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:

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.