Enrico

Long ago as if it were a dream,  I was fortunate enough to live in the wonderfully crazy country of Italy.  Where so many of my ancestors went before me, I thought it would be a welcoming home. The world was my oyster I just hadn't figured out yet that I was the pearl.

 I stayed with a married couple that I had met while traveling there with my family.  Sandra and Renzo had generously offered up their lovely home for a free place to stay if I ever wanted to return. I jumped on the opportunity.  The day after I graduated from art school I flew to Italy with an open mind, and no real plan. The town where Sandra and Renzo live is a small town a few minutes off the Versilian coast of Tuscany.  Located in the upper chin area of the boot.  I found myself in the small town of Nocchi in the provence of Lucca, off the beaten path, tucked away in the foothills.  When I say small town I mean like one bar, and the women gather to wash their clothes in the icy cold waters of the running stream.  The streets are cobbled, curvy and tight.  An occasional Vespa flies by, men and women in there 70's and 80's still ride their bicycles into town to pick up a loaf of bread. Here at Sandra and Renzo's I managed to learn a few words of Italian, ho fame - sono pieno - I am hungry, I am full, molto grazie! thank you  very much! I learned how to plant basil and then make pesto and slowly recovered over a broken heart that  left  me wounded from the previous school year past.  There's always that one love that penetrates your soul and crushes you to the point you can't eat and your heart aches in such a heavy, pathetic way you just want to curl up and die - well this was the one. After staying in the town of Nocchi for several weeks it appeared to Sandra that I wasn't immersing myself enough into the culture or my surroundings and what all it had to offer.  I guess you could say I was spending a lot of time writing letters and doodling up in the bedroom.  I am embarrassed now to say I was somewhat intimidated by the language barrier. The Italians are friendly gregarious out going people, I will give them that but they aren't really known for speaking english, and why should they this was their country after all. I needed to start learning Italian if I was going to get anywhere.  Sandra is a New Zealander so she spoke fluent English.  She is  also a go getter that knows a lot of people,  she suggested  I meet Enrico.

Enrico, is a sculptor and I would learn later that he was very accomplished artist and adept to many kinds of mediums, fearless and most of all a great teacher. Before meeting him  Sandra mentioned that he had lost his arm during and accident when he was a boy but that hadn't stopped him from being a productive creative artistic person.  Well Sandra was wise beyond her years, always seeing into things and anticipating the future. Savvy and eternally generous, I will be forever indebted to her.  She drove me to Enrico's one day and this is where our friendship began.  It's hard to say what all was going on in my mind at the time.  I was slightly overwhelmed and liked the idea of a mentor.  I also wanted to learn how to carve marble... I was staying in a region that was known for centuries for carving and having the best marble quarries in the world.  This was Italy for crying out loud! Still, I was unfamiliar with the protocol of how you go about learning, where you get the tools and the general cost of things.  I still was within the student mind set. So I was thankful to have a teacher, even if he did only have one arm and didn't speak the same language as me. He was going to  show me the ropes.

When I met Enrico I wasn't prepared to see a good looking man. I had expected an older pot belly gruff and bristled  sort of Italian man.  Enrico had long wavy dark hair, was fit, broad shouldered and had a beautiful smile. The kind of smile that makes you forget about everything. You are just there in the moment, most likely smiling too.  He did not where a prosthesis arm when I met him, his right arm was missing from the elbow down.    He was 10 or so years my senior, married and had two little kids. His son was named JR after the famous JR Ewing TV show Dallas.  His daughter was named Claudia.  A long time went by before I ever meet his wife.

I would meet at his house a couple times a week.  He lived in a pseudo-industrial area where there were commercial buildings that ran along side  the main road that went into town.  Along the back side of the buildings were  hills overgrown with pine and chestnut trees. Enrico rented part of a building where him and his family lived in the back.  There was enough space to have a small garden and a couple of Turkeys.  The Turkeys were kept in a fenced area, and gobbled occasionally when Enrico made turkey calls out to them.  His studio was set up outside, weather permitting in various stations. Even though it was somewhat industrial, there was a homey feel to the place. Largely due to the fact that there was art everywhere. There were sculptures of moon faces, boys and girls laughing and crying, potted geraniums and begonias along side bubbling fountains.   I remember thinking how is this man going to show me how to carve marble with only one arm?  In the beginning we made small conversations about where I lived, what I liked and how to pronounce words. His kids fondly looked on in the background giggling with peering eyes.  I am sure I was a curiosity to them.  I remember once while learning how to burnish clay with a spoon, I called out rather loud and most incorrectly COOK- Kie -I- OH cucchiaio,  which means spoon but I botched it badly and Enrico, JR and Claudia had a good laugh.  So be it, I thought if I am going to be the brunt of their jokes why should I care I was having great fun too learning, laughing,  forgetting about my broken heart and most of all being creative.

The days went on while Enrico and I played under the sun with  terra cotta clay. The wonderful orange clay of Italy which means cooked earth.  I configured an obelisk  OH - Bell- LISKO! This Obelisco of sorts has a bass relief of a man and a women on it.  I dug this object up the other day. It was down in the basement on a shelf where I have my other objects of art and what nots.  Other wise stuff I don't know what to do with,  too sentimental I have kept it all these years.  After dusting it off I have to chuckle at my attempts at art and the results being just that honest art.  I gazed upon the images that I had created.  A young girl stands humble, slightly slouched.  A man stands amongst the shapes, square, circle and a triangle shooting into space.  Another women holds a globe in her hands.  All of these little naive vignettes are so telling and most of all revealing of a time and place.  Where there were young, humble and naive beginnings and I had the world in the palm of my hands.  Unfettered and basically free.

When the day finally came that I learned how to carve marble I was amazed once again by the clever, tenacious ways of a determined artist.  Enrico, explained to me that  a pneumatic hammer was called a martello.  A martello is a phallic looking metal hollow shaft that you insert your chisels into.  It is powered by an air compressor  when engaged it vibrates, buzzes and thumps giving you more power to chip away at the stone in front of you.  Yes, typically it is two handed endeavor.  You grasped the martello in the palm of your hand holding on tightly while you hold the chisel with your other hand and place it inside of the martello.  Enrico had fashioned a handle that stuck out of the side of the martello and this is where he shoved his elbow or what was left of his arm.  Some how he was able to push and keep the tools all engaged.  The dust was flying, chips were coming off and the stone was taking on it's form.  With the tools that lay beside me Enrico showed me the details.  How grooves were  made, smooth edges, sharp lines and textures came together the world was opening up right in front of me.

As the summer sun went into the horizon earlier and earlier the days grew cooler and shorter.  It was becoming apparent that my days were numbered with Enrico. He had already showed me how to make a grecian pot look old and patch it up with auto body putty  if need be.  I now knew how to properly use a martello and was ready to move on to the big town, the artists colony where all the artist lived and stayed Pietrasanta.



 I did finally meet his wife I have forgotten her name now. I think she was very curious of me I came for dinner one night and it was awkward.  Before dinner, off in the distance there was a lot of screaming between  Enrico and her.  I was starting to feel un-welcomed.   Dinner was a rigid affair but we all remained civil.  I muttered on in my broken Italian about where I was from Kansas City that the food was very good multo bono and tried to be appreciative.  I was most likely a threat to Enrico's wife. To her relief we would never meet again.

The last time I saw Enrico he had offered me a ride to my new apartment in Pietrasanta.  I was pretty proud of it and needed the ride as well.  For the first time he wore his prosthesis arm, he brought his daughter Claudia with him.  We drove into town it was only about 10 minutes away. He parked the car about half way down the street from where I lived on Via Stagio.  The sun was setting and there was a definite chill in the air the kind of chill that only fall can bring when you know everything is going to change, as it did.  We stood out side the huge 20 foot green double doors to my ancient apartment building.  I told him   nervously this is where I lived now and thanked him for everything.   We shivered and smiled awkwardly, Enrico wore a pale yellow short sleeved polo, we both needed to be wearing jackets but had none.  He said goodbye and walked off down the road with his daughter as I slipped into the dark, cavernous entry way to my apartment building.  I never saw him or his family again.

During the final days  of my studies at Enrico's he  once showed me his antique coin collection.  I was impressed with the enormity of it and all the hands of time that have touched, fallen and since faded to dust but the coins still remain.  The little Roman faces and laurel wreaths, winged and stamped each with their own patina. To hold the coins, however ephemeral it was I went back... to a fleeting street, a dirt road a colorful robe a leather satchel. They really were magical.  He gave me a set of brass medallions that he had made with astrological signs on them.  I picked Aquarius and Gemini because I liked the images.  I now hang them off of a set of lamps as a decorative notion- a reminder.   He gave me a brass hand etched and signed  Enrico bracelet. I also have one of his  terra cotta mask that looked very Etruscan and mysterious.  I accidently broke it, it fell off the shelf in my porch and landed on the hard concrete floor.  I kept the tiny fragments all these years. Finally I played archeologist and methodically glued it back together and placed it in the garden to age like a cherished relic. He showed me an album of photos filled with all the women he knew or dated, they were beautiful women with long flowing dark hair, sitting on rocks out in nature, by the sea squinting in the sun,  there were a lot of them.  All these things I have kept for their memories and their aesthetics.  Something to piece back together - I imagine. To create the story all over again, but this time the perspective is different.  Sometimes there are  people that come into your life and give you so much but it takes you another quarter of a lifetime to truly appreciate them. They always say hind sight is 20/ 20.  Well 23 years have gone by and this is what I have gathered.  A lovely memory of naivety, strength and artistic vision.  Maybe someday I will be able to re-pay back to society  or to a non suspecting individual  and give them a similar gift this is what I will hope for and aspire to.