The #leaveamessage Day: Roads of the Unexpected

The Laws of Destiny and Chance are those that cannot be classified.

Randomness is something very much cherished in art: from the Surrealist's automatic painting, going through Pollock's famous drippings to mention what once Picasso is told to have said when asked about how his Blue Period developed: 'I ran out of other colours', he replied.
And just liked it so much as to carry on.

By the way, this is not a post about found objects, but found messages. Has it ever occurred to you to find an unexpected nice message in an unexpected place? I remember the 'secret admirer' when I was in Primary School. Love messages started to pop up in my pencil case or folded in the sandwich wrapping, and I perfectly knew it was some female classmates just taking the piss. I could match handwritings all right, even at eight. However, it was nice just to believe it, if only for a split second.
Even most interesting than this are those messages that perhaps weren't meant for us, but we find anyway. A lost letter. A post-it note stolen by the wind. A torn bit of words floating in the river.
A private message sent on Facebook to that not-so-famous-actor on his 40th birthday, just to let him know that you spared a thought for him and he's still gorgeous and you had a massive crush on him when you were eight and possibly never quite shook it. (embarassed cough)

It's like a treasure hunt, but you don't have to look for a treasure and you have no map. That something as simple as kind words is finding a way to come to you. Click.

Now you should take a further click, and read how come that this idea of the #leaveamessage day occurred to Wonderland. Just scroll down for the English version when you reach the post, and sign up if you feel like spreading some happy thoughts and cheers in the run up - or count down - to Christmas!

SAVE THE DATE: #leaveamessage day is Wednesday 14 December !

I like the idea of one of you, random readers, finding one of my messages. None of the two of us will never know, perhaps, but for a moment our distant lives would touch, and then turn back to normal.

Hopefully with a smile on our faces!

A Story that Never Ends: How it Happened that I Joined The Piracy Project

I am going to tell you a secret.
Come closer, for I will say it softly and never repeat what I said again. My words might melt like fresh snow in the sun; they will be as fragile as isinglass, as slippery as images forming into water ripples. One moment they are there, and suddenly they are gone. You will never remember what you saw.
So, listen carefully, for I am about to tell you of a story that was forgotten, that got lost between the lines. The lines of another story. One, I am sure, you already know.

These are a character's words.
Perhaps one, or two, or none of you might remember this post and my confuse babbling about "characters kidnapping" or "destroying" me. Well, at least now you will have an explanation - and a reassurance that my mind is still here and I need no rehab. Possibly.

Everything started in February this year when I had a chat with artist Eva Weinmayr, whose studio I was visiting with one of the MA course mate. She told me about AND Publishing and The Piracy Project, something she was working on with other people in order to save a library from being shut down because of politics' recent measures of austerity. And here I can't help but wonder why it always has to be creativity and entertainment that are deemed useless in a time of crisis? What a question.
Anyway, Eva illustrated to me the joys of being a Pirate.
The Library she and her crew put together is a very peculiar one, as it is made of books that deliberately infringe copyright laws. Not just illegal reproduction of books, which is an already developed phenomenon in emerging countries where books aren't always available. We're talking about emerging authors beginning to interfere with the content of "closed" - or rather, "complete" - literary works. Borrowing here or there. Improving. Changing. Erasing.
Suggesting a different interpretation.
Using literary material, or the object-book itself, as a ready-made. Period.

"Have you ever read a book twice? Books change, every time you read them." 

And so it happened that I confessed.
I told Eva that, when I was about twelve, I took my favourite book of all times and re-wrote part of the story, inserting a new character in it. This meant copying entire paragraphs from the original book and just slid additional ones in, without changing anything too much. Like an improved clockwork or the falling bricks in Tetris, the two parts ended up matching. However, nobody ever read that because I thought it was a subtle form of stealing. You know, using someone else's characters to make up a story within a story...
'Sounds great!' Said Eva. 'We are calling for contributions.'
'Splendid!' I replied, in my boring academic English. 'There's just a tiny little hitch.'
'What is it?'
'The story is written in Italian.' I explained.
'Oh. That's fine, we're also interested in the issues of language...'
'But I can translate it.' I said, not knowing what I was getting myself into.

Back home in Rome, I dug into my personal belongings until I found the manuscript, buried under a pile of photocopied books from college's times. The plastic spiral binding holding it together showed its age signs by falling off bit by bit whenever I tried to turn a page. I recalled writing it using one of the first Macintosh computers, one as huge and square as an old telly and with the coloured apple emblazoned on it. That meant that the original file surely is lost forever, or perhaps saved on a God-knows-its-current-whereabouts floppy disk.
The story is written in two colours; green for the parts taken from the original book, red for those that I added. On the cover, printed in a curvy font that is no longer listed in Word, the title sits floating on white background in the middle of a frame-like square: A Story in The Neverending Story.

Now, there are lots of people out there who unconditionally love that book, The Neverending Story, by Michael Ende. Me being one of them.
I am sure you know the story or have at least seen the movie(s). Ende managed to write one of those evergreen masterpieces that stay with you even long after you have turned the last page. Not to mention the unforgettable characters in it. Heroes and villains so poignant you almost believe they are real.
But another reason for the book's popularity is that many stories in it are left unfinished, with the author unofficially inviting you to take over and continue - not finish, them. So I hope you will forgive me, Mister Ende, for starting a new story within your book.
It's just that there is a hidden character there, just under the reader's nose. She is like a silver shadow, a whisper between the pages, the secreted song at the very end of a CD.
All I did was just helping her come to life.
However, all a character is made of is just ink on paper, therefore her existence begins, and ends, in the space of a eighty-something pages. She is part of the story, yet she isn't. But if her story will ever be read, you will understand why it was worth writing it.

You are now looking at the final result, once the - not easy - task of translating was done. I have even involved an artist friend who, after having read the story, kindly agreed to illustrate it.
The result is so amazing that I have to show you some more:

Who doesn't want to ride a Luckdragon? 

The Ivory Tower. As you have never seen it.

All watercolours are by lovely Marianeve Leveque.
Also, I pleaded in two languages to other people to have a look at the unmistakable mistakes, and help me correct them. Well then, if I have managed to spark a little of your curiosity and you want to know what this story is all about, or want to learn what other Pirates created, you will have to chase up The Piracy Project Library, currently touring around the world.

I look at the picture of my little manuscript, figuring among more illustrious entries on the Piracy Project on-line catalogue, and smile. It is a great satisfaction indeed to finally seeing it making sense in this new dimension.

Tell me now, my friends: what is your favourite story of all times? 

Dedicated to Travellers

To those who aren't afraid of the big, heavy suitcase.

To all those people who think that flying isn't the definitive way of travelling, and confront a journey by bus from one country to the other. 

The bus. The ultimate cart towed by invisible mules. 

To the ones who sit in impossibly small spaces between seats and dive into the night, watching the sleepy, dark landscape flowing by. 

Maybe they'll dream of where they will go next. 

Or maybe these people are the dreamers, moving around, seeing friends or family scattered around Europe without minding the two or three days it will take to reach them. 

To all of you who split a journey in many legs, a bit by bus, the other bit by train, the final one hitchhiking perhaps. Because the journey is a dimension in itself, a suspended sphere, an experience. 

Sometimes uplifting, sometimes exhausting. 

Dedicated to those who consider the means of travelling more important than the destination.

The Underground Diaries: Possessions

"Please remember to keep your belongings with you at all times. Any unattended item may be removed or destroyed." I think I could easily cry my eyes out if someone destroyed my bag.

There's all your life in a bag, especially if you are a woman.

Circle Line, London - She loves London

Hammersmith & City Line, London

The Underground Diaries: Sucked In

The blissful unawareness of some great moments. Visually speaking.

Central Line, London

The Underground Diaries: Generation Next

Full score plunder for the Underground Diaries today.
I have to say I don't really look for images, rather, they just appear to be under my nose and I can't help but press the...oh, I wish there was a normal side button to press on the iPhone! My lumpish attempts to keep the thin, black, rectangular thing still with two hands while trying to press the camera icon with a nail - or my nose, for crying out loud - would be worthy material for a documentary.

Central Line, London - Kidz

On the wake of this article by Tom De Castella about the iPod making us all antisocial, I got some inspiration for images.

All images Metropolitan Line, London

Generation next.
But I don't believe the end is near, as you are always free to press the off button and listen to the polite silence around you. Aren't you?

Finally, I caught two people on the same car reading a book that I absolutely loved: "One Day", by David Nicholls. Same book, different editions. I could even tell what point of the story they were at.

Circle Line, London

The Underground Diaries: a Friday morning.

Sometimes Fridays can be like Mondays.
Weariness seems to struck, and you're absolutely not ready for the week-end. Like saying "it is Friday already, and I am not." But thankfully, the ones with more energy are always there.

23 September 2011 - Victoria Line, London

23 September 2011 - Overground, London

23 September 2011 - Spots and Squares. Overground, London.

Se ti girano in senso antiorario è peggio

Sentirsi come una tagliola pronta a scattare, una tagliola piena di dentini di ferro minacciosi e arrugginiti, che devono fare un gran male quando affondano nella carne.

Scocciarsi per un nonnulla e ingoiare, che ancora non hai imparato a proferire eleganti accidenti in un'altra lingua, e comunque sarebbero diretti ad un oggetto inanimato quale il computer.

Pensare che non succede niente d'interessante, non sta succedendo niente d'interessante, non succederà mai niente d'interessante, in particolare a te. E stai gettando una decina di chilometri di momenti morti al vento perché non riesci a pensare a qualcosa d'interessante per sbloccare la situazione.

Guardare torva il cielo grigio, che senz'altro non aiuta. La temperatura che a tuo giudizio è glaciale in modo quasi offensivo per essere Settembre, certamente non aiuta.

In conclusione, il pensare che, di fondo, il motivo in particolare per cui ti girano così tanto, qual'è?
Il non trovare una risposta a questa domanda, o forse il trovarla e fare finta di niente per non cadere nei luoghi comuni dello schiavismo femminile da ormone, ti fa capire che stanno girando in senso antiorario, ovvero controcorrente.

Ed è decisamente peggio.

The Underground Diaries: A Lifetime Together.

You saw it happening between your grandparents.

Even your parents are going along that way. Not to mention you in-laws.

After, say, 30-45 years of marriage, it can happen that you can't really stand each other anymore. 

The ailments. That unnerving bad habit of his that you didn't manage to change. The growing apart.

That is why, when I see something like this on the tube or anywhere else, I can't help but smile blissfully. 

14 September 2011- Circle Line, London. 

I took a similar picture in Rome, and published it here.

The Underground Diaries: Fashion Spotting

Like lot of other "igers" (detestable hashtag neologism), I am now completely addicted to Instagram.

Either for the nostalgia for a past era that, through our parents fading pictures, seems more real than ours, or for the frenzy of experimentation, this simple app seems to awake the potentially good photographer in you. The result is, you are always taking pictures, and one or two do turn out to be fairly good (even though you have no idea of what you're doing and only rely on your natural sense of colour and composition). Well, filters help to make something helplessly ordinary looking coooool.

Therefore, I am now starting a new section of the blog: The Underground Diaries.
I have recently stumbled upon TubeCrush.net, a website where people upload pictures of blokes they fancy, spotted by chance on the tube. The idea is that the photographed subject should recognise himself on this website, read the message attached to it and contact the person who took the picture, perhaps to live happily ever after.
How. About. That. slash Good. Luck. To. You.

Anyway, far from criticising or endorsing any dating method - we all need some love and romance, don't we? - the pictures I will post are, too, taken on the Underground. I have always been fascinated by the suspended dimension of the Tube and the varied chunks of humanity on it, coming and going from point A to point B, crossing by point C and reaching point D backwards, basically ignoring one another. I am not going to bang on the concepts of alienation, city life, etcetera, I just like to spot beauty into the ordinary.
The man I married once told me that, whenever he travelled on the tube, his main occupation was observing people and try to understand if they were happy.

So, this is the first shot of an ongoing series___

18 August 2011 - Hammersmith & City Line, London

___Do you think they are happy?

Where Is My Mind

I have been away.
And I don't mean away from town, or the country. Well, of course I had been pretty busy in the last two months, with the end of the MA Curating, the last co-curated show, the last bits, the last moment of blissful ignorance of the aftermath, when you have to ask yourself: "And now what?"

My mind has been kidnapped by old dreams that I thought were forgotten.
Well, more than forgotten, I would say archived. Transformed. Grown into grown-up dreams. But no.
In your head, you always have this idea of "growing up".
What it really means, still is a mystery to me. A friend who lately passed away once advised me not to wallow in fantasy, but keep my feet on the ground. This was because, if you'd known me a good fifteen years ago, you could tell my head was up in the clouds. Way up.
They called it the Peter Pan Syndrome.
They called me the eternal child and casted me aside, sometimes.
Because a child can't really think straight: he - or she - is all instincts. It's all black or all white, everything is beautiful or the whole thing is ugly.
A child loves or hates completely; sees the world, the beauty in it, with different eyes.
I have never understood why people force you to forget that kind of beauty by advising you to keep it real.

Well, after a sort of daydreaming I am not entirely sure I have awoken from, I think I know.
Dreams can seduce you and take you away. And when you're there, it can happen that you don't want to come back. It can happen that, by pursuing that beauty, you touch the bottom of this longing, and forget what is really around you.
Your dreams can consume you, especially if you don't dream of cars, homes or the perfect family.
These things are feasible, with a little luck.
Other dreams are different. Coming back to the real world, I would call them ideas.
Like when you say, for example, 'I want to be a pop star'. You know it's not going to happen. Well, someone succeeds of course, but only a few. And then it is not what it seemed.
So, you decide on principle that you will never become a pop star, but that idea is always there, teasing you. A dismissed dream.
All you can do is dancing in front of the mirror when you're home alone. Right?

Now, this is not my case (although I did want to become a pop star at some point. Ouch), but if there was something that I ever wanted to do, is writing. Although I have never been constant at it.
It is not like the fire of art, making people filling up entire painting books, canvases, or walls to quench their thirst. I write when I feel like it, otherwise I don't.
And now I have discovered English, this amazing language. A whole world enclosed in just one sentence. An unexplored potential laying before me, despite the limits of not being a native.
There are stories in my head, embryonic characters shouting at me to let them come to life.
So forceful they are, I am almost afraid they are going to destroy me. Will they make me loose my way, my other purposes?
Shall I answer their call, or let them float in the limbo for another good fifteen years, before I find the courage to, at least, try?

Courage. That's all it takes. Courage of one's ideas.
Why don't you listen to your dreams?
I thought I had plenty of courage, but I was wrong.

My friend, I think your advice of keeping the feet on the ground was good...but you, yourself, didn't buy it.

Silence is Gold: How To Disrupt A Performance

I must admit I don't know much about contemporary dance.
Therefore, when G. handed me two tickets to go and see Rosas Danst Rosas that a colleague had generously passed on to him because she couldn't go, I just went all ??
A Google search revealed it to be a choreography based on austere, pure dance minimalism, devised by the Belgian Anne Teresa de Keersmaeker. The review I bumped into gives a meticulous description of the dance, including the fact that nothing really happens for the first twenty minutes and, half-way through it, there are quite a few exasperate walk-outs. Ouch. That did put me off a bit, but then You Tube overturned the situation by showing me this:

That's when I got all excited about it.
It reminded me of what I studied during my university days, when I took two modules of History of Theatre and got fascinated by the Odin Teatret and...hum, that other guy, Russian perhaps, who turned the actor into a machine. I think this very same thing of forgetting the name happened at the exam, too, and the lovely Professor gave me a 29/30 mark (30 being the maximum in the Italian marking system. Come ON! How mean is that?) Anyway, on show day we turn up at the Sadler's Wells, which by the way was full, with curiosity and great expectations. When the lights go down four women walk in and lay on the floor. As predicted by the article, nothing happens. Not a sound, with the exception of the women's sudden breathing and coordinated, identical and repetitive movements.

The silence engulfs everything, as thick as a blanket. It's total, and gripping.
And then, surely as breathing, here it begins the coughing.
One cough from the right hand side of the stalls. A second cough answers from the other side. This prompts a third, then a fourth.
The four women do another quick sequence, breaking the silence with their breath, and the cough stops. Then, back to immobility and to it's-oh-so-quiet-it's-oh-so-still.
And someone coughs. Just once. It's a performance within a performance.

Now, with the exception of those who maybe are allergic, phthisical or actually caught a cough, have you ever wondered about the complexity of this phenomenon?
Silence is an issue. It kind of leaves you alone with your thoughts, which may be too noisy, and may crush you down. To me, the cough that breaks the silence is like one of those miniature sorghum brooms used to protect houses from evil spirits; brush it away.
That's the only explanation I have, for there must be a reason why silence is gold. For example, hadn't the silence being so gripping, I wouldn't have thought of this whole post.
It contains neither pearls of wisdom nor philosophical truths, but not all thoughts bring up evil spirits.

Back to the show, suddenly a very mechanical music begins, and the silence issue is archived.
One hour and forty minutes of five different, but identical movement sequences. An intense work for the dancers, and also for those who watch. 

Requiem for a Dream

Ed ecco a voi: il post che cerca di fare il vago, ma e' un annuncio pubblico nella rete.
Succede che ci si senta sconvolti per una notizia inaspettata. Una cattiva, di quelle che ti lasciano a meta' tra il "ma dai, pure la morte di Michael Jackson sembrava uno scherzo" e il "..." Letteralmente ...
Fluttui tra la consapevolezza della realta' e la distanza che ti separa dall'apprendere un dato di fatto ineluttabile, orribile. Succede che ricevi un' email in cui, nell'oggetto, ti si consiglia caldamente di "metterti seduta". Oddio.
Qualcuno si sposa? Un altro pupo in arrivo? Beccato il Jolly al Superenalotto? No.
Leggi le parole e non comprendi bene. La prima sensazione e' che i pensieri sembrano essersi fermati, anzi no, sono fermi, in stand-by. Un torpore ti cala sulla testa e tutto si fa ovattato, mentre lo stomaco, l'unica parte di te che non si fa fregare, si contorce.
Leggi di un nome, una persona che conosci. O meglio, conoscevi molti anni fa, quando avete passato intere estati assieme al vostro gruppo di amici comuni, una banda di adolescenti sfigati, e interi inverni a giocare a Dungeons & Dragons, lui l'Elfo e io il Bardo Mezz'Elfo, o andare al cinema in tre, tu, lui e l'altro, il giorno di San Valentino perche', si sa, l'altra meta' del cielo e' ancora lontana. Pomeriggi infiniti a suonare i Guns'n'Roses, Ligabue e i Litfiba alla chitarra, e cantare a squarciagola parole che riflettevano cuori infranti e amori impossibili. Feste improvvisate in cui si aspettavano trepidanti i balli lenti per potersi abbracciare un po', sempre facendo i vaghi. Leggi, piu' avanti, che uno di questi elementi che costituiscono i pilastri dei tuoi ricordi piu' belli improvvisamente e' venuto a mancare, e non per volere della natura, no. Per scelta.

Non e' stato un incidente di macchina, la collera divina o una bomba a portarcelo via, no. Ha deciso lui. Cosi', senza neanche avvisare. Non che si fosse piu' in contatto, certo. Qualche sporadico messaggio su Facebook. Il venire a sapere, tramite amici comuni, che lui di certo non e' piu' lo stesso. Anzi, e' un po' strano. Si cresce, si cambia, ci si dimentica gli uni degli altri.
E mentre i ricordi tornano a galla l'uno dopo l'altro viene da pensare ma come, non sapeva? Non sapeva che c'era comunque qualcuno a cui avrebbe potuto rivolgersi, prima di commettere una simile sciocchezza? Forse sapere che per qualcuno, in un tempo passato ma comunque per sempre, sei stato importante, sarebbe servito? Nella testa mi scorrono le immagini di tutte le pagine dei diari scolastici che ho riempito. Il disegno della casetta di Biancaneve con tutti e sette i nani dentro che mi cade addosso il giorno che ho saputo che lui si era messo con un'altra. Si, ero una fumettara, e pure con un certo talento, se me lo consentite, ma poi ho smesso. Una buona occasione per riderci sopra andata sprecata.
Ricordo che mi diceva spesso, per prendersi gioco di me, "mi preoccupi fortemente!" Credo sia stata l'ultima cosa che gli ho detto quando mi ha chiesto di presentarlo a una mia ex compagna di classe vista su Facebook. Mi scrisse anche di "stare con i piedi per terra", e in questo gli ho dato retta. Ho smesso di sognare cose impossibili, e mi sono afferrata a quanto di reale mi passava davanti, riuscendo a catturarlo.
E ora sale una rabbia che non ti spieghi.
Sai che passera', "in fondo vi eravate persi di vista", ma "dei se e ma son piene le fosse". Appunto.
Il mio augurio e' che trovi comunque la sua strada, ovunque sia.

Perche' Lo Fai

Sabato pomeriggio lavorativo.

Ore 2:15 in pausa pranzo. Mangio un panino al volo mentre mi avvio verso Oxford Street passando per James Street, la strada dei ristorantini dove sarebbe preferibile non mangiare perché dire che sono turistici e' dire poco. Sul lato destro della strada c'e' un posto dove fanno un costosissimo gelato insapore, ma servito in delle deliziose cialde fatte a mano e tutte quelle che si rompono, bontà loro, le mettono fuori in un cestino. Arraffo la piu grossa, felice di uno snack gratuito, e mi appresto ad affrontare la fiumana.

Ho decisamente compreso il significato di "tritone all'ora di punta" da quando frequento Oxford Street: tutto, macchine e persone, procedono a passo d'uomo su una strada+marciapiede delle stesse dimensioni della corsia centrale del mercato di Porta Portese. Riesco a svincolarmi - letteralmente - e infilo una stradina secondaria dove non c'e' nessuno: sono diretta ad un Jumble Sale, una vendita di beneficenza organizzata da una mia amica. 

Ore 2:20: il cartello fuori la venue recita Stella McCartney, Gucci, Prada, Louis Vitton, Balenciaga, Rupert Sanderson. I primi quattro so chi sono, gli altri due no, e meno male che non tradurro' questo post in Inglese se no mi cancellavano dai listings di Google seduta stante. Questi personaggi hanno generosamente donato abiti, scarpe, accessori e quant'altro per una raccolta fondi a favore della Croce Rossa in Giappone e per aiutare le vittime dello Tsunami. Quando c'e' da fare del bene si deve sempre essere in prima fila, specie se si tratta di vestiti di marca usati. "Eh si", penso sospirando, "ti faranno Santa, con tutta questa beneficenza che fai!"* 

Talmente Santa che, mi rendo conto con sgomento tastando la tasca della giacca, mi sono dimenticata i soldi al lavoro. Un genio. "Ah vabe', ma tanto qualcosa per la donazione ce l'ho, di sicuro non posso permettermi niente, figurarsi..."

Come volevasi dimostrare, dopo aver scambiato baci&abbracci con l'amica e altri conoscenti, trovo almeno due cose che mi sarei potuta comprare: una gonna senza etichetta che pero' gridava Roberto Cavalli da tutte le plissettature e una giacca stile sacco-di-iuta-radical-chic di uno stilista di cui non mi ricorderò mai il nome ma forse cominciava con la "P". No, non e' Prada, non ho mai visto Naomi Campbell con questa cosa addosso e anche se l'avessi vista figurati se me la ricorderei...

Prezzo al pezzo, £10. 

Perlamiseria non le puoi lasciare li! Mentre rifletti sul da farsi, tipo corrompere l'amica e farti mettere queste due cose da parte che corri a prendere i soldi e torni, ti squilla il cellulare. E' la collega che e' rimasta sola al lavoro. Oddio, cosaccade.

"Pronto, problemi?"

"Si!" (Ecco) "E' venuto Mr X a ritirare il suo ordine ma non so di che cavolo sta parlando, che faccio?"

"E' per caso venuto a ritirare una palla di neve con un lampione dentro?"

"Si!"

"Tutto a posto, e' giù in ufficio pronta. Visto che sei da sola, chiedigli gentilmente di aspettare fuori mentre tu scendi e non far entrare nessuno, che se no ci fanno fuori tutti i portachiavi e forse anche qualche stampa edizione limitata."

"Ah, OK...quindi che gli devo dare?"

"(...) La  s-c-a-t-o-l-a. Guarda, non ti puoi sbagliare, e' l'unica scatola giù in ufficio."

"Ah, OK."

La telefonata ti ha destabilizzato. Ora inizi a pensare se la vuoi veramente, la giacca stile sacco-di-iuta. Ma in finale e' per benefice...ti risquilla il cellulare.

"Pronto?"

"Ah! Senti, c'e' un problema"

"Un problema?"

"Si, abbiamo aperto la scatola, e la palla di neve ha un difetto."

"Un difetto??"

"Più difetti..."

"Più difetti???"

"Eh, si...c'e' un graffio...e mi sa pure un capello che fluttua nell'acqua insieme ai fiocchi."

"Opporc..."

"Gia'. Ma per fortuna ne abbiamo un'altra uguale e senza difetti, posso dargli quella?"

"Si! Ecco brava, dagli que...no, aspetta, mi sa che l'altra palla di neve e' riserva..."

"Pronto? Non ti sento pi..." crack. Cade la linea.

Sono costretta a mollare gonna&giacca e a uscire. Richiamo la collega:

"Pronto? Sono io! Pare che dentro non prende..."

"Allora gli sto dando quell'altra..."

"NO! Ti dicevo, forse l'altra e' riservata, devo fare un paio di telefonate..."

"Ma il cliente ha fretta!"

Giustamente, se aveste speso mezza piotta per una palla di neve con lampione edizione limitata (prestigiosissima scultura di J.A., ndr) avreste fretta anche voi, no?

"Pronto?"

"Eh?"

"Non sento piu' nie..." crack. Ri-cade la linea. Faccio le due telefonate ma nessuno risponde. Dopotutto, e' Sabato. Gia'. Lascio accorati messaggi in segreteria.

Risquilla il telefono:

"Pronto, sei la capa che accorre in mio aiuto?"

"No, sono la collega di prima."

"Ah."

"Il cliente ora vuole il rimborso." (sottotitolo per i non-Inglesi: e' discretamente adirato)

"Guarda, ho chiamato le due persone, possibilmente mi faranno sapere nei prossimi dieci seco..."

"Vuole il rimborso."

"OK," esalo mestamente, "Arrivo." Saluto al volo la mia amica, faccio la donazione, dico addio per sempre a quella gonna fichissima perché sulla giacca ho già cambiato idea e torno a razzo verso il luogo di lavoro.

A meta' strada mi squilla di nuovo il cellulare:

"Ventisecondiesonoli!" Ansimo.

"Guarda, non c'e' più bisogno, il cliente dice che ripassa dopo."

E va beh, ma allora ditelo! Decido di tornare comunque al lavoro per risolvere il patatrack. 

Sono ormai nel pericolosissimo mood da shopping mancato.

Ore 5:45, 15 minuti alla chiusura dei battenti. Mi arriva una email dal marito: 

"Ciao Piccola, passi di qui?" Io e lui abbiamo la fortuna di lavorare molto vicini e il Sabato solitamente torniamo a casa insieme. Al che mi viene un'idea. So già che me ne pentirò, ma mi viene un'idea. Digito sulla tastiera:

"No, passa tu che andiamo da H&M e forse anche da GAP. Dai, dimmidisi che tanto non mi compro niente!" Funziona. Alle 18:05 G. e' fuori alla porta e ci avviamo per la stessa strada, con me che ri-arraffo la solita cialda a sbafo. Ora, io non sono una shopaholic (anche se qualcuna di voi ricorderà questo post), ma quando vedo i saldi di mezza stagione non resisto. Inoltre, ogni volta che entro da GAP, finisco per comprare cosine per lui invece che per me, quindi tanto vale portarselo dietro, no? 

Grave errore.

E' qui che verrebbe da dire: Perché Lo Fai (Disperata Ragazza Mia), senza nemmeno il punto interrogativo. Tanto lo sai che le vie di Madre Natura sono misteriose, e tentare di convincere il tuo uomo che shopping is good non avrà esito positivo. Gia' appena varcata la soglia di qualsivoglia negozio mettono su quell'aria insofferente mascherata da benevola sopportazione. Al che provi a fargli vedere qualche maglione da uomo a meno della meta' del prezzo di listino.

"Ma ce l'ho i maglioni..."

"No, non e' vero, te li sei persi tutti..."

"Ho quello arancione..."

"E' bucato."

"Mica l'avrai buttato??"

"Ancora no."

"E poi adesso fa caldo."

"Adesso. Dicono che probabilmente il Principe William e Kate Middelton si sposeranno sotto la neve."

"Cheeee?"

Yes, this is London.

Provando a cambiare discorso:

"Guarda che bella quella giacca!"

"Ma anche no."

"Perche' no?"

"Fa troppo Ispettore Cluseau."

"Non dicevo quella, ma quella accanto, quella di pelle!" 

"Mgh."

"E questa magliettina?"

"Mastaraischerzando!"

"Perche'?"

"E' molto gaia."

"Ma noooo...e' a righe!"

"Ecco, appunto. Fa molto Pesshoppboois." Wow, non mi aspettavo avesse le idee cosi chiare, il ragazzo.

Come volevasi dimostrare, non abbiamo comprato niente.

Calerei un velo pietoso su quando e' arrivato il mio turno nel reparto donna. Scannerizzo la sala, individuo due o tre cose papabili, guardo la sua espressione priva di entusiasmo e mi faccio contagiare dall'umore. Dopo due giri di boa, infiliamo la porta d'uscita contemporaneamente e ci rituffiamo nella processione per prendere lo svincolo verso casa.

Ah, ma tanto ci torno da sola, da GAP.

* A parte gli scherzi e il bonario sarcasmo, l'emergenza Tsunami, come tutte le altre emergenze, sono cose serie e anche una piccola donazione può fare la differenza!

Dead Interesting

My camera is dead.
It served me for many years, so perhaps it was time for her to rest, but I am missing it badly. My old mobile phone is doing its best to help me in my photographic frenzy, putting up with my constant moaning about wanting an iPhone, and these tiny pixelated pictures are the result.

I know, the Instagram app will have to wait.

Here in London, Spring is timidly approaching: every sunny day is a celebration, because deep down you know that it is unlikely to last. Therefore you guys may wonder why, on a glorious Sunday afternoon like this, Hubby and I decided to pay a visit to Highgate Cemetery. Well, it wasn't to bury the camera of course (I am not that sentimental!) but to take advantage of the very interested guided tours and to learn something about London's Victorian era. Behind the melancholic look of worn down gravestones and angels dressed in ivy, and beyond Death casting its grim reminder to us all, a whole distant era is revealed. For example, did you know that, in 19th century, funerals were an out-and-out business? The reason being not one of the most fortunate; the population had increased and, due to poor hygienic conditions, mortality rate followed suit. Death was an everyday business, as to even dictate fashion in - black - dresses, ways of burial, tombs shape and size, you name it. Of course nowadays you don't go to a wedding wearing the same dress twice; back then, keeping a funeral dress in the house was bad luck.

A cemetery on a spring day leaves little room for philosophic contemplation and the fascinating investigation of the after-life symbolic language takes over: an angel with a torch turned over means differently from another with raised hands; pyramids and obelisks refer to the English interest towards the - conquered - ancient empires and the customs and traditions of the people in the colonies. The West Cemetery, where the guided tours take place, has remarkable examples of funerary architecture, for example a rotunda surrounding a magnificent tree that has been there for at least nine hundred years, and has probably seen it all.
Highgate Cemetery was even in competition with other six burial places, and I was quite impressed to discover that they were called "The Magnificent Seven". Given that I can't help drawing comparisons between London and my birthplace, Rome, I immediately made a connection with our Seven Hills - and, actually, the slope to get from Archway station to the cemetery is not too bad indeed. The popularity of a cemetery didn't really depend on its rates, but on its guests; with its peaceful surroundings and impeccable burial service, Highgate won them all.

Beyond any political thought, who wouldn't stop in awe in front of Karl Marx's grave? He even has - dead - people around who expressly arranged for being buried at close range to him. The pictured one is just a common bloke who happens to be in front of Marx. Together, they make the famous duo Marks&Spencer (I'd like to claim the authorship of this fantastic joke, but in fact I have stolen it from my husband).

Going further on the list, I was quite pleased to find Lieutenant James Holman, better known as The Blind Traveller: back on my MA Curating Course (remember this?), our tutor mentioned his book in relation to perception; a blind account of travels around the world gives a different idea of what we give for granted, and that's exactly what an exhibition should do. In Victorian times, Lieutenant Holman had people queuing to pay respect to his resting place. Shame his gravestone is almost invisible now but, thanks to The Friends of Highgate Cemetery, we will always know where he is.

It was thanks to the work of volunteers that the cemetery, which fell into decline from the 30s to the 70s, was brought back to its splendour after years and years of neglect, wild parties and tombs-lifting. Of course their activities continue today and, after so much research and delving into the past, the stories they have to tell really are fascinating. One oddity: on the way back to the West wing entrance, not far from Faraday's grave, there is a house right in the cemetery's premises. Either because of a great admiration for Frank Lloyd Wright or an unbelievable nonchalance for privacy, it's all glass and concrete: the living spying on the dead and vice-versa. While our group timidly approached, strangely dressed figures were wandering behind the windows, minding their own business. The property is for sale and, as the Sunday Times goes, "morbid sense of humour is a must."

E Allora Ditelo.

Sono stata ottimista.
Ho pensato che cercando su Google "Marco Columbro" mi sarebbe apparsa una foto della sua celebre espressione basita, quando nei gloriosi anni '90 lancio' l'indimenticabile tormentone del E allora ditelo!
Ovviamente tale foto manca, ma in compenso mi dovrebbero spiegare perché, invece, mi compaiono immagini di ragazze in tanga. Misteri della rete.

Da quando mi sono trasferita in Inghilterra, ho riscoperto la potenza di questa dimenticata espressione idiomatica, di cui penso non esista la traduzione in Inglese. Non esiste per un motivo particolare: non e' una risposta contemplabile, e ora vado a spiegarvi il motivo di cotanto animato post.

Situazione tipo: stai organizzando una mostra con altre quattro persone.
Non poteva esserci altra situazione tipo visto che il Blog si basa interamente su questo, barcamenandosi tra Inglese, Italiano, pochissimo tempo per scrivere e una necessaria autocensura.
Tornando alla mostra, va scritto il comunicato stampa e trovato un titolo definitivo: si fa la riunione. Oh, c'e' una persona che non può venire, ma che promette di appoggiare qualsiasi scelta sarà fatta. Benissimo!
Si opta per un titolo, si sottopone al supervisore che puntualmente lo rigetta. Inizia un tete-a-tete via email con il suddetto supervisore per trovare qualcosa di più appropriato. Fatta la proposta, la sottoscritta (che si e' presa l'oneroso incarico delle PR), manda email ai colleghi con il nuovo titolo che ha già riscontrato l'approvazione del supervisore.
"Fatemi sapere che cosa ne pensate, please", perché ovviamente vige la libera opinione, la democrazia e tutti quei buoni propositi la'. Due settimane di silenzio, arriva il giorno della spedizione del comunicato stampa. Si fa un'altra riunione ed ecco come se ne esce la stessa persona che l'ultima volta era assente: "Non mi ricordo di aver approvato questo titolo. Possiamo sceglierne un altro?" Al che io guardo gli altri tre con gli occhi di fuori e, chi più e chi meno, timidamente la appoggiano:
"Beh, si, in effetti non e' che questo titolo abbia molto senso..."
"Eh, lo penso anch'io."
"In effetti cambiamolo!"
"Eh, ragazzi..." faccio io "...sapete come funziona coi comunicati: o partono due settimane prima o non se ne fa niente..." Prendo un grosso respiro e aggiungo: "Inoltre, non ve ne potevate uscire due settimane fa, quando ho mandato la mail chiedendo cosa ne pensavate?" Che tradotto sarebbe: E ALLORA DITELO! No?

L'Inglese DOC a questo punto già ti guarda male.
Si, perche' qui e' maleducazione dire a qualcuno che una cosa non ti piace o non ha senso, pero' ha più senso fermare un'intera "campagna di marketing" (metto fra virgolette perché in finale siamo cinque studenti sfigati che studiano per diventare curatori) perché alla fine il modo si trova. Più subdolamente.
Certo e' che, dopo tre anni, avrei dovuto imparare che il "silenzio stampa" da parte dei tuoi colleghi non presagisce nulla di buono.
Avrei dovuto capire che "it's not too bad" in realtà' vuol dire "fa davvero schifo."
Anche un aggiornamento sulle moderne imprecazioni in lingua Inglese non sarebbe stato troppo sbagliato.

Ogni volta la stessa storia e, ogni volta, ho visioni della faccia esasperata di Columbro, circondato da giovani ragazze in fiore che ballano in bikini, che pronuncia la fatidica frase con i coretti di sottofondo.

Get LOST: Matthew Fox dal piccolo schermo alle tre pareti

C'e' un motivo per cui Londra e' la patria del gossip: ci sono piu' star internazionali a piede libero qui che alla notte degli Oscar. 

Sei al lavoro e ti entra Bill Nighy, mentre Amy Winehouse e il suo casco di banane per capelli fanno le loro sporadiche apparizioni dal vicino dentista. Una mattina si e dieci no ti imbatti in Noel Gallagher, con cui ormai scambi un conviviale 'ood 'Morning. Le inaugurazioni delle mostre sono talvolta allietate da visioni di Orlando Bloom e Jude Law. E a teatro ti ritrovi nientepopodimenoche' il Dottor Jack Shepard, la star di Lost, vero nome Matthew Fox.

Lo ammetto, sono andata per vedere lui, non perche' sapessi chi fosse Neil LaBute, che tra l'altro mi si e' rivelato essere un grandissimo misogino. In a Forest Dark and Deep parla della rivalita' tra fratelli, in questo caso tra fratello e sorella. Lei, che tra l'altro e' Olivia Williams (la moglie di Bruce Willis ne "Il Sesto Senso"), deve traslocare dalla baita di campagna e chiama il fratello per farsi aiutare.
L'avesse mai fatto. Dopo dieci minuti che Fox e' in scena, stappa lattine di birra, fa finta di mettere libri dentro gli scatoloni e dice tre parole e quattro fuck, si capisce che la serata finira' tutt'altro che a tarallucci e vino. Billy, il suo personaggio, non solo non aiuta, ma inizia tutta una serie di recriminazioni che, alla fine, portano a scoprire lo "stile di vita" segreto della sorella che, a detta sua, e' meschina e manipolatrice. Lei, Betty, a parte il provare a dire "adesso pero' basta" si piglia di tutto senza neanche tirargli appresso una padella ma solo un paio di strofinacci pure puliti.

E che avra' mai fatto questa povera donna per attirarsi le ire funeste del fratello?
Fa l'insegnante, quindi ha tre mesi di vacanze l'anno: sbagliato. Billy fa il manovale, un lavoro vero.
Ops, si scopre che tradisce il marito: immorale. Pure li Fox si e' prodotto nelle imprecazioni piu' incredibili, inclusa: "suppongo che l'unico uomo del circondario che non ti sei scopato sono io." Caruccio. Andando avanti con la trama, che si sviluppa in equilibrio precario tra questi esplua' maschili e una tenue difesa femminile, viene fuori anche la ragione per cui Betty deve traslocare: il suo amante era uno studente. Era? Si, perche' e' morto. Come e' morto? Ha avuto un incidente.
Ah. E volete sapere come va a finire? Dopo aver vinto i Campionati Mondiali di Predicozzo Fino allo Sfinimento, Billy decide finalmente di aiutare la sorella pasticciona. Perche'? Perche' in effetti l'ha ammazzato lei, lo studente, che aveva deciso di mollarla (ops, forse non dovevo scriverlo. È uno spoiler grosso come una casa!) Al che suppongo il pubblico si aspetti di vedere calare la scure, viste quante glie ne ha dette in precedenza. Ma no, situazione troppo seria per girare il dito nella piaga, il senso fraterno prende il sopravvento.

Non vi sembra una piece teatrale un po' assurda? Conosco una persona che l'avrebbe scritta cento volte meglio. Niente da dire sugli attori: Fox e Williams reggono due ore di monologhi, botta e risposta, tensioni e oggetti che volano per la scena, incluso uno schedario di metallo. No, non un raccoglitore, proprio un mobiletto di quelli pesanti. E, non contenti, all'uscita dal backstage si intrattengono anche con i fans, firmando autografi e facendo foto.
Si, ho fatto pure quello, in nome di tutte le ore passate a guardare Lost e a fare il tifo per Jack. Ho questa "policy" personale di rompere le scatole il meno possibile ai famosi, ma ho un marito che si lascia trascinare e che quindi si e' fatto autografare un libro sui Buchi Neri appena comprato, ha girato un video col suo telefonino del 1902 e ha cercato di spingermi a fare una foto insieme a lui, che ho rifiutato.
"Dai, vagli vicino!"
"Ma nooo..."
"Dai, che faccio la foto!"
"Ma dai, poraccio..."
In quel momento mi e' sembrato un animale raro, tirato a destra e a sinistra, e ho davvero rispettato la sua pazienza. Poi ho scoperto che ha una moglie Italiana, e probabilmente ha capito tutto quello che dicevamo. Ops.

Nota: in Inglese, "get lost" significa "sparisci, levati di torno". Un gioco di parole decisamente rivolto al personaggio creato da LaBoute, che speriamo sia venuto fuori solo in un momento di estrema frustrazione verso il genere femminile!

Il Vecchio Maglione

Ethel felt strange in the old house. She had imagined it would be comfortably familiar, like a pair of boots that have taken the shape of the feet that have worn them for years. But in fact she was vaguely uneasy. It seemed more like the home of familiar old neighbours (...) She did not feel that this was her place.

Ken Follett, Fall of Giants,
London: Macmillian 2010, p. 437

Come riescono a cogliere nel segno, i grandi scrittori.

Ci sono enormi cambiamenti nella vita di ognuno di noi, ma spesso non se ne coglie la grande portata che a poco a poco. Quando uno si sposa sa che deve andare via dalla casa in cui e' cresciuto, ma forse non si aspetta la tempesta di sentimenti che lo accolgono ogni volta che vi fa ritorno. Se poi, come me, ti sei trasferita all'estero subito dopo il matrimonio, perfino la città in cui sei nata fa lo stesso effetto, e a volte l'anima si contorce nel balletto delle definizioni, di cosa chiamare casa.

Proprio l'estate scorsa, mentre guidavo di nuovo la macchina sulla Cristoforo Colombo (un'azione così familiare da cancellare in un momento tutta la mia vita parallela nella Perfida Albione), mi e' venuta in mente la metafora del vecchio maglione. Ken Follett, uno dei miei scrittori preferiti, ha scelto di spiegare un sentimento di confortevole familiarità con una scarpa vecchia che prende la forma del piede che l'ha portata; io, in risposta a chi mi chiedeva che effetto mi faceva tornare a casa, ho detto che Roma mi dava l'idea di un vecchio maglione che hai portato per anni e anni e poi hai chiuso in un armadio, totalmente incapace di buttarlo via; ancora bello perché pieno di ricordi, ma fuori moda, diverso da cosa si e' diventati. Un indumento che e' stato e sempre sarà parte di te ma non ti rappresenta più.

Credo che tutto questo riguardi il crescere, in generale. Una cosa di cui spesso si ha paura, perché quando si abbandona ciò che e' familiare ci si ritrova da soli a contare sulle proprie forze, e devo ammettere che non sempre si ha la voglia. 

Il tornare in questi luoghi fa bene al cuore e allo stesso tempo stordisce, fa fare il punto della situazione, tira dentro paragoni e alla fine ti lascia un po' svuotata; quando invece ti ritrovi nella terra in cui hai scelto di vivere, che sia momentaneamente o forse no, si riscivola nella routine e lentamente si crede di dimenticare.

Yesterday

There are some days when everything goes wrong.

It starts with one event, and then the chain of bad luck follows, like it was called by some sort of jinx sorority. But, there also are days when exactly the opposite happens.

First, it started with a dear friend of mine giving me a great news: he has a girlfriend. Actually, he did pronounce the word "engaged", but didn't exactly tie the knot since they've been going out for just a couple of weeks...and been knowing each other since childhood. I was so happy for him. After five or so years of being single, spent trying to forget the only girl who broke his heart, who's now happily married and with child, he merrily tells me that he has fallen in love again. 

I kept on telling him, it will eventually come to you one day if you only stopped searching...love is always unexpected.

Secondly, in the afternoon I had one of those experiences that throw you back in...well...sixteen years' time in the space of a second. A famous pop star popped in my workplace.

One of those people you worshipped when you were sixteen and, despite this made you the joke of your male friends and the desperation of your parents, you still remember the times spent singing the songs over and over and hopelessly waiting outside an hotel with your mates as really good fun. 

Not "the best times of your life", no...those would have come later.

I remember the frustration, though. That of spending so much time trying to see a person in a context that wasn't a gig without actually succeeding. You know, closer look, not just the miniature, big screen or TV version. Well, yesterday, without any advance notice, he was right in front of me.

At the beginning I thought OK, I can handle this (after having pinched hard my poor colleague's leg as soon as he stepped in). Couldn't really control heartbeats, sweating hands and - hopefully unnoticed - rash reactions, though. Damn, I thought I was a mature grown-up woman, but at that very moment I was back a teenager every inch.

"I am just having a look around." He said. 

And I replied with something very intelligent like: "Er...sure."

AskhimifheneedsanyhelpatallforGodssake! 

The result: my colleague maintains that I scared him off and he is never coming back. Just because I collapsed on the floor behind the counter when he left (pathetic, I know) and she claims that he saw me (no, he didn't). Despite losing the dignity, this banal event put a smile on my face: eventually, things come to those who can wait.

Precisely, there it arrived an email at the end of the day:

"Your exhibition proposal has been accepted." 

A curator friend of mine once quoted a passage from "By Nightfall", a novel by Michael Cunningham. 

It was a conversation between someone who wanted to become a curator and someone else, who compared the choice to that of wanting to become a movie star: obviously very few succeed.

True, but some do succeed the first character replied.

Well, that "yes" was coming from a Museum I worship and, if I have to draw parallelisms between curatorial and cinematographic careers, this would definitely be compared to being the leading actress in a Fellini movie.

Labels

Conversation in Rome:

A: "Look at you! You definitely are well!"
sy: "Ah, thanks. By the way, I brought something from London: scones! We can have them with mascarpone and marmalade because I had to leave the clotted cream behind..."
A: "Oh, you're so English."

Conversation in London:

B: "Are you having another beer?"
sy: "No thanks, I am fine."
B: "Oh, you're so European."

First of all, HAPPY NEW YEAR! 

To be totally honest with you, I would rather have nailed myself to the old one and let it linger, just a little bit more. I really enjoyed the past year, for which I didn't have great expectations and instead it turned out to be very productive, therefore I am welcoming the new one with a bit of wariness.
But it's just a sensation and will dissipate very quickly, as the division of time in years is just a notion: to comfort myself, I have started to think about time as a continued, uninterrupted flow.
It's up to us to make this new year work, not the stars or the planets' conjunction.

The year 2010 ended accompanied by many sensations.
The ones discussed in the reported conversations, for example. The labels that make you feel an in-betweener. You go home and everyone sees you as very English (??), whereas when you come back to your new home, where you started to feel even more comfortable (!!), here it comes this sort of disillusion. The result is a question: where do you belong now, exactly?
Deep down, you know of course. Then why do you feel so strange, even physically, in your hometown?

About last post and all my purposes, I did respect many: I went around a lot, saw friends and family, wore short sleeved garments which left everyone astonished.

C: "Oh my God, aren't you cold?"
sy: "My dear, it's minus one in London! Here it's 18 degrees!"
C: "You've become so..."
sy: "English, I know. In fact, it's called acclimatization."

The first days were accompanied by too much food and a persistent feeling of dizziness, nausea almost. I blamed it on the fact that the air must be much less polluted in Rome, but as you may imagine such symptoms bring up other kind of speculations, like pregnancy. Smile politely and let your interlocutor know that no, you're taking it easy. Same sentence as last year, of course.

After all of this is gone, you lapse yourself into family and friends cuddles, the true thing that makes you feel home once again. Some of them still ask you what is it that you miss the most. Well, after five minutes thinking, the answer is: definitely this, but unfortunately it's not unbearable anymore.
Not quite, at least.

I will leave you now with some pictures of places. Not the charming alleys of Rome that I so much wanted to visit again (and I did, avoiding the already mentioned traffic jam this time!), but other kind of places with their dense atmosphere.
Places where people come and go, sit comfortably for a while, share life, experiences, leave and come back the day after, or the year after.

Caffe' Necci, Rome

Caffe' Terzi, Bologna

Trattoria Anna Maria, Bologna: all frames contain greetings by very happy clients. No surprise: amazing tortellini.

Trastevere, Rome: please notice the blackboard next to the entrance.

Book store in Trastevere, Rome: I see Jamie Oliver has reached us

Very old Restaurant in Piazza Campo de' Fiori, Rome

I have stolen this last two pictures on a very crowded underground in Rome.
I had to act quickly, and pretend I was just browsing the images on my camera.