on becoming myself

Portraits of Chairs

2009-08-17T19:27:00.004-04:00

I was 11. It was November. And the Monona Police Department called my mother to tell her that her brother, my uncle Paul, was dead due to suicide, due to shooting himself in the chest with a shotgun. But before they told her that, they asked her if her husband was nearby and they told her it was best to sit down. I did not know who had called, but I very distinctly remember her running from the kitchen, through the living room, and into her bedroom, phone in hand, calling out for my daddy. And I even more distinctly remember the sound she made when she cried out in what I can only imagine was pure agony. I ran in fear to my bedroom and sat on the floor in front of my bed. Later Daddy took me into their bedroom where I found Ma sitting on the green loveseat with brown leaves, crying. You see, sitting is comfort. And the chairs are the support.

So here I am, sixteen years later, sitting at my computer, sitting in my chair. I’m doing the boring part of Photoshop – cleaning all the dust from my negative – and I’m thinking to myself I better come up with something really profound because this is an important show. Really important. I start fiddling and I look down at my arm and wonder, “Why the hell did I just tattoo my favorite chair to my arm?” Permanently. I will now have the pleasure of this particular chair forever in my life—not to mention the mixed look of disbelief and disappointment when I answer the eager question “What’s that one mean?” with “It’s my favorite chair. I just like chairs a lot.” I look over at an old photograph pinned to my wall. My uncle Garry sits in a highchair and Grandma is feeding him breakfast. Ma sits there too, with pigtails, and Great-Grandma, my own namesake, is tending to Ma. This is my highchair. All four of us – Paul, Ma, Garry, and me, grew up in this highchair. And in time, my kid(s) will grow up in this chair, too.

I remember the hideous gold colored rocking chair Ma used to rock me to sleep in. This is also the same rocking chair that Daddy taught me to tell time in with a clock puzzle. I remember the stick that the piano bench held against my bare legs. I remember the creak Daddy’s leather office chair made if you moved even a centimeter. And I remember the blond colored pressed wood table and chairs set I had as a little girl. There I sat and played such games as grocery, library, and office. This set stayed in my bedroom through high school, and even then I was attempting to sit in the chairs that no longer fit.

I was around age 20 during my first major furniture purchase. I went to the Salvation Army in south Oklahoma City with Ma. I got a lime green, cream, and black striped low-to-the-ground 70s burlap sofa. I also found a metallic dark olive green recliner that I hoped would be as comfortable and nostalgic as the gold recliner I grew up in, but it was not. In fact, I never sat in it. This chair belonged solely to my bookbag and my cat. But my most prized purchase, the thing I simply cannot let go of, is an incomplete kitchen set. Pressed fake wood table, round, with rusted bolts that keep the legs on. And three chairs. The middle bars under the chair legs are now falling apart, glue unhinging, and one of the chairs is split down the middle of the seat (caution: pinched thighs). These three are my special chairs.

My early years in college were when I began to sit a lot (due to chronic hip and leg pain), initiating my love affair and possession of my computer chair. I was paralyzed by the kind of depression that facilitates eating only $1.50 Mexican TV dinners, watching middle-of-the-night TV, and definitely only leaving the house to go to Wal-mart and buy more Mexican TV dinners. Sitting ameliorated the pain by a marginal fraction, but even a marginal fraction felt better than not.

To cope, I began a self-portrait project, including one of the kitchen chairs with me in the photographs. It was always the same one—the one that still had the most polish on it and least amount of cracks and breaks. I rarely sat in the chair—I mainly stood or sat next to it. My body became a ghost in those images, but never my chair. It was solid and visible, something stable and unmoving in what was my unpredictably emotional disaster of a life.

The summer I left for graduate school was the same summer that my photography mentor and close friend, Andy, was forced to move his studio space. While I only felt complete disorder and chaos—I had to climb over boxes, camping supplies, and tools to reach his couch—he felt inspired, at home, and comfortable. This was his space for over 20 years, and he was forced to move to a new studio a fraction of the size. There was no room. And thus, I inherited several of his chairs. His studio chairs became my studio chairs.

But the point is—and the truth is: I just love chairs. Mine especially, but also others. The first napoletan word I learned was chair. I like sitting. And I love stories. And the comfort that come from both of those actions. I love the person that gave me nearly every chair I own, and I love the people that now occupy them. All the stories that happen in them, like the ones I just told you. All the breakups and movies and books (facebooks and real books) and gossips and dinners, conversations, laughings, quick goodbye kisses, nailbitings, and wall-starings. All in this chair. My chair. It’s really important.

Portraits of Chairs

SHOW

2009-07-29T12:09:00.001-04:00

i photographed chairs. and it's important.

opening: saturday, august 1, 7-10 pm. gallery hop, roy g biv gallery

ricordare l'autunno

2009-03-09T19:08:00.002-04:00

la rete (golfo di napoli, novembre 2008)

dove capivo quasi tutto, dove sentivo pace, dove ero senza problemi

e ti vengo a cercare

new work/still working

2009-01-16T09:57:00.005-05:00

well, we are up and running here. i FINALLY got a scanner of my own!! slowly, but surely, i'll be scanning and color correcting. i have about 40 rolls from italy to organize first, and i need big tables to do that. so, i was going to head to the library today. however, it is, um, about -20 outside, so i am not leaving the house (as that is not only painful, it is also unsafe). as a comparison, it's low 50s in rome. i have yet to find one awesome thing about columbus compared to italy.

some sort of bitter sweet something

2008-12-11T22:10:00.003-05:00

well, i'm broke as a joke, but apparently still manage to show my work in juried shows. how, i'm not sure. since i've graduated, i've been overwhelmed with the receipt of my work. now, even lucy lippard herself, mother of feminist art theory and criticism, has accepted me into the Analogous show in New Mexico. AND, i won honorable mention.

you can find these at runnels gallery, eastern new mexico university, january 30 through february 25, 2009:

la brutta ritorna

2008-12-01T07:41:00.003-05:00

well, i'm "here", i'm "back". in columbus. splendid columbus. it's freezing out and raining. without sun. though, to be fair, we did have nasty days in italy too. it's not perfect 100% of the time, just most of the time. i've got about 40 rolls of film to process, 10 extra beautiful pounds, more friends, and an unwavering desire to move.

plan = work my ass off to save and then get the hell out of here. i don't care where, frankly. umbria and south. anywhere. as long as they speak italian, drink caffè all day long, and cook with olive oil. :)

napoli, michele, olimpia, luigi, leo, paolo, gabriele, barbara, said, alberto, gennaro, ciro, vanna, loredana, cecilia, alessandro, anna, marianna, sandrina, gianpaolo, rosa, e tutti gli altri: mi mancate.... assai!!!!!! non vedo l'ora quando posso ritornare.

5 weeks and counting

2008-09-11T20:31:00.002-04:00

until i return to my "where-i-really-belong-homeland."

tentative plans include roma, napoli/capri, orvieto (e la campagna), e forse sicilia o puglia.

a presto.....!

A Sense of Place 2008

2008-09-03T19:54:00.002-04:00

I have a piece in a show in Augusta, GA this fall. Since my printer is on the fritz, I also can't use the crappy scanner connected to it (?), so I don't have the real card to show. (Image below from the application).

Gertrude Herbert Institute of Art
Augusta, GA
September 19 - October 17, 2008
Opening Reception: Friday, September 19, 2008, 6-8 pm
Juror: Amanda Cooper

BRAVO: "Italy's dead man walking"

2008-09-02T22:43:00.002-04:00

BBC story of napolitan author uncovering La Camorra: here

PLEASE read this!!! we must fight this imposed silence!

slowly but surely

2008-08-16T17:52:00.001-04:00

i finally am breaking down and opening a youtube account. i've uploaded to blip as well. but today i was bored, and youtube is so damn ubiquitous, how could i not be a member??

so, here i am.

A BOOK!

2008-07-11T17:44:00.001-04:00

Polaroids d'It...

By Rachel Maria Berna...

Book Preview

you, too, can support my obsession with your very own purchase!!

mi manca

2008-05-29T20:50:00.003-04:00

sometimes i forget just how much i miss it. you know how it hits you hard? it comes out of nowhere and you're paralyzed. i randomly stumbled across this photograph online.

dear napoli,
i'm sorry... i got so distracted. i forgot that every inch, every crack and crevice, every second of you is truly beautiful. i let my goals get distracted. i'll come back as soon as i can. how could i have ever left you???

il mare tra noi/the sea between us

2008-05-11T10:02:00.007-04:00

All this time, I thought I could make you believe I didn’t need the answers – that this search was something bigger than myself. But instead I only lied to myself because I don’t have the answers. And to be perfectly honest, I’m completely lost. The dictionary says that space is unlimited and that is where everything exists. It also says space is empty. I wanted space to collapse between us. And all I feel is a gaping gully of space pushing upon me.

I exist here and there and maybe also nowhere. If I could just see the sea again: how it lasts for infinity, how it never fails me. How something doesn’t leave me. How loss seems so natural and maybe not so bad. There is space and nothing between us. I am myself and the opposite, I am space and not space.

Stavo cercando ciò che volevi, ma invece ho perso me stessa (Toscana o Umbria, Luglio 2007)
I was looking for what you wanted, but instead I lost myself (Tuscany or Umbria, July 2007)

Non Sapevo: forse io non ho capito. forse io non sapevo dove sono stata. (Tavernanova, Casalnuovo di Napoli, Dicembre 2007)
I Didn’t Know: maybe I did not understand. maybe I did not know where I was. (Tavernanova, Casalnuovo di Napoli, December 2007)

Prevedere il dolore, acquisire consapevolezza della perdita. Cosa dovrei dire? (Il mar tirreno, Agosto 2007)
Anticipating grief, realizing loss. What should I say? (Tyrrhenian Sea, August 2007)

L’abisso: perdere ciò che vedo (e perdere di più) (Caserta, Dicembre 2007)
The abyss: losing what I see (losing more) (Caserta, December 2007)

eating

2008-04-22T12:30:00.002-04:00

today for lunch
fusilli
sauteed sweet onions
feta cheese
walnuts
olive oil

grape juice mixed with sparkling water
(i'm too busy eating to take the foto)

last night for dinner
garlic
sauteed eggplant
red pepper
tomato (only at the end)
a lot of salt
olive oil
pasta corta

LA MIA TESI!!!

2008-04-18T19:30:00.002-04:00

venite venite!!

elections

2008-04-14T18:09:00.003-04:00

could there be anything more depressing than knowing berlusconi is president again?

8 years of bush and i have to deal with 5 more of berlusconi?

there is nothing less romantic than realizing that italy is full of conservative idiots just like the united states. i wanted to flee america's ignorance!!!!

horray for fascism! hooray for privatizing everything (including schooling)! hooray for corruption and greed! hooray for berlusconi!

CHE MERDE!!!! CHE STRONZO! VAFFANCULO A BERLUSCONI!!!!

(let's not even think about how many of his votes were mafiosa)

still working

2008-04-06T11:20:00.000-04:00

on my thesis. and also this new project.

la pasta part 2

2008-03-15T22:29:00.000-04:00

la pasta part 1

2008-03-15T22:10:00.006-04:00

i am noticing a frequency with which i am preparing and consuming pasta. nearly every day. which is actually quite a significant milestone. somehow this signifies becoming italian to me now. when i go into the kitchen and wonder what to fix, and it becomes second nature to look for tomatoes, pull out the olive oil, and decide between spaghetti or rigatoni (which is my current favorite shape).

i want to tell you everything in italiano.

Plagued with memories I’d rather forget (like when I listen to The Smiths’ Louder than Bombs)

2008-03-09T10:37:00.002-04:00

And you said to me:
“For this reason I say there is nosense in world and for this reason we are able to create what we want for us it is the story of infinity space there is no center so everyplace is in the same moment the center and the opposite of it so the only thing to do is to give our sense”

And now I know:
All that time I was anticipating grief and I watched you experience loss. And now, months later, I realize my own loss, a quasi experience, because I can’t really admit what happened. Maybe I will understand with time. I am myself and the opposite, I am space and not space. And there is space and nothing between us. I exist here and there and maybe also nowhere.

I am lost.

I wonder for how long I could float at sea, bobbing about, caressed by water licking my skin. How I become enveloped, encased. Every inch of me is covered in that liquidy ambiguity. How the waves will hold me, rock me, lullaby me into a peaceful space that has left my soul (I fear for how long). To be lost and to be comforted at the same time: this must be what I had needed, what I still need. When Fabio and I laid in bed, we would spoon and rock ourselves, swaying back and forth. It was innate, intuitive; our bodies moved involuntary into our rhythms. It wasn’t sexual.

In his loss and my own isolation, we existed insieme. Adesso, sono io da sola con nessuno per consolazione. I’ve left myself vulnerable without a way reclaim my potere. If I could just see the sea again, how it lasts for infinity, how it never fails me. How something doesn’t leave me. You said che mi vuoi bene, ma perchè?? Invece, sono confusa, sono smarrita. Non vivo in realtà. Rimango nell’abisso. Senza l’abbraccio del mare o di te.

non sapevo

2008-03-01T19:34:00.002-05:00

forse io non ho capito; forse non sapevo dove sono stata

che bella!!!

2008-02-29T09:41:00.003-05:00

le poesie di peppino impastato
(a perspective of the sea, of space, of time)

Lunga è la notte
e senza tempo.
Il cielo gonfio di pioggia
non consente agli occhi
di vedere le stelle.
Non sarà il gelido vento
a riportare la luce,
nè il canto del gallo,
nè il pianto di un bimbo.
Troppo lunga è la notte,
senza tempo,
infinita.
_________________

I miei occhi giacciono
in fondo al mare
nel cuore delle alghe
e dei coralli.

_______________________

Seduto se ne stava
e silenzioso
stretto a tenaglia
tra il cielo e la terra
e gli occhi
fissi nell'abisso

________________________

tra il cielo e la terra e gli occhi fissi nell'abisso!!!!

losing what i see (losing more)

2008-02-20T11:42:00.000-05:00

language isolation

2008-02-18T20:47:00.002-05:00

it's too cliche, too easy, to say i fear the unknown

Click To Play

(herb says the sky is blue because the sea is)

sinking or maybe floating

2008-02-18T20:08:00.002-05:00

can someone please tell me how i am lost and why am i lost? can someone please tell me where am i going and why i am going there?

Click To Play

more than an ocean

2008-02-11T23:16:00.000-05:00

and so suddenly the stories can stop

how far can i swim?

2008-02-09T10:00:00.000-05:00

when i was younger, i never feared the sea.

i was oblivious to the man-of-war warnings; i swam and ran about with sand in my suit. the sea was my source of giggling, a time of exploration.

now the sea is just my preoccupation. it fills the gaps between us. it elongates my worry, my desires. and i can't stop thinking about time.

working thesis title

2008-02-07T20:02:00.000-05:00

the sea between us

il titolo per mia tesi (probabilmente) è
il mare tra noi

on reading a wave

2008-02-03T17:37:00.001-05:00

(a professor so conveniently read this chapter aloud in class a couple weeks ago. it just so happens that an italian wrote it. and it just so happens that its about the sea (and etc). how quaint. so i've added it here for your own contemplation as well.)

Reading a Wave di Italo Calvino, Mr. Palomar

The sea is barely wrinkled, and little waves strike the sandy shore. Mr. Palomar is standing on the shore, looking at a wave. Not that he is lost in contemplation of the waves. He is not lost, because he is quite aware of what he is doing: he wants to look at a wave and he is looking at it. He is not contemplating, because for contemplation you need the right temperament, the right mood, and the right combination of exterior circumstances; and though Mr. Palomar has nothing against contemplation in principle, none of these three conditions applies to him. Finally, it is not "the waves" that he means to look at, but just one individual wave: in his desire to avoid vague sensations, he establishes for his every action a limited and precise object.

Mr. Palomar sees a wave rise in the distance, grow, approach, change form and color, fold over itself, break, vanish, and flow again. At this point he could convince himself that he has concluded the operation he had set out to achieve, and he could go away. But isolating one wave is not easy, separating it from the wave immediately following, which seems to push it and at times overtakes it and sweeps it away; and it is no easier to separate that one wave from the preceding wave, which seems to drag it toward the shore, unless it turns against the following wave, as if to arrest it, Then, if you consider the breadth of the wave, parallel to the shore, it is hard to decide where the advancing front extends regularly and where it is separated and segmented into independent waves, distinguished by their speed, shape, force, direction.

In other words, you cannot observe a wave without bearing in mind the complex features that concur in shaping it and the other, equally complex ones that the wave itself originates.

to read the rest go here.

watching waves

2008-02-03T17:35:00.000-05:00

Click To Play

il mar tirreno, porto di napoli, castel dell'ovo

only sea

2008-02-03T13:55:00.000-05:00

Click To Play

il mar tirreno, porto di napoli

musica

2008-01-27T09:20:00.000-05:00

i simply cannot resist attempting to tell the world about vinicio caposella. when i first began pen-palling with fabio, i asked him about music, and vinicio was his first suggestion. this was probably about the third sign i knew i would love fabio. (the first and second of course being that he had long hair, and spoke italian- HA!; he was a wonderful story-teller and incredibly intelligent - is this more than two?)

anyhow, vinicio capossela is an amazingly talented musician that really can play about anything -- he's constantly experimenting in his music. a wonderful storyteller. and he has finally been recognized in america on NPR!! so here is an interview; it's short, only 12 minutes. he plays a new song about america, and there is a translator for those that need it.

enjoy this interview!

duet

2008-01-25T10:37:00.000-05:00

remember, i'm still posting new work on flickr.

some polaroids

2008-01-25T10:18:00.000-05:00

mancare

2008-01-21T22:46:00.000-05:00

It’s an ache that is impossible to satiate. It’s a longing that embodies me, that I cannot escape. It seeps into each pore of my skin, it gloves me. I slide into your world without an escape. How do I amend this gaping hole of salty water, these countless kilometers, the visions I have in your kitchen? I cannot be healed here.

I surround myself with pictures, maps, I look at you all the time. And I think of you constantly. Not just you, the entirety. I wake, disoriented. There is no aroma of tomatoes boiling, swimming in a bath of the purest extra virgin olive oil. There is no sun, and you are not next to me in bed. My body aches.

Dici: Non piangere. Che c'è?
Dico: Non lo so. Ti posso vedere. Vedo tutta la casa e tutte le cose dentro. How we share the colperta on our bed -- our sofa bed. How I like to wrap it around me, like a mummy, my feet tucked in all warm. But this isn't how you do this, which causes a problem. We're close in this little bed and if I tuck my feet in, yours fall out. How if you don't place your arm just right, I get a crick in my neck. And all of this matters now because why?
Because I see all the house, I see me there, and I am here eating a bowl of berries. And you are there eating primo: spaghetti con pomodori. Secondo: forse carne, forse pesce. Poi, formaggio. E poi: una sigaretta.

E cosí: abitudine.

in my view

2008-01-21T22:40:00.000-05:00

you're never not there

sta preparando la sigaretta, caserta dicembre 2007

a comparison

2008-01-20T09:12:00.001-05:00

just as wine's flavor is altered by the soil the grapes grow in, the same happens to tomatoes. i simply cannot make spaghetti con pomodori freschi here. not good like there. it's impossible. it's maddening. i eat and live vicariously through telephone conversations -- "what did you eat today for pranzo?".

right now, napoli is 60 degrees, and right now we are 5. but that's not totally fair. it's 9:15 am here, and 3:15 pm there. nevertheless, this is our upcoming week compared:

this is not to complain. i think in winter it is much easier to miss italy (i miss it always though). the winters here are terrible and the sun is so rarely out (ironically, though, we have sun now at 5 degrees). if one wants to make themselves feel colder, simply convert our degrees to how italians see it: celsius. right now, italy is 16 degrees and we are -15. -15 sounds really really cold.

remember that i am posting new images on flickr. you can see them here.

per natale

2007-12-02T21:52:00.000-05:00

Well, I leave in three days again for Italy. This will be the last time I can go before I hang and write my thesis in the spring. I plan to video and photograph, and I hope to make audio tracks.

Waiting for me are countless pizzas, pastries, gelatos, caffès, and kisses.

This will be my first Natale in Italy.

La Gonna

2007-11-30T15:53:00.001-05:00

Click to Play

skirt floating in a windy day upon monte solaro, anacapri, IT. august 2007

Shameless

2007-11-15T21:00:00.000-05:00

selfishly, i would like to remind you that i do have prints for sale at my etsy account.

ETSY

you can support my small bank account, that could certainly use help!
in fact, all images on my flickr account are available, just email me with something you'd like printed, and i can negotiate a price. I hate to be salesy on my blog, but I gotta get the word out somehow.

rachel.

Show

2007-11-15T11:35:00.000-05:00

(a story from a while back)
Last night I went to a show. The bass player just oozes "Euro" and I'm weak in the knees. He's really not that attractive, but he is euro so who cares? He's jazzing about in this smoke-free Columbus establishment. And here he suddenly appears with a cigarette dangling from his lips. Yes, he is for sure euro now, with his disregard for rules and overly indulgent habit of smoking. And here I am in the middle of the floor, front and center watching this guy. But instead I'm watching you roll your own cigarettes. And now I can smell what I hate so much, and I'm yearning it. How you make small cigarettes, "not strong like company made." Just a little pinch of English tobacco in your short, thin Rizla papers. You even use filters. What the hell for??? And my mind works like ping pong: everything I think returns to me with you. And bassman is still prancing about with his dangling cigarette, granny ash and all. Except now it's euro ash from the euro man who is so cool he doesn't care about rules or health. He doesn't even care that he's in the middle of a performance. Instead, he keeps looking suave, poofing away. How did I get to be so googly eyed and enraptured with all this silliness?

I know exactly your perfume when I arrive in two months.

double vision

2007-11-15T11:30:00.000-05:00

mmmm

2007-10-08T23:14:00.000-04:00

tomatoes, basil, sweet pepper, feta

citizenship

2007-10-08T10:12:00.000-04:00

me:on saturday i read online that i cannot apply for dual citizenship.
you: but why not??? you are italian rachel!! you can trace your lineage!
me: ha! i know. but SILLY great grandma was born a woman!! oopsies. that's right folks. my ancestor is a woman AND (gasp) immigrated as a minor. apparently girls are citizens of nowhere.
you: fuck that shit.
me: i know, bummer big time. so instead of being super mad and steaming all day i made some awesome pasta.
you: cool, what was in it?
me:
sauteed squash, sweet onions, greek olives, and parmesean.

prego

2007-10-01T10:09:00.000-04:00

ave, o maria, piena di grazia.

sono piena con i ringraziamenti.

lo sai perché. non devo spiegare.

cara italia, grazie per tutto.

reasons

2007-09-22T19:00:00.000-04:00

you're always there, aren't you?

"stai tranquilla"

2007-09-06T23:45:00.000-04:00

ho perso le parole, infatti. "triste" non é parola giusta. forse "manca" invece. mi manca tutto. tutto di la. l'estate ha finito. devo ritornare. non voglio dire niente. solo voglio sentire l'italiano.

sagrantino

2007-08-03T16:37:00.001-04:00

i'm a little buzzed, and there's a family meeting i'm avoiding. one on the bedroom with the women, where nonna lies down. one in the kitchen with the men. i've been on the computer a while now, checking various websites, prolonging social engagement. and i began to listen to the noises behind me. the music of the language. how this doesn't sound strange anymore, even though i understand nothing from a distance. only the voices, who is who. the rhythmic flow. the punctuated syllables. and the sigh my heart gives, the comfort that swims in my body, when i tune in to the language.

if you are ever able to find it, i highly recommend:
montefalco rosso (sagrantino grape).

capri

2007-08-01T17:14:00.000-04:00

dolcenera

2007-08-01T17:08:00.000-04:00

i have returned to naples. how i had missed it. up early to do the laundry and the dishes. waking up next to someone and a morning kiss with that awful morning breath. this time i don’t care. a few nights ago it was a full moon and the moonlight reflected off of vesuvio, bouncing between the clouds and the volcano, so close together. the moonlight did not reach the city. perhaps the clouds and vesuvio were too selfish; they kept it to themselves. i returned to a full moon, an empty refrigerator, a scared family, a very sick woman, and spaghetti with tuna. apparently vegetarianism is too difficult for some to accept.

i’m a little afraid to write. ideas bounce in my head all the time, but writing sounds scary these days. i’m either too tired, or i’ve forgotten the words in english. the computers here are PCs and very volatile. at any time, they will crash, infected with viri and technologically retarded users. but this isn’t what i want to talk about. what did i want to say?

anticipating grief. how do we do this? how do I do it? i have an amazing ability to detach myself, or attach, depending on what i want to do. for as “crazy” and unorganized as we pin italians to be, there’s so much regularity that i’ve fallen into. every morning at 8:20 am, i am awoken by who i call “the crazy man” with the scruffy voice who sells a variety of fresh food from his truck, yelling into a microphone/intercom type system. no word is recognizable, even to fabio. the view from annamaria’s hospital window is of the entire città. the airport, the sea, the port, tutte le case, capodimonte, vesuvio…. if i do not eat pasta at least once every 24 hours, i begin withdrawl symptoms. the ubiquity of bra straps, cleavage, and undergarment type situations in general in plain sight. crowded public transportation and the measurement of personal space. never silence, never peace; sempre caos, sempre confusione. and a hunger for solitude.

ubiquity

2007-08-01T17:04:00.000-04:00

today i’m wearing a bra that shows. the color of my bra does not match the color of my tank top or my skirt. today i feel like i fit in just a little more. or maybe it’s just that i will not stand out as much.

le foto per voi

2007-07-16T08:43:00.000-04:00

a crazy city. most of the time i'm too tired to write, and most of my life is still on film.

spazzatura (fabio)
but i can share a few digital images for now.

the hospital is a presence every day of our lives, but sometimes we have free time for play....
(di fabio)

in the garden after analysis at the ospedale

my shower

i currently care for fabio's family in any way that i can. contemplating the death/life of a spouse has rendered sergio exhausted and almost functionless. i cook and do laundry nearly everyday. but one morning sergio woke me to tell me fabio was at the hospital and my breakfast was on the table.

pompeii
(di fabio)

giorni strani

2007-07-03T07:59:00.000-04:00

These days have been strange. How long have I been here? I’ve already forgotten, but I have already attended a presentation on a cruise ship, slept and not slept at the appropriate hours, had countless caffés, attended a terrible Blues Brothers style concert in the piazza, and attended a funeral. Ciro’s father has been sick; in fact, in the same ospedale as la madre di Fabio, and now he is morte. Yesterday I met Fabio alle 10 at La Rinascente on via Toledo to go to the cruise ship to find out if he won the premiazione di letteratura. He did not. Allora, another girl did, not because she had the love for literature, but because her mother wanted to win a cruise. Typical. The night before I got little sleep. Fabio had to stay to his father, leaving me alone in a room that fills with noise every night from the street below and no peace. After we left the port, we went straight away for a quick pizza and to meet Alessandra. She bought flowers for Ciro and we proceeded to the church. And for a man I did not know, I cried. I watched Ciro stare solemnly at the casket that held his father, laid in the middle of the aisle. I watched two women sob so completely that they could not walk out of the church without assistance. And I watched Fabio sit quietly, knowing that his mother is dying, though only occasionally is it mentioned. Later, Fabio and I discussed and silently mourned our own “impossible situation”. He returned to his father, and I cried for myself selfishly. I went out with Mirko, hoping some fresh air and walking would help. We found a bookstore, and I got some dinner: a loaf of bread, 100 g of mozzarella di bufala, e 3 pomodori. I made a make-shift caprese salad and read Kahlil Gibran’s “The Prophet.” I am quite sure that with every bite of mozzarella I committed yet another sin; the taste was like nothing I’ve had before. Mirko taught me how to keep mozzarella: not in the refrigerator as in gli stati uniti.

I am nearly 100% positive that the woman who breastfeeds and begs on the street is the same as last year. I think she is also wearing the same outfit, or at least, quite similar. The child is now one year older. Today a woman grabbed me with a plea. I spun away, confused. I do not yet know Napolitan. The people here look varied, and I wonder what they see in me. Straight across the street (10-20 m), there is a nice old man who comes to his balcony often. Sometimes I wave. Below and across is a man who sits as his window often, smoking. I watched as he put some thing in a basket, tied it to a string, and flung it across the street, as the person on the other end of the rope surely pulled the basket into their window to retrieve the item. Ancient, yet still genius. From my balcony, I have the piazetta, Vesuvio, the sea, and the streets. Across the piazetta is an old woman with a large balcony. She brings out a towel to rest her arms upon, as she plans to stand and watch for more than just a few minutes. At 1 am I go back to the balcony: the trashmen have come to collect, two men replace a street light bulb, a woman below the old woman comes out to watch the men work, and another below me hangs clothes on the line.

And if I photograph this, who will I appear to be? So I don’t for now. I remind myself that I don’t care what I appear like when I photograph in the United States. I do not photograph as a tourist there. So, why should I be so overly concerned here? Maybe with the right attitude, I’ll blend in completely. Maybe this year there is less to marvel at. It’s a little more familiar, and it’s not so bizarre. But I haven’t wanted to photograph anything for quite some time now. It was only in Fabio that I had the need to record images. We meet tonight at Piazza Dante alle 7. I will meet his father. I will stay in the family home. I must decide what to cook.

travel

2007-06-29T07:56:00.000-04:00

in europe the planes are noisy. especially on the way to italy. they talk talk talk. get up to find one another, stand in the aisles and talk.
i want to desperately to converse. i stink and it's obvious.
the wine is a bordeaux. i watch the man next to me drink, contemplating the label. i watch how he pours: only after he's emptied the glass, which he pours only a small way full. i do the same. itàs not very good. i imagine myself saying "che buono, si o no?" i imagine him saying, "no." i imagine myself laughing. "è francese." that way they know i'm on their side. i'm on the inside.

collections

2007-06-17T09:35:00.000-04:00

closer and closer to leaving, arriving, and i think of paolo. i think about what we actually are now: the past, a memory, a fond one. above paolo's bed are bookshelves that hang from the wall. an assortment of disorganized radical literature. on the edges, though, are his memories: various items saved from "ex-girls." he calls his past relationships his "stories." i found a picture that i did not even recognize as him, a teddy bear with a heart, these kinds of things. i left three items:
1. a rose that he bought me from a street vendor that i did not want. "--but he's my new friend!!" cries paolo, always striving to help those without privilege in roma.
2. a box of crappy condoms. in fact, i think they were made to sit on shelves, not actually be used/worn. when tabbacchi close at night, there is a vending machine outside the door for important things, such as crappy condoms.
3. a headscarf. my favorite, in fact. day three was the wine-drunk blackout extravaganza in which i met paolo, my designated driver. apparently i took off my headscarf when i was puking on paolo's foot and handed it to him. he kept this, setting it by his nightstand to remember me, which i did not know or believe until later.

paolo bought two rolls of film for his ancient no-bells-and-whistles-point-and-shoot camera. he looked at me often through the eye piece. we went to siena. he took about ten photographs of the campo, in almost the same exact position. what did he see? he photographed me extensively, whether i was paying attention or not. i have one photograph of us together, from my film, and a few of him alone.
fabio writes to me this morning that he photographed his day trip to roma. he says he will show me when i arrive. and i wonder about how these men envision their surroundings. what is it like when magical things become common day scenery? is it capable for them to feel the wonder and magic that i feel there? i play visions over and over in my head and i know i must capture them.
i have a future now, and a past to collect.

uno mese

2007-05-28T15:13:00.000-04:00

exactly one month from today, i will see you. i will touch you. and you will feed me.
a long time coming, and my passion still burns.
mi fai sorriso. mi fai felice. non c'è niente (nessuno) più che vorrei.
allora, sto aspettando....

perchè non capite?

2007-05-21T23:58:00.000-04:00

it seems quite a few are having a hard time grasping my ideas. and the problem is that my work makes so perfect sense to me, i do not understand the confusion others have and thus have a hard time explaining to non-believers. my ideas are shared with fabio; they are so innate in fabio's life that i find perhaps his words much more eloquent than my own:

28 gennaio:
Tell me about you and your art. Is
it the same art and live? Yes, of course and fighting to eat when with
art you can have [no - rj] money, and so more an more art is life and there is
nothing to smile about this.

19 febbraio:
And i am italian, Rachel! and you - Rachel - are American,
old power and new power touching in us, in our way to have art in our possibility to live.
I want to touch your artistic way to connect reality,
confusing languages,
grammatical way to write,
mixing ourlanguage
and language of man are many and so fusing visual and lips,
and voice too
putting in the fascination of your photos in which the body could talk –
your blu body fragmented in blu pieces is the imagine of this new millennium –
and building bridge between our reality – and they are not so much differents.
Because there is no more straight road
because there is no more unity
but just fragments and pieces and I feel the bloody in veins rivering when we put together the different fragment of our art over the ocean between us.

24 febbraio:
everyday
and
i am
enjoy
to
looking for
to see
how
coul be
my artistic way
with another
becouse
art
that is
closed
in a room
is not art
is just
masturbation
stupid narcisism
...
yes
for this reason
i say
there is nosense
in world
and for this
reason
we
are
able
to create
what we want
for us
it is
the story
of infinity
space
there
is
no center
so everypalce
is
in the same moment
the center
and the oppost of it
so
the only
thing to do
is
to give
our sense
...

my art is not just about becoming italian, becoming who makes me happy, this is life, a way to living, a means of understanding; simply: communication. this is everything. or at least an attempt to know everything. through confusion.

la tua forza

2007-05-19T19:56:00.000-04:00

quando penso al tutto che è terribile nel mondo, sono molto triste. penso alla tua forza. e uso la tua forza perchè lo so che dobbiamo combattere.

a revisit

2007-05-09T20:29:00.000-04:00

i had forgotten what happens in the summer.
today i made summer salad, which i haven't made in probably years.
i had forgotten that when i chop fresh tomatoes and basil that my fingernails turn color. that my fingers, for the rest of the day, smell like basil, olive oil, and tomatoes. and that no amount of washing with soap will diminish this aroma. and the stain remains.
i had forgotten that the flavor of plain pasta itself is divine. and that the first sip of red wine heals all.

rachel's summer salad
farfalle pasta
fresh mozzarella
fresh roma tomatoes
fresh basil
olive oil
salt and pepper to taste

cook, chop, and mix.

(ma... dove siamo??)

2007-05-07T21:22:00.000-04:00

qui, qui, certo!

(e anche)

"there's someting about the Italian language or at least the Neapolitan dialect that makes it so I can understand it very well---"

2007-05-07T20:47:00.000-04:00

Naples Oct – 29 – 1889

Dear Father

This morning when I awakened on looking out of my port we were just coming to Ischia the island where a few years ago occurred such an earthquake as has seldom happened to any place it is about fie miles long & very rocky & mountainous in character. We had not long to wait ‘till old Vesuvius & the bay of Naples hove in sight & I truly agree with the Neapolitans in the well-worn phrase “see Naples & then die” for truly it is like a fairy-tale to enter the bay of Naples on a clear morning – on the right looms up Vesuvius the most ideal of volcanoes over 4000 ft high & further on the heights of Sorrento (where I expect to live) & a little further on the right the Island of Capri – on the left is Naples – she dots the hills like jewels against a blue sea & hilly background – one hears much about beauty of the bay of Naples but truly it is simply impossible to tell of this place – one must see it – it is like a dreamland & Naples itself is not disappointing.

. . . . .

George R. Barse, Jr.

pace

2007-05-06T19:31:00.000-04:00

last night i had a bad time. i'm sitting in line at the bathroom in the northstar cafe and realize i have absolutely no desire to be here. non voglio essere qui. i watched them; i listened. ma sono stanca parlare inglese. sometimes i'm incredulous, sometimes it's overwhelming.

questa è capodimonte. qui, io posso essere in pace. posso vedere caravaggio nel silenzio. non c'è tempo. non c'è preoccupazione. solo la pace. e è vabbene essere da sola e pensare. sospiro.....

il sogno

2007-05-03T10:28:00.000-04:00

La notte scorsa ho sognato ero al Capri. Le spiagge erano sabbiose e ho nuotato senza paura. Ti ho chiamato da un telecom telefono con mia carta telefonicha e la tua voce eri confortante (è sempre). Abbiamo progettato a incontrare. Adesso, non posso dormire perchè io penso solo dell tuo tocco. Eri vicino nel mio sogno.

namesake

2007-04-30T21:05:00.000-04:00

past/present/future. nothing as beautiful.

and those older tell me maria was always fun. women would have braids in their hair by the end of the day. they tell me she was madly in love; devoted. she was beautiful. like i cannot even describe. she had good legs, even in her 80s.

the greatest compliment was that i resemble my namesake. i can only strive each and every day to be the maria i am to be.
con amore.

therapy dinner

2007-04-29T09:16:00.000-04:00

it had been a while since i last cooked anything specifically "italian." i've been in a slump, and often if i'm not happy, i do probably the worst thing i can do: not cook. i lose motivation, even though i realize if i'd just put in my 30 minutes to an hour, i'd be happy again, eating something so delectable. so here we are:

on the inside is this:

and also grated parmesean (with part of the knuckle of my thumb).

make yourself happy too!!

i don't know what i will do this summer without this book. maybe i'll be better having to ask the locals.

$5,000 tradimento

2007-04-17T14:49:00.000-04:00

i can be a strong caprese girl, too. i have the proof.

The Secret

2007-04-13T21:33:00.000-04:00

there is one painting i haven't seen in person. there is one painting i want. it was a sketch for the painting, the secret. my grandparents have the secret; it's unfinished and rather eerie. the pastel sketch is what i want.

and in one swift move, at the cost of four grand, my cousin, nina marie, betrayed the bernardo and barse family entirely. selling to strangers at an art dealer house.

1. that's fucking insane. not one person in our family has any desire to be rid of the paintings of my family and capri.
2. let's just say someone was insane and wanted to get rid of the art. the LEAST someone could do, the DECENT thing to do is to first offer the artwork to family.
3. i mean who does not understand the family consensus that we want the art to stay in the family? i thought this was perfectly clear. i've known this for as long as i was cognizant of what the paintings were.

why do i continually feel that my access to my own family is blocked while random strangers have access to the lives of rosina ferrara and maria primavera??

i will not regret one ugly word spoken to nina marie nor will she receive sympathy when she begins to feel the weight of guilt and regret that is surely on its way for her grandiose mistake and betrayal. it wasn't just this one painting she sold....

but this is the one that i wanted more than anything.
maria's beauty is simply arresting. i simply have no words to convey the overwhelming, the sense of understanding in her eyes, and the sense of loss, how i want so badly to be her: maria primavera bernardo

(addendum, 4/30/07: it seems that all three siblings sold paintings, not just nina marie. what a waste.)

Le Chiese

2007-04-10T17:21:00.000-04:00

My first lover in Italy had peppered hair. He was only 28 and he hated it. But, of course, it’s what I noticed first; that, and it was curly. Curly and graying!!!! I thought. Mio dio, perfetto. I knew I would be after him in minutes; we talked about politics. I got embarrassingly drunk and forgot my camera in his car. We were to meet the next day so I could retrieve my belongings. I spent the whole day with him, and the next. And so on. When I left him for the next city in my vacation plans, I was confusingly devastated. I looked in the mirror that night and found a pure white hair on the top of my head. I thought it a sign and returned to Rome the next day to stay with him. We walked the city together and because I walked with a native, I too felt native, not a tourist. I had my own personal translator. In Siena we had large lunches, complete with the most delicious wine. We were already arguing; we’d return to the hostel, argue more, cry, and then make love. Paolo called me overdramatic, but I had thought surely in Italy my behavior would blend in.

In every city that I stayed, I visited as many chiese as I could. Seeing as how Paolo and I are both atheist, he seemed rather perplexed. I sat inside on a pew staring at the altars. It was not long before I began praying – to who I’m not sure. The first altar I prayed at was in Basilica di San Pietro and Paolo was not with me that day (in fact, I did not know I was to meet Paolo that very night). One of the reasons that I even wanted to visit Rome was to see the Pietà. Behind dirty plexiglass, zillions of tourists snapping photos with their cellphones and shitty digital cameras, Maria still held all of her wonder, all of her dignity, pain, purity and grace. Perhaps it was she who was perfect, and not her son. But something in me came alive. There was meaning for love and life. Voglio essere una moglie e una madre. And in Italy, motherhood is still sacred.

I prayed at le chiese, mainly to myself. Trying to understand new love, understand me, and everything else. I wondered about the saints, their devotion, obsession, and eventual sacrifice. Le chiese are dark, cool, and damp – a much needed relief from Italy’s summers. They are forever quiet and bring peaceful solitude from the craziness of the streets. I peek in, creep in, when I need a space for meditation. I sat through a service or two, awkward without the lifelong practice – and understanding the language would have helped little. Here, at Easter, I wanted to go to church. See the people filled with hope. Wanting to go back – it makes sense really. It is finding comfort in an obsessive ritual. It’s what they call home.

Paolo fell in love with my praying, maybe because he found peace for just a moment, or maybe because he began to understand my duplicitous ways – “I love when you (improvisely) change the subject, and when you talk to yourself inside the churches.” Nevertheless, I still have my white hair; and it’s the mark that I carry.

ohio still sucks

2007-04-09T17:24:00.000-04:00

you might remember i posted this photograph a couple months earlier:

essentially: italy's effect, personified. this woman embodies how i feel when i am in italy -- weightless, beautiful, dancing, and carefree.

this is by far one of the most beautiful graffiti pieces i've ever seen in my life, and i happen to be lucky enough to live down the street from it. and frankly, it's rare to find anything even remotely beautiful in ohio. la bella donna lives on the side of a convenience store and i pass by her at least twice daily on my walk to and from the bus stop. there was a time when i was nervous she would disappear, but she remained steadfast, reminding me of italy, reminding me i would soon be there--i would be her.

today, however, she is gone. someone has finally painted over her so that now i am greeted by a plain beige wall everyday instead. ohio just made itself uglier. it has proved, yet again, that it has little to nothing (good) to offer. viva l'italia!

dire

2007-04-02T19:01:00.000-04:00

1. my external hard drive has crashed. this perhaps will set me back. sometimes i think this is the sign. the sign that i should not be here... i should be there. and then i remember i'm on the cusp of something great. andy says it will only get better. this is only material, rachel. he says it is a sign that i should backup.
2. but fabio's mother is ill and needs a liver transplant. and when i think in perspective, sento egoista. e poi, penso a quest'estate a italia.
3. questa è dove fabio legge nella piazza.

and i need his strength.

unfinished

2007-04-01T11:51:00.001-04:00

offrire

2007-03-31T12:28:00.000-04:00

our ways to offer

manifesta di 4 marzo

2007-03-31T11:59:00.000-04:00

i want to hurry up and move to italy. fall passionately in love with an italian and get married. i want to dance on the streets and make love all the time. drink wine, sing songs, and say hello to my neighbors. swim in the sea and have babies. and then make art about all that. and publish it. who wouldn't want to read about that or see it? because everybody wants that passion and they rarely have it. and then they can remember the flame. - march 4

il affare

2007-03-31T11:55:00.000-04:00

towards the end of last quarter and over my spring break, i neglected writing here frequently. which is not my intention. so maybe a little update is required. sorry, i find this slightly unprofessional and artistic to include business. allora:
1. i've received george barse's letters. (however, i'm also taking a graduate level english class, so time for reading seems nonexistent).

2. fabio's mother is not well and due to this we are not able to work on our art project as much as we'd like. we are still unclear as to what is wrong, but they are on my mind frequently and i hope her situation will improve as soon as possible.

3. also, many people have asked how i will represent fabio on this blog. they've requested a photograph:

4. a cousin of the barse family randomly discovered this blog, and consequently, me. he has sent me a painting postcard of my greatgrandmother. i believe eventually we should catalog all of the family paintings.

5. for spring break, i was able to visit my family in oklahoma. mother and i made many dresses and a couple skirts as well. this is something that my great grandmother did for as long as i know, and something i am doing for to wear quest'estate. mother will ship them to me (as i did not have room for to take them home) and then i will post. i was also able to visit with my grandparents. i have new photographs of the family to archive, and i even learned some napolitan dialect from grandpa!

una lettera aperta

2007-03-30T15:18:00.000-04:00

caro mio,
she reminded me how much i enjoy writing. all those feelings.
and of course, i think to you.
e certo, penso a tu.

ti porto sempre con me.
penso alle parole poetic per usare.
ma ho paura...
ti dire che ti amo.

ma quando ti penso,
io so c'è qualcosa di speciale...
io so che ti amo.

mia storia e mio futuro sentono più sicuri di mio presente.

ma insieme....è troppo?
forse no.

dimmi tutto.
desidero sapere tutto.

(and is it even worth adding?: mi manchi)

Insieme Uguale

2007-03-08T13:25:00.001-05:00

Click to Play

insieme/uguale (touching for rachel languages) a manifestation di fabio rocco oliva e rachele maria

my first video. our first video. a consecration of egalitarian partnership. and a manifesto of the italian language. in regards to a conversation.....

improvisation, pt. 2

2007-03-08T13:22:00.000-05:00

Click To Play

one of the greatest sounds and smells

Click To Play

boiling water for ravioli and homemade sauce

improvisation

2007-03-07T23:12:00.000-05:00

one of my goals in life is to cook as well as my mother. although i am a good cook, i have little improvisation skills. i can only improvise recipes. i cannot improvise my refrigerator. but last night i did.

premade ravioli (in this case i had spinach pasta filled with gorgonzola with garlic)
for the sauce ingredients you will need:
olive oil (GOOD italian extra virgin olive oil)
garlic
sweet onion, sauteed
dry basil
red pepper flakes (crushed in hand)
mushrooms, sauteed
fresh roma tomatoes
artichoke hearts
salt and pepper to taste

put the tomatoes in last, due to the fact that they soften and warm quickly and you don't want them to completely turn to mushy liquid.

of course, dinner is not complete without a glass of red wine....

guardi queste fotografie!

2007-03-01T11:03:00.000-05:00

I have stumbled upon this photographer, Branson De Cou. I don't really know who he is, except what's important: he photographed Italy during the 1920s and 1930s and now there is an archive in California, online.

Here is the image index.

De Cou worked in the format of lantern slides. This means he is photographing on glass plates, which, when processed, form a transparent positive (like slide film), and were to be projected creating life size images. De Cou apparently contracted four different painters to color his images.

What I notice is that I feel not much has changed (which is odd, considering Italy was leading up to a fascist regime at the time of the photographs). The architecture remains, the roads are the same. More cars, more people, more street vendors. Same people, same color, same smiles.

per essempio (De Cou siena v. my siena),

Allora, some cities to note of course are:
Capri
Napoli
Amalfi

La Pasticceria

2007-03-01T09:45:00.000-05:00

(assisi, july 2006)

I had almost forgotten how wonderful
these were:

Most of my summer will be spent in Napoli. Last summer was strange: Napoli seemed tame and un-fun. Everyone insisted on warning me how dangerous and terrible the city was. I walked around paranoid for no reason, photographing little of the city. I did not see anything even remotely suspiscious. Even the traffic was less intense than Roma. My complaint of the city stemmed from having to walk through sewer to reach my hostel and all the closed chiese. Yet, the people were ridiculously generous and helpful, kind and flirtatious. (My kind of people.) As I walk down Via Toledo from Galleria Umberto I I decided to finally indulge in the wonderfulness of la pasticceria napoletana.

The more I talk with Fabio, absorbing his passion, the more I fall in love with Napoli. I learn: it is not that hard. With the history and reputation la città continues to have, it is clear the people have hope. Anch'io.

(Note: Some will notice to their chagrin that I am linking to Italy wikipedia. If you want to read, click on the English language. But what you will also notice is that in English, we have very little information. Unfocus your desire to know what each word means, and take the entirety of the page in. It's like listening to Italian: by the sheer volume of things, you realize their passion and understand what they say.)

l'autobus è molto in ritardo

2007-02-20T17:17:00.000-05:00

On Tuesdays, I take the 4:15 pm bus home. I love this bus. It is filled to capacity, in American standards. It reminds me of Roma: damp bodies smashed together, semi-chaotic. “Ma’am I’m sorry you can’t ride this bus, it’s too full, nobody behind the line.”
“It’s OK! They can squish together,” I tell him.

My body is trained now: I know how to bend my knees, limp my body, shift my weight into the turns, bumps, accelerations, and brakes, and how to hold the bars properly. Look like I’m minding my own business, when in fact, I’m attempting to eavesdrop on as much as possible. In Roma, less seats, more people. It’s fun to watch how uncomfortable Americans are in crammed buses. (And really, it’s not that cramped). And even more fun, yet appalling, to notice how many American men my age do not give up their seat. In fact, I will give up my seat to a man with crutches before someone else does. In Italia, we ride together; in America, we ride separately in the same bus.

In Italia, the bus is an adventure: too many people, too many buses it becomes impossible to know which one to take, and vague stops. Should I buy a ticket for the bus or not? They can’t possibly check when there are 80 people on a bus. But if I get caught, it’s 35 euro. Everything is a decision in Italy; every decision carries various factors; it’s all worth pondering. I’ll get to where I need to be, make a friend or two while waiting for the bus or conversating on the bus, and have fun all at the same time. In Italia, we ride together; in America, we ride separately in the same bus.

Rachel/Rosina

2007-02-18T15:28:00.001-05:00

Click to Play

la storia di rachel e maria e rosina dice di fabio rocco oliva

siena, july 2006

2007-02-12T11:04:00.000-05:00

eating figs.
we ate like the romans.
paolo pulled back the flesh. we pulled at the flesh. we ate the pulp. i let it drip down my chin.

he fed me the fruit. he fed me my heart.
______________
the love i feel.... it's different in italy. it's better. passion becomes undeniable, filling every cell in my body. smiling and giggling naturally follow. i feel comfortable in my own skin.

in usa, i am deemed obsessive and crazy. in italy, i'm simply passionate. andy said one day i would meet someone who appreciated my "intensity." allora....

la megliore cena

2007-02-11T22:23:00.000-05:00

this evening was by far the best italian dinner i've ever made. one of my friends, peter, lived in italy for 4 months as a study abroad. he hates beans; he ate them tonight. he even said, "meglio del sesso!!"

and this dinner sort of solidifies it for me. i've learned i'm no longer to say "i want to move to italy." instead i say "when i move to italy. or i will move to italy." i will begin the affirmations. beginning late last night and into today, i began to have distinct and vivid visions of italy. of my time there l'estate passato. how i used to call to paolo: mano mano mano mano mano!!! for to hold his hand. e poi, the back streets of napoli. how i took the subway back and forth. the multitude of street vendors. the anonymity. the joviality; the warthm; the closed down chiese (perchè??); the shoes i wanted but didn't buy; the ubiquity of dead sea creatures; unknown vias; strangers offering me dinner, caffè. and i think about what i shall name my children.

stasera, cucino:

attending guests:

shawna, zac, peter, ian

dear italy,

2007-02-08T11:34:00.000-05:00

Dear Italy,
i think i started the school year wrong. you see, i'm letting things get to me. i'm letting me miss you. because i know right now you are still warm, the people are kind, and your food is fresh. i won't see you till june, maybe even july. i'm so sorry i left you, and i cannot wait to return. it's that i have to finish school. and i begin learning your language soon. because i want to curl up inside you and reside there. i'm so sorry i've been angry. i should have done what you told me to. i should have let go. i should be enjoying. (la prima lettera di 26 settembre)

e oggi (la seconda lettera):
dear italy,
i guess i feel compelled to thank you. for reminding me what passion really is. and that it is ok. for reminding me that american taboos are stupid and damaging. you make me want to be better. you make me inspired to educate myself, to demand a voice! you remind me that i have to fight for all the people. that i cannot let go of my ideals, of all the politics. love is crazy. and intuition... i must necessarily follow it. voglio essere una moglie e una madre e una artista. e con tu, so potere. ti amo.
non vedo l'ora di ti vedo ancora!!!! solo quattro mese!!
a presto,
tua rachelmaria.

blog statement

2007-02-07T11:26:00.000-05:00

i think i had it figured out last night. at least most of it. but i talked about it, i didn’t write it. and now i have to remember, which seems so easy and so difficult at the same time.

i’m lost. what the fuck am i doing in this town? i mean… i know: going to grad school, getting my MFA. but italy changed everything. now i bide my time, wait to flee the country. to go and be happy. to go enjoy. i wonder if this is making sense.

i was named after my great grandmother, from the island of capri. falling in love in italy is much different; it feels more real. and it was. so i’ve rearranged my life: i’m learning the language, talking to the people, cooking the food, and spending as much time there (instead of here) as is possible. this is not easy: pretending you are somewhere you are not.

i will find my family; i will find my self.

and so, i have a writer friend in napoli. fabio says: “i'm a writer. searching for a lenguage-brigde between body and letters(madness).” when i read his words, i’m overwhelmed with inspiration. i’m fascinated with the language we have created together, and the connection made through a spoken and unspoken understanding. there is an understanding that i have not felt before, a longing. and for now, this placates me and my sadness.

do you know i've never missed anything so much in my life? not even oklahoma. i want to touch every inch of that country. i want to curl back up into his bed and i want anna to hold me as if i were her own. i want to walk the whole city with blisters and twisted ankles. i want to squish into the pockets of space in the buses. i want gnocchi and soccer and bicchieres of wine and confusion and giggling uncontrollably and strange showers and gelato every afternoon and sunshine and all the chaos. i want italian children.

in italy, i feel weightless, i feel carefree, i feel happy and beautiful and drenched in sun. i feel healthy, loved, loving and in love, ready and spontaneous. curious, a little hesitant, but devoted. i feel at home. and in this collaboration, i have potential to feel those things again. in this collaboration, there is potential. for understanding everything. for knowing all the stories.

la collaborazione

2007-02-03T12:55:00.000-05:00

fabio scrive:
The reality I see is the reality and that is
the words: every single piece - fragment -
it is the
restlessness of the word.
I love going around for the city and to see
men's pieces thrown to earth,
decrepit buildings,
marginal fragments, the fragmented literature and
discontinuous it reflects itself in the fragmented reality and
discontinuous. it is advanced for explosions and I don't believe in the
history in any form of unity. the totality that reality embraces is
exploded, fragmented.

e io faccio:

fabio scrive:
I love walking alone for the city looking for my
shadowriting. it is an intense period of my life. I don't love to be
firm. And I walk in my black coat, and working on the street thinking
also at your pictures. I building something but I need time. And we
have time for our collaboration.

e io faccio:

quando passeggiato, penso a fabio e le sue parole. e poi, ho visto questa! la donna più bella, ballante. unexpected, overwhelmed: it was the time that my words could not be used and instead my eyes and fingers.

le attese

2007-02-01T16:46:00.000-05:00

sometimes i am overcome with desire. and longing. i have phantom throbbing. like i will crawl out from beneath my skin. i want to scream and shimmy shake. today ann told me to give myself permission. to let go. in fact, she gave me her permission too. perhaps she knew i didn't have the strength to do it for myself.

why can't i let go?? why can't i just let myself enjoy this? dimmi dimmi dimmi, perchè no lo so. dimmi che mi ami. dimmi che sono OK. dimmi che sono vivo.

and don't tell me there's something poetic about the awkward silences.

cena italiana

2007-01-30T18:26:00.000-05:00

a project i laxadaisically forgot to mention: cooking italian dinner at least once a week. so far i've only documented one of the dinners (one of three). this is problematic: how do i discuss my art project without documentation of it? how do i prove it was art? how do others discuss it? because what i realize is: it's so much more about being than proving.

sometimes i'm overwhelmed with ideas. sometimes i'm dry as a desert for weeks. both are exhausting. thinking is exhausting. feeling sad and frustratd and busy and lonely are all so exhausting. and then today i realized i wanted thai curry more than anything else. (eastern food has always been my comfort food.)

here's the menu so far.
jan. 19 Fettuccine with Marscapone, Toasted Walnuts and Basil

jan. 26 Fussili with Carmelized Onions and Walnuts

jan. 27 Fennel Soup

la collaborazione

2007-01-29T11:12:00.000-05:00

io:

e fabio:

sono già italiana

2007-01-28T10:59:00.000-05:00

birthing beauties. everything i strive towards.

pomegranate premonition

2007-01-25T17:37:00.000-05:00

today was a ridiculously lousy day. by 4 pm i realized that i simply could not not eat a pomegranate. season is over. i only have two (now one) left. it's like they must be preserved until next year, or an emergency.

i cut it open. but it was different this time. it was like it knew i had begun bleeding. and it bled that much more. for me. like sympathy pains, sympathy bleeding. i peeled away all the seeds, out of the water this time. they plucked off the dry skin so easily. it was a mess. the blood splattered up onto my hands, arms, and sweatshirt. almost violent. almost.

inside the fruit are all my ancestors. all the women of italy. and we come together. we bled. and then healed.

meeting neighbors

2007-01-23T21:14:00.000-05:00

tonight i had italian lessons. they are going well, thanks for asking. and do you know who i met?? alisse! and do you know where she is from??? NETTUNO!! perchè è questo importante? mi domandi. perchè è la città next to anzio, dove la famiglia di paolo hanno una casa di estate vicino il mare. in fact, i was in nettuno last summer. allora, i will have to go next summer. perhaps we can meet up. pazzo!! small world...

la collaborazione

2007-01-20T16:40:00.000-05:00

io:

e fabio:

but more about the neck-laces

2007-01-18T11:22:00.000-05:00

i've never been a great swimmer. i was one of the irrational secretive ones that still believed there were sharks in the chlorinated pools of neighbors. ironically, i spent many summers as a child going to the beach without any worries. and these were the beaches with man-of-war monitor lifeguards. as i got older, (free) swimming pools seemed less acessible (not to mention gross). but when i went to italy, and especially when i went to capri, i was determined to swim in the ocean again. (although, paolo insists on reminding me it's only a sea.) and so, i absorbed the salt that had once absorbed into my great grandmother. i've spent my entire life staring at a painting of her swimming that tyrrhenian sea. the current is strong, the beaches are rocky, but it was fantastic. italians swim like fish. i have to practice. italians tan ridiculously well. that one i will practice less.

napoli is the main medium to capri. paolo and i had a terrible fight before i left for napoli. we thought it was over. on the day that i decided to call him and tell him i still loved him, i walked down to the beach. i bought a stick of corn and sat way out on the rocks. i watched the men swim. now that i am home, i stare at my maps on the wall (and write cute stories). i stare at napoli every day.

"did i ever tell you that album is simply fantastic? you know i was never a huge fan. but this album. because his voice rattles inside my body. it's the perfect album for motion. for travel. like rising and falling. listening on the trains. walking on the sidewalks in naples. and i watched the lovers. i watched the sea. i ate corn and sat on those rocks. i laughed out into the sea at all the bullshit that piled up. because i had let go. goddamnit i had let go. i was only full of love. and i watched all the people walking, fishing, driving wrecklessly, the men swimming out in the sea where i would never go for all my stupid fears. i felt the air on my skin. and i truly felt whole. i always feel strange when i listen to this album."

necklace

2007-01-18T11:05:00.000-05:00

i feel different when i wear my coral necklaces from capri.

la collaborazione

2007-01-16T18:34:00.000-05:00

i am beginning a collaboration con il mio amico di napoli.
io:

e fabio:

io:

e fabio:

flesh and blood

2007-01-12T19:42:00.000-05:00

my most favorite painting of rosina (that i have seen so far)
p.s. posting becomes slightly more difficult after red wine consumption

the beginning

2007-01-12T10:21:00.000-05:00

rosina ferrara e george barse, jr.

tutoring

2007-01-11T16:28:00.000-05:00

i found a tutor. christina.

tues 3-4 pm
fri 11a-12 p

$15/hr reduced rate for poor gta

plus, i might get a job shooting portraits for her in exchange for lessons. i turned down the wedding request.