Giorgio Morandi

front door to his house

simple furnishings

you can see outlines of where his objects sat,

inscribed into the wood surface,

frozen in time

Spent yesterday with Giorgio Morandi. Well, his shirt and hat were draped over a chair in his house such that I imagined him joining me any minute. He was close as I wandered through his house totally alone (aside from scattered guards) and then through the elegant and extensive museum dedicated to his work. Even there, in the heart of Piazza Maggiore, there was one other woman in the entire place.

And as if his bed, his easel, the treasured objects that appear over and over through decades, were not enough to conjure his presence, seeing those paintings live is like witnessing their birth. Each brush stroke immediate, glistening with intent. I see his mind at work, the basic facts inverting: space becomes solid, objects shatter then recombine. Contradictions lure and lock the gaze. A mystical journey into and within; universal and poignantly personal. What strokes do I make and why?

Though clearly staged, in the Casa Morandi you can see his bedroom, the furniture, how he had it, the windows he looked through daily, and collections of vases and pitchers that twist into still lifes. (Rosalba cracks me up: “No, no Morandi for me - I no like natura morte.”)

Some annoying details were easily overlooked. [text blocks centered at seven feet, flickering, contrived projections onto glass you wished wasn’t there to begin with. I am use to looking up in museums but this was strange and unnecessary.] Had Morandi been consulted, the fellow famous for saying there is really nothing new in the world - it’s all about your position; he would have vetoed these aspects. Or maybe when the light shines on you, values shift.

Writing this brings me back the bread I aim to make each week when home. It is as close as I have gotten so far to religion: regular, nourishing, and rigorous. Extreme limits focus the mind and technique presses forward. I love talking techniques. And speaking of technique, tools are a close cousin. Yesterday I happened upon one of the older art supply stores in Bologna (since 1937 in the same spot) where I floated about, reveling in the colors, choices, papers. Not in an acquiring mode during my turtle phase, (when I need to be able to carry everything I need – okay roll it) I did buy a few pens and a tiny aluminum ruler. They all fit into the leather pouch, a constant itself since 1985.

So the traveling continues: here and there, and ultimately inside. This is the reality, the aim. An email came this morning from an old friend, a poet, an artist. She knows soul searching well and plucks the perfect words, arranges them like flashes of light, deep colors. And then another from a psychic soul who with dense, layered lists doles out insights that might otherwise require months of introspection to see. What more blessing can one envision than people who know you.