Meandering Through the Writings of Others as a Lament Practice: Towers of Tuscany

Lemon Grove Sorrento Italy

Photographer unknown

Back from five-word poems to explorations:

Cram, Caroline. The Towers of Tuscany. 2014.

890 words

The occupation known as painting calls for . . . light enough to escape through the tower window . . .  a way to paint every day . . .  peace *** profound lack of respect . . . *** to be extolled to the ones who enter the profession [of painting] through a severe form of enthusiasm and exaltation *** turned a blue ribbon through the thick black braid that circled her head *** another book quote to begin each chapter *** her new gown pooling around her in a velvet arc of rich blue *** Place a cloth fragrant with lavender over her forehead. *** She would keep the grief to herself, nurturing it like a cut jewel too precious to share. *** The days and months and years stretched ahead with no one left to love and nothing but household cares to fill her days. *** Our Lady would take her and keep her safe. *** She’d like to mix such a color perhaps for a cloak . . . *** The bells of sext turned the endless morning into afternoon. *** She sometimes let herself remember the feel of the brush dipping into the pigment . . . *** What did God want from her? He’d given her the desire to paint . . . *** Her years as a painter had taught her how to work with diligence . . . *** Even Sofia realized that the third vow – obedience – might prove her undoing. *** It was much easier to be the one to do the despising. *** Many months lapsed between the initial preparation of the wood with its numerous layers of gesso gross and gesso sottile . . . *** Sofia caught a whiff of the urine used to prepare the red lac streaking his hands . . .  *** I have nothing. I work when a patron asks me. *** She remembered punching the tiny designs into the gold leaf . . . *** She smiled at the high prices her father had commanded for her work. *** I expect a good crocus crop this fall. *** the sound of the bells for terce . . . *** She pressed her palms into the thick velvet of her gown to stop their shaking . . . *** Willingly she had bound herself to him for life . . . and willingly she would sever that bond. *** She longed to . . . feel the pigment become smooth and liquid beneath her pestle. *** The answer was in God’s hands . . . *** Part Two *** Children raced after the black rats and snarling dogs. *** Fan-shaped swaths of shiny bricks sloped gently upward to a wall of towers . . . *** The shape is meant to resemble the shell of a scallop. *** He taught me how to look, and God gave me the skill to paint what I see. *** We can take care of each other. *** Sofia raised her brush and dipped it into a pot of rose madder. *** a large table and a fine array of silver candlesticks – proof that the painter’s trade in Siena was brisk. *** Mona Giuliana spoke the truth, but that didn’t make it any easier to hear. *** For more complex painting, she used three pots of each color . . . *** In her father’s workshop, she was accustomed to working only when she wished. *** I have a commission for a nativity panel, and you shall do it. *** The only choice was ultramarine blue made for lapis lazuli . . . *** A feeling of peace washed over her like a silk veil. *** You’d miss a dinner to stay and work? *** To have the workshop to herself was an unspeakable luxury . . . *** So if you can’t eat it, wear it, or otherwise use it . . . *** She couldn’t remember a time in her life when she was so content. *** She had never known a woman so fierce and yet so loyal. *** marvelling again at the freedom her disguise afforded her *** She then burnished the panel with a piece of linen. *** She loved working with gold. *** She loaded her brush with terre-verte . . . *** Sofia never imagined her life could be so full. *** The long hours, the poisons in the paint – think what you are doing. *** Even if you were not adequately paid, God and our Lady will reward you for it. *** Salvini enjoyed the give and take of debate. *** the pleasure she took in working on her first fresco . . . *** She bought two new tippets this past month. *** I object to anything that takes me away from my work. *** Many of the pigments we use have noxious qualities. *** mint and lavender, peaches warm and fragrant in the warm summer sun *** a white pavilion completely screened in roses *** But she had no voice. *** What could you have to say? *** When she painted, she was with God. *** She had once been a midwife. *** She again mixed colors and felt the paint flow from her brushes. *** To have been undone by her own work was somehow fitting. ***

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