Bergamo Alta and Milan: December, 2015
A glass of wine, too,
holds a poetry
suggests a story –
or a least a scene.
White and fragrant the first.
From the North.
Delicate, fresh. Romantic! And so set the scene…
Soft laughter carried lightly
on a summer breeze, playfully moves across the neck
and through the hair of the young girl falling in love
And then dances around the boy
whose longing, loving eyes wrap around her.
The guests rejoice and the quartet plays on in the background,
The two, deliriously oblivious to all but their own beauty in love.
The second, a robust red. Bold, yet elegant.
Much loved paintings above a fireplace come to mind.
A meeting, a flurry of movement, horses and hounds
before the hunt, or the crusade.
And another, the raucous gathering around the wood table and open
fire, sharing of tales, swilling of beer, smoking of pipes.
In the background, the horses, led to the stables across
a cobbled piazza.
Thoughts dance on from these images…
You know, I am a fan of sitting on a milk crate outside a seaside fish and chip joint
on a hot summer’s evening, hot chips in newspaper… few things better..
But today I feel, slowly walking the cobbled streets of an old 12th century walled city, high up on a mountain in Northern Italy,
enveloped by a quiet thick fog,
that these buildings, so painstakingly crafted from an understanding
of elegance, simplicity and something noble,
that this, this heals the wounds caused by a shallow plastic modernity,
and takes me back to old, old memories.
Of security, comfort, warmth and loveliness
In a childhood moment. Many moments truth be told.
What comes to mind in this place, on this cobbled narrow street in Italy, is an armchair in a loungeroom in Australia.
A sacred space, where I am engulfed, almost consumed, by an enormous beautiful
old armchair, reading for hours and hours
as the rain falls outside –
knowing that all was right and well in the world.
Dad, almost always, outside doing garden jobs with his gumboots on right there in the rain,
Getting about with his favourite thick-knitted jumper with the suede elbow patches,
And when he’d come in for lunch I could smell, with so much satisfaction, the mix of wool and rain in the jumper as he’d give me a hug, the rough wool scratching my cheek. I’d breathe that smell in so deeply. I can remember it clearly as I write it now. Mum in the kitchen putting on the water to boil for the Saturday lunch ritual of spaghetti bolognese, hers, the best I’d ever tasted.
And perhaps a bit of Don McLean, Fleetwood Mac, Sinead O’Connor, Mozart or Beethoven through those so beautifully crafted and enormous lounge room speakers. Don McLean. “Chain Lightning”… that was the name of the song. I’d put it on in the dark, on repeat, on a stormy night… wow, what a song that was; in that room, in that dark, with that storm.
That was a beautiful room. My favourite. My haven. Especially on rainy days. Piano down one end – the mahogany desk at the other, big windows opposite my armchair with golden plush curtains, white soft carpet, polished wood chess board coffee table. What a space they provided for us to grow up in. Funny, even at that age, I really appreciated the objects they chose for that room. Funny to think of a little kid, very satisfied with their parents’ choice in furniture, and I liked too that they took their time to fill it, to find exactly the piece which pulled them in, which struck their individual sensibilities. I really examined those pieces of furniture well, I still see them so clearly, I remember the materials and how it all felt against my skin, and pleased my eyes - 35 years on. The question is, what is this love that comes for some objects and not others? I could write an ode to many a beautiful object. A chair, a building, a glass of wine, an aeroplane, an enormous ship, an old farm gate, a painting, a magical piece of jewellery, a hat…. Whether it is a soft, simple loveliness, or an overwhelming majestic feat of ingenuity in construction, the physical in itself does not explain the allure. Many have questioned the mysterious power of art and design. What causes the appreciation in us? The understanding which satisfies me as it is simple and feels ‘just so’, is that they are infused with the spirit of Beauty and Love, that came forth ‘through’ and therefore, in part, ‘from’ he or she who designed or crafted it and therefore the object carries these Spirits. If we understand Beauty and Love as spirits and energies (or even if we don’t understand a thing!) our spirit interacts with it, consciously or not. But we really can consciously interact with it and a dialogue commences between us. Beauty awakens with our gaze and appreciation, and responds by sending Love. And we all move through life in this way, loving and appreciating nature and art and music, in our own way, creating more Love, by participating in the dance, the mutual recognition of loveliness, the allegory of the mirror.