area. After a partial demolition, the rubble and existing foundations of the old buildings sustained their use. Legends and myths were born out of this, centering around Plague victims being left and walled up underneath, and ghosts wandering the area.

We went down to the parts of the close that were preserved, realizing that these were sites of the Black Death, and numerous kinds of diseases branching from it. It was incredible. An entire city existing under a government building?

We also went on a free tour that afternoon, although we ditched halfway through because of the weather. We saw the gravesite of John Knox, which is parking spot 23 behind St. Giles Cathedral. They mark it with an unetched gold slab. I don't think the Scots cared for the guy.

Wondering about the origins of the word "shit-faced?" I wasn't, but it was explained that clean water was scarce, so during the day, the Scots didn't drink much. They would work all day and go to the pub at night to drink whiskey in order to avoid dehydration. The pub's closing time was 10pm [remember the "bucket" emptying time?] which is when the guys would stumble out of the pub and venture home through the closes in the pitch black night. Warning calls of "GIRD YUR LOU!" could be heard, and if you were one of the unfortunate, when you looked up, you might've been nailed in the face with the contents of the bucket. Shit-faced. Brilliant.

I also went on a ghost tour that night. One of the stops was the cemetery, and our guide told us a myriad of legends and stories while we stood inside a ransacked mausoleum. The medical school and the desperate resurrection-men were brought up, people who did ridiculous things to dead bodies just to make some money.

We visited sites of witch-burnings, and learned about three types of faeries: The half-a-man, who you topple over by pushing him or poking him with a stick, the kelpie, who drags you into the water and eats all of you but your liver, and the red-cap gnome, who has blades for fingers, and tears your stomach open while you're still alive [I was thinking of Jurassic Park I, when Alan differentiates turke

ys from velociraptors].

To get away, you must recite a verse from the bible. We were given the verse

"Jesus wept." Just in case we got in trouble when we invaded their territory that night. The views from the heights we climbed were gorgeous, making the ice-rain and wind not completely unbearable.

We visited the "National Disgrace" of Scotland, and afterward, were treated to a pint at a local pub called the Bank Hotel. They were playing live music which entranced me. Probably because the guy was playing Mr. Brightside, something that always makes me think of my brother.

When visiting, remember to reload your Starbucks card! There are about 8 of them in Edinburgh. The cups are bigger, too, which means more coffee for your quid. Also, get potatoes for lunch. Scots are enthusiastic about them, going so far as to make whole shops dedicated to the perfection of the potato. They call them "jackets," or baked potatoes with some kind of filling spooned on top.
Scotland is extremely vegan and vegetarian-friendly [always a plus for me]. If you're adventurous, they also offer some vegetarian haggis, which I've been told tastes exactly like traditional haggis. I, however, have no idea what they put in it, so that's all your call.

garlic plant.

the wrong way: leave a bulb of garlic in the back of the fridge during the first week of living abroad. Forget about it for a few weeks.

the Wright way: FIND your old bulb of garlic in the back of the fridge after a few weeks. Realize that it's growing sprouts and roots. Use Tim's computer. Find an old yogurt container, punch holes in the bottom for drainage, plant an inch below the soil from the Eden that is the central courtyard, put it on a sunny windowsill, and add 50% moisture.

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Yesterday we presented our final projects for the "Derive" assignment. Needless to say, each group had a completely different experience in documenting their journey. The point of the project was arbitrary, but each group HAD to start in a specific location in Rome [a location with which they were unfamiliar; I started at Cavour metro stop] and find their way home using only their innate sense of direction. We weren't allowed to hinder ourselves with a map; the final presentation was to "map" the journey. Whatever you took that to mean was your prerogative.

Many of the projects had multiple layers of meaning, each layer expressing different emotions, moments in time, personal reflection, and mutual understanding. Some people used found objects from their journey, and others laced theirs together with supplies found in studio.

I think I can speak for everyone when I say this project was more of a learning experience. I have to be more confident in my ideas. You can do whatever you want. As long as it's really good.

I think we were all afraid of requirements, which is why my project included a drawn portion, whose conversation with my primary project [a model] wasn't absolutely coherent.

While the other groups focused on a more literal journey [in that pictures of landmarks and paths they remember were literally portrayed], Steve and I were more concerned with the idea of memory and how journeys like this are remembered.

A distant memory is less of a documentation [I know few people who walk around with their face in a leather-bound feelings journal, documenting every step of every day of their life], and more of a jumbled mass of emotion with outstanding points of remembrance. It is also customizable by a constantly changing perception of value, and a "plethora" of other things. You remember what is important to you. That hierarchy can change. It just depends. It all depends.

My model has moving parts.

There are three disassembled lamps strewn under my studio desk... I needed the bolts [I love breaking the rules].

There are four planes: transparent/black/white/grey planes. They're connected and they turn and change. They also look rad when held up to a light.

There is a lot to this project conceptually, but I know pictures are more fun:

the inevitable.

the wrong way: head towards Vatican City to try to find a cheap clothing store to replace the only two t-shirts you have which were ruined in the european washing machine.

the Wright way: via del corso. duh. And after you find the H&M, spending a total of 6,95, sit and sketch in a bar tranquillo with chestnuts and an espresso for two hours. Sometimes your order ends up being on the house [or maybe I'm just lucky].

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Not a lot is ever concrete. Nothing is for sure, or lasts forever. This trip, the people around me, my concerns, everything. Eventually everything will disappear.

This sinking city, the streets, buildings, traditions, secret recipes, talent...

"Every time you see one of these high-end boutiques or chains sitting between these old walls, that's one more artisan who's had to close up shop."

One by one, all types of artists and their techniques are dying out from this city. They get old, and lacking any apprentice, pass on, time taking their lives and their amazing talents with them. Enjoy it now, kids.

On a lighter note, this also means that if things in this life are not everlasting- and there are no everlasting things, we can manipulate them as we want.

Everyone has something unshakable, unchangeable, but it is not true. Nothing is anchored down; you are constantly working at retention, or you are constantly changing.

Last move is always yours.

What can you do with that? Show me.

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Compare.

Gallery of Maps calligraphy to that of Faith47, a graffiti artist I follow: