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:

musei. vaticani.

the wrong way: listen to directions to get from Largo Argentina to Piazza Risorgimento from a deaf Italian man [ironic...?]

the Wright way: get there the roundabout way, through self-reliance, staying alert, and learning more about the Roman transportation system as you go. You're stuck on a bus for 30 more minutes anyway.

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Look through my little moleskin notebook: the 3x6 I keep in my coat pocket that usually cradles a fountain pen. It went to the Vatican Museum with me today. You can tell.

There is a section of notes I wrote, which starts after

Stanze Delle'Incendio di Borgo:

-Depictions of Pope [Leo IV-X]

-Scenes from his life, dramatized

-During fresco process, faces changed b/c papal deaths

-Dining as intended use of space...

There's a header which follows, barely coherent. It reads

Sistine _______.. *arbitrary cursive*

*odd amount of free space and an ink blot*

-images of serpent *more brigid-hieroglyphics*

-onparch.

I think that was the point when my neck resigned itself to my will of a ninety degree angle, and I experienced "the wordless:" When I can't speak. It's a really emotive time. I have names for those.

first thing raphael ever painted.

ceiling of the gallery of maps, began in the 1590s.

i can't get over these maps. the lettering reminds me of Faith47.

we are there. rome.

sea monster depiction.

looks sculpted, right? this ceiling is pure paint.

ceiling detail.

hyena mosaic!

from the egyptian section [we didn't go in].

floor mosaics.

look familiar?

more floor mosaics.

the belvedere torso. michaelangelo refused to restore this greek sculpture, but the position of the body and musculature influenced his work on the ceiling of the sistine chapel.

not the original; that one was lost. this is a cast.

papal art collecting.

i want to draw this elevation. piazza pinacoteca..

contemporary sculpture. it spins, watch out.

The Gallery of Maps was one of the coolest spaces I've ever been in. Who knew two of my favorite things, the medium of fresco and the subject of traveling and geography, could be found in the same hall? The ceiling was remarkable, too. It was constructed a bit after the maps were completed in the 1580's. The architectural ornamentation rips your eyes from their line of vision and leads you around an elaborate display of ceiling sculpture and gold paint. It's all about the details, here.

The way the compasses are drawn in a golden radial pattern on the maps looks a lot like what I'd recently been painting at my place. I work with oil on wood though-- a lot easier than fresco. If you get that wrong, you have to wait for the plaster to dry, then chip off the mistake and fill in the missing area with more colored plaster. The depictions of sea monsters and war ships were fantastic, too. It's remarkable how accurate the master map-makers were in terms of topography.

Then it was off to studio to work on a church redesign as a warm-up for what's to come. We get project II tomorrow. Who's excited?

the doppelganger.

the wrong way: follow everyone who is walking in front of you.

the Wright way: learn to find your way on your own. Sometimes, you'll have only yourself to rely on. You can make your own decisions. You can derive.
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Today we visited the long-awaited Renzo Piano complex, Santa Cecilia. From the name, you could guess that it has something to do with music, since Saint Cecilia is the patron saint.
Marina, our sketching teacher/co-professor/mom/translator is a professional tour guide who actually works there and has for five years [and I can't even keep a job as a waitress]. She tooks us around to the three different theaters and explained the different characteristics of acoustics that we've become so familiar with this past year.
What's really starting to stand out to me is the passion that good architects feel in designing good architecture.
Have you ever gotten lost in something? Every now and then, I do. If a certain topic is brought up, music and certain bands and evolutions of music genres etc., I become lost in an overwhelming thought process that propels my speech and excitement to no end [that is, if someone lets me talk]. The same thing happens with art and composition.
Renzo Piano is an architect who knows how to initiate his own sense of drive by concentrating on what each space needs. What is being designed? What does the space revolve around conceptually? Culturally? What fabric is it being placed into? What effect will that have? Are there existing solutions? How can they be made BETTER?
If this kind of thinking gets you excited, maybe you should think about going into architecture.
Thinking about intended use and deciding to build the three theaters (700, 1200, & 2800, respectively) around the quality of music inspired the shape and look of the buildings.

Sometimes, it isn't that easy to get inspired. Ideas halt and boredom sets in. That's when taking things into your own hands- making your own decisions- becomes your safety net. The ability to get yourself out of a rut like this is an excellent quality to have, but it takes some effort to build.
After our tour today, we were left to find our way home. Corin and I decided to derive onto a different road, and found ourselves [and eventually eric] in the territory of a street artist.

The artist is the ultimate doppelganger. The artist is two people. He is one who can exist in the world of community, and one who can once again indulge in his individuality as a separate entity.

This man gifted Eric and me with quick sketches of his trademark self-portrait on the back of a cut-up postcard. Talking to him for a little bit confirmed for me how lost he is. I can't wait for the day I can remain in that place.

to climb.

The wrong way: substitute yeast for baking powder when trying to recreate biscotti you saw in a bakery window somewhere in downtown Milano.

The Wright way: serve everyone anywho, telling them it was “meant to be eaten with COFFEE, that’s why.”

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I find it difficult sometimes to consistently keep this blog updated. I suppose I’ll add it to my list of things to do. It’s amazing how that list has grown the longer I’ve been living here.

So the 20 of us got back from our first week-long trip north on Friday night/Saturday morning, after our train from Milano to Roma broke down for at least an hour and a half [I guess you could say they don't TRAIN their engineers very well]. The free peanuts and nonsensical snack-cart Italians didn’t do well to fix our exhaustion, teetering on anger as we crankily tried to make our way home. Seeing as I’m used to crowds because of my close proximity to NYC, my designated “taxi group” and I got our cab quickly after I managed to make my way to the front of the taxi queue to everyone’s astonishment. A british couple started to get a bit fussy, but I beat them to the taxi, and we were on our way home. The most exciting part was our taxi driver’s misgiving at the realization that we were American. He didn’t speak a drop of English, so Speer, Claire, Andrew and I proceeded to direct him over the bridge to Trastevere with our best Italian.

After the driver took us around an extra block and stocked up on cab fare, Andrew finally said stop. We got out, the fare being a total of 11,00. The man told me it was 21,00 because of the luggage in the trunk. Then he tried to shortchange us.
Surprisingly enough, it’s not the first time this week that locals have financially taken advantage in small ways.

Out of all the cities we visited, Firenze and Milano were the most memorable. I think it’s the fact that we got to climb a duomo in each location, which is nothing like climbing lemon trees.

However, I’ll get back to i duomi later because I feel the need to elaborate on my waffle-adorned gelato in Firenze which cost 6,00. First of all, I was in it for the cherry gelato, not the waffle. I didn’t even ask for a waffle! I’ve never put waffles on my gelato, or gelato on my waffles. I do not know why there was a waffle on my gelato. I also don’t know why they offered Absinthe to go with my gelato with waffle. I don’t think any of this is a tradition anywhere.
[It’s interesting to note that the artisans don’t try to rip off their customers as much as the small-change workers do. That gelato place, for example, has a fixed price for Americans at 6,00. At the flea market this past Sunday morning, I was able to haggle down a local artisan.]

The gelato was good in the end for quieting my sweet tooth, but walking back to the hotel room and relaxing with a few people after that day left me feeling completely satisfied; sugar rush, resentment at being ripped off, and aches had worn thin. We were in Firenze. We had climbed to the top of Il Duomo. We had survived the hotel staff.




The one thing that I wanted out of visiting Rome was the chance to see Il Duomo in “person.” I wanted to be able to know what Vyt’s drawings were trying to describe. I wanted to be able to stand in its piazza and take it all in. The legend behind the engineering of the structure, the secrets Brunelleschi kept from the world concerning the intricacies of his masterpiece—every time it was mentioned in a class or discussion, I found myself immediately paying attention.

That day, I found myself crawling through winding passageways of stairs [definitely not regulation or ADA in any way] leading to the absolute top of the dome of Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore. Getting through passageways, flights, and crumbling stone that took 170 years and at least three different architects to complete.

It was interesting maneuvering through the interior of the dome on the vertical path. It was a bit unpredictable, shooting up at strange angles and requiring a bit of upper body strength and some railings to hoist your body. Since the dome is octagonal, built without a wooden frame, and double-shelled, it makes sense that the climb would… not make sense. During construction, it was a mystery to even the workers exactly how they would complete it. Brunelleschi and Donatello created a model out of brick and wood, demonstrating the technique in order to sell the design, but the model was intentionally incomplete so the architect could have absolute control over the construction [a good, classic example from the books describing conflict between architects and construction workers].
Upon reaching the top, we could see all of Firenze. It was incredible. The wind was brutal up there, but it was worth it to finally be able to experience first-hand what I’ve been curious about for three years.

After climbing down and continuing our day of sketching, to my delight I realized what a landmark the dome is. Even from far away, the radiating lantern and Da Vinci’s bronze ball which adorns the lantern perpetually paints the sky with a reminder of its existence.




Besides New York’s, it’s the one skyline that has burned itself into my memory.