Botticelli Blue Skies: An American in Florence

50. The Artist, Her Villa, the Bombs of World War II

A calendar marking the New Year arrives in the mailbox from Esselunga , the largest supermarket chain in Florence, reminding me of last things: the last of the year, the last of our last few days in Florence. In less than a week, we will be packing up to go home to America. I remember with amazement that I didn’t want to leave my home, my bed, my mother, my country. Now, my fear of Italy having vanished, I most definitely don’t want to leave my life here, this glorious city, my friends, the view from my roof terrace, my comforting basket-bed, and all the foods of Italy made into art on my supermarket calendar. For even the food ads in Italy are art. The pictures representing each month of the coming year are illustrated in glowing colors: the first month, Gennaio, presents a scallion upside down with roots flailing like Einstein’s hair. Its caption reads “Scienziato o cipolla?” (Scientist or onion ?). Febbraio offers two arched bananas: “Delfini o banane?” (Dolphins or bananas?). Marzo shows floating upside-down red onions: “Mongolfiere o cipolle?” (Hot-air balloons or onions?). Aprile features peas and their pods shaped like dragonflies: “Libellule o piselli?” (Dragonflies or peas?) The rest of the months continue, “Tennis balls or grapefruit ?” “Rugby or melon?” “Tulips or red peppers?” “Mouse or radish ?” “Seals or eggplants?” “Hedgehog or chestnut?” and finally, for 264 50 The Artist, Her Villa, the Bombs of World War II Dicembre, a triangle of peanuts and holly berries in the shape of a tree: “Buon Natale.” Art and Italy are words that go together like love and marriage. To me, art is this calendar, is the view of the Arno from my window and the clouds bunched like downy thrones above the cypress trees on the hills. Art is the way the foam of milk swirls on the cup of cappuccino, the way the swallows fly from the bell towers when the bells are rung, the reflections of the Duomo in the puddles of water after a heavy rain. Sometimes I watch the woman across the courtyard hanging her husband’s shirts to dry, her way of alternating colors, arranging the collars and sleeves just so, having them face all one way so that when puffs of wind blow them outward, they are like a chorus line, dancing. There is an aesthetic at work here on every level, in nature, in architecture, in food (especially in food)—art as evident in life as it is in the paintings of the museums and the sculptures of the piazzas. Though my kitchen utensils are very spare and utilitarian, I find in the back of a cabinet, just these few days before we leave Italy, the most beautiful hand-painted pasta bowl, brilliant with purple and yellow flowers—a capacious and elegant showcase for a pot of cooked capellini or tortellini. It’s as if my countess landlady had bought it preparing for royalty. And, indeed, perhaps anyone who eats in Italy is royalty. Art is on my mind. We now have an invitation to visit Flavia Colacicchi , Cornelia’s friend, widow of the artist Giovanni Colacicchi, whose works hang in the Pitti Palace. At age eighty-three, Cornelia tells me, Flavia is not often feeling well enough to work. Joe and I are invited to tea with her tomorrow afternoon. Cornelia will pick us up at the last stop of the #14 bus and drive us to the villa. A large and energetic Dalmatian dog is in the yard to greet us as we drive through the stone gates and up the gravel path. A young man (quite good-looking, I can’t help but notice) comes out of the house to quiet his barking. “He is the art student who boards with her,” Cornelia explains. Botticelli Blue Skies 265 “Since the death of her husband, she rents a room in the villa to an art student each year. Her son—who is also an artist—and his family live in the adjoining villa, but Flavia stays mostly to herself.” “I hope she understands English,” I confess. “You know how little Italian I speak.” “I think she knows a little English,” Cornelia tells me. “But we always speak in Italian, so I really don’t know. I may have to act as interpreter.” The villa is like so many of the houses in...