The Watcher
In July of 1955 I boarded a steamer for Europe. This year abroad was documented in sketches, photographs, and many pages written on this Olivetti 22 portable typewriter, bought in Florence, Italy, a constant friend thanks to which I can now share with you Europe (and myself) of 1955-56, so keep reading. Inspiration is sometimes…
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The Watcher: Vezelay
Leo was back and we began our pilgrimage of Romanesque churches. Vezelay. It is July. Hotel Le Cheval Blanc overlooks the valley where at noon each olive tree is cradled in its shadow. We can’t wait to see Sainte Marie Madeleine. Not the façade of the abbey church but the narthex evoking Bernard of Clairvaux,…
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The Watcher: Germany
For my Kreuznach relatives my trip was regarded as a natural step in my educational process. My field may be art history, but I’m afraid I didn’t feel drawn to the truly scholarly way where regardless of what else of interest the town might hold, all that mattered was the one painting by the artist…
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The Watcher: Florence
A quiet car until Bologna. My fellow travelers were an interesting group, to be observed as they observed me. All men and all Italians, except for a tall thin American. An older mustachioed man in an air force uniform, two fat, short typical businessmen, a young priest, slender like a reed, a small tired-looking man.…
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Boat On The Arno
A lonely boat floats on the reflections in the slow-flowing silveryArno. Every morning the man lowers his long-handled shovel into thewater, a proboscis feeding on the sand, then to be disgorged on thebottom of the boat. Behind him, many of the buildings, facades lost tothe all-too-recent war, reveal their innermost secrets. Upstream alatticework cast-iron arch, replacing…
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The Watcher: Florence continued II
The days passed punctuated by moments of sun and of fog. Yet I was not as alone in Italy as I had been in Germany, despite relatives. Wherever I looked, there were long-standing friends, somehow soul mates, the pink and yellow toy houses in the hills, the rows of dark cypresses, exclamation points indicating a…
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The Watcher: Florence continued III
I watched. I wondered if I could call them friends. Acquaintances was, perhaps, a better word. Some did though become real friends. Like il Dottore. I had been going through some papers to find an address – I must say I hate to throw papers of whatever kind away, including grocery lists – when a…
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The Watcher: Rome
Rome, December 1955 Florence is a Renaissance city, a misura d’uomo, of human dimension. But Italy is more than Florence and that is what I wanted to discover now. Easier said than done. Rome was so much larger than I thought – so very large, even compared to New York. Strange, the smaller a city,…
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The Watcher: Rome continued II
One morning I decided I would try to find the Tombs of the Via Latina. I walked and everyone I asked said oh, just a little further on. Soon the level of the rooftops dropped and small houses began to nudge each other, jostle rooftops, forming a village of dirt streets and open running water…
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The Watcher: Rome continued III
I was late. I should have been in Santa Maria in Trastevere half an hour ago. And now I could find no sign of Roger. The church was shrouded in darkness. The saints marching across the gold mosaic under the eaves were quiet and withdrawn. Inside a sermon was in progress. I entered silently and…
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The Watcher: Sicily
Sicily February 1956 The boat for Sicily left in the evening. After watching the lights of Naples fade in the distance, I ate a good dinner and then slept till dawn. Sunrise and rocks on the horizon turned into the mountains of Sicily. Steep and stony, except for a beach and a plain that was…
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The Watcher: Sicily continued II
Monreale One didn’t need the Pied Piper’s flute to be surrounded by children. A camera would do, but a sketch book was even better. People were sometimes suspicious of a camera –not sure what was being photographed. And perhaps still felt that a photograph took part of their soul. But they loved to watch the…
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The Watcher: Sicily continued III
Palermo puppet theater I was told that somewhere in Palermo there was a puppet theater. But it seemed elusive, hard to track down. I thought I could ask at the corner bar near the pensione. The owner knew me by now – a blue-eyed man with thinning wispy hair, sort of tired looking as Sicilians…
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The Watcher: Sicily continued IV
Goodbye Monreale If Monreale were a village in the middle of the jungle, I should probably get along more easily. But here in such close proximity to culture, or signs of culture, it was too easy to expect of others the same careless acceptance of things learned long ago and now hidden as if behind…
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The Watcher: Sicily continued V
Sicily, a land of contrasts: Agrigento The bare mountains around Palermo gave way to valleys and more rocks, a harsh wildness sweetened by the soft blush blossoms of the almond. There was a fierceness and a starkness to the land yet it was covered with flowers, stalks of pale stars, small white and purple blossoms…
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The Watcher: Sicily continued VI
Although Piazza Armerina was rather out of the way, Andrea insisted that we make a detour. Most people went there for the girls in bikinis decorating the mosaic pavement, so modern yet centuries old. But I discovered other things there as well. The male torso in the ruins left me breathless, so strong and beautiful…
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The Watcher: Sicily continued VII
Taormina Again a town, and again, a people to discover. The soldiers on the bus from the railroad station to the town itself were singing the songs of the Alpine troops. Perhaps it depended on the time of year, but the doors of Taormina seemed perpetually closed, jealously hiding their life behind the stone walls…
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The Watcher: Sicily continued VIII
Milan and family The train approached Milan. The land was flat, a strange jumbled chessboard of green and yellow. The corners of the fields were all square. The violence of the Sicilian sun had abated. But here too the wheat was already bleached and reminded me of Van Gogh with the red of the poppies…
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The Watcher: Sicily continued IX
Campino Because I was a friend of one of their families, I was somehow not a stranger in Campino. It was a tiny village up in the mountains. Including the chickens, there were perhaps 150 inhabitants. Threaded between the houses with their thick stone walls and heavy stone roofs were narrow pathways and under passageways,…
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Erika Bizzarri 