Wednesday, September 2
Breakfast was bland and British. The only warm was toast, but I assume they will mix it up through the week. I had a great conversation with Chrissy about life, Rembrandt, art and her travels. I am jealous for me and happy for her, but we are both having stellar European vacations. She is my kindred spirit indeed flitting around Europe from art camp to art camp.
AntHony, Jane and Diana (like the Princess as she says) were at my end of the table. Anthony does not know how to pronounce his own name and insists I call him AnTony. I will not. I choose to exaggerate the H at every turn as I enjoy tugging a grin from his tight little British lips.
Jane and Diane are from Wales. I have no idea where exactly that is. They seem live close to each other and went off into chatter about grandchildren and common ground. I am glad they are becoming friends. Chrissy lives on a beach as far as I can discern with a man who has informed her that when he stops loving her he will let her know. This amuses me.
We went up to the studio and did a few clever little exercises with drawings we did around the property. There are two other ladies from the town…I don’t know their names, but surprise! They are also British.
Went to the pool finally and was shocked into paralysis by the coldness of the water! It’s not just a little cool, it’s freaking freezing. It’s not refreshing or stimulating. It’s ridiculously and uncomfortably cold. Regardless, I swam and swam hoping it would warm, and it did, but I think it was my body that warmed it up. AntHony and Chris came in and we had a good giggle. It seems building a pool or anything else in Italy is an absurd dance of protocol and fines. You can dig a hole for a pool but you get fined for moving the earth. Silly Italy.
I think Anthony enjoys his vanity. For an old guy, he is very talI, tanned and well maintained. He wears a tiny blue Speedo which he enjoys parading in it and when we have all been blessed with the visual, he struts to the end of the pool, wraps himself in a regal blue towel and takes up his throne. From there he runs commentary on my swimming, my hair, my volume and anything else that he thinks might provoke a reaction. It’s all ridiculously amusing.
Eventually, I was beckoned out for school, and though I thought I could do as I pleased, I submitted to the authorities and went to class.
We did a charcoal abstract deal, and it felt good to create. Everyone is very good. I like watching the works emerge from the blank canvases. I should mention I had a very hard time finding a sponge for this camp, and now that I am here, I see there is a giant bottle of sponges. For no good reason I am horribly resentful about it.
Chris has dubbed Jane “Sweet Jane.” I have no idea the reference, but it is clearly appropriate and she loves it. Jane, it turns out, is a very girly little thing. She reminds me of a bird. She is a clever bird. When she wants some one, (a man) to do her bidding, like lift a canvas or open a jar, she simply stands in front of the thing, makes a pitiful face and flaps her wings until someone (AntHony or I) comes to her rescue. I have called her on this and she giggled well aware of her power. I shall not lift for Jane again.
I forgot to mention the infamous Freda arrived. I was quite wrong indeed. She is neither Spanish, nor glorious, but she is full of stories and seems to fancy herself quite a bit of work. I like that. She is a hundred or so; spry and small. Between her and AntHony I may reconsider my distaste for aging.
After class everyone seemed to scatter like mice into holes, so I sat on my bench drawing nonsense and talking to you. We are going into town for dinner tonight. I didn’t realize we leave so much. I don’t know if I like field trips or not. Anthony has ordered me to brush my hair. I doubt I will.
Our hosts abandoned us for dinner, but it was nice and Chrissy was outstanding. I was so glad to see these people loosen up a bit. It could have been the wine and if so, I shall buy a case. Jane was giggly and tipsy, Diana was charming and her and AntHony seemed off in their own chatter, while Chrissy and I began writing the play of Dorothea and Guiseppi. I felt bad for Diana as she seems to always end up beside Freda in the van and next to her at dinner. I shall try to save her tomorrow.
Chrissy is very poetic and I am guessing she is an excellent writer. We laughed loud and conjured characters out of the night sky. As there must be ghosts at the home, the play is about star crossed lovers on a chesnut farm, Guiseppi is cuckhold and only Chrissy can say the word with the passion it deserves. The play includes a murder and a hauntingly tragic end for all. It was decided to perform this play on our last night as a parting gift to Kris and Chris. It amuses me they all seem very nervous about that. I know it won’t happen, but the idea is fabulous.
It’s 10pm and once again, the village sleeps. I can hear Jane walking around upstairs and realize I can never go up to the studio at night lest my trouncing bothers his highness below. I will stay up and paint my eggs on my little homework desk.
I can see the stars out my little window and I feel content and happy with the day.
Nite
