Take a Selfless

In the age of selfies I was tickled when a 16-year old student wanted to use me as a model to sell her pants online. It's nice to know teens can't solve all of their problems alone in their bedrooms with their phones. Sometimes the unorthodox English teacher is called to assist.
   
Like any good photo shoot, Matilde crawled on the floor and climbed on chairs looking for the right angle and I reluctantly struck every ridiculous pose she requested. Her hours of research on how to take photos of her friends in the high school bathroom had paid off. She'd made me look five pounds thinner and the pants looked so good I considered buying them myself.

Although technique plays an important role in photography, it's not everything. A perfect shot isn't always the result of timing, the right light, a good eye or a thousand tries. Sometimes it involves a sixth sense.

Two of the best photos of me were taken by people that barely knew me. The photographers didn't crawl or climb. They just pointed and shot and captured the Kodak moments.

The first one was in Japan in 2001. I'd met a German boy twenty years my junior in Tokyo. Three days and 280 miles later he found me sitting at a temple in Kyoto and said, "Give me your camera. I think you're going to like this picture." I allowed one shot. I wasn't willing to waste film on a silly thing like me writing in my journal. I didn't fluff my hair or move my leg to make it appear more like a rifle than a cannon. What he saw was what he shot. And when I got back to Chicago and developed the film what I got was the most zenlike photo of the trip.

The second photo was taken recently by a new Moldavian friend in the mountains. On a run one morning my quick stop to say hello turned into orange juice on a glass tray with a crocheted doily. The juice was in a wine glass (just the way I like my Diet Coke) and next to her tiny coffee cup there was a pot of honey (she puts a spoonful on her tongue and then drinks her coffee over it).  

As I sat on her stoop in my sweaty running clothes admiring the tray she said, "Give me your phone. I think you're going to like this picture." I didn't use pursed lips or peace signs to distract from my cannons clad in running pants. I just sat there and smiled and accepted the shot 'as is'. Valentina was right. I like the photo. Maybe weekends in Valle di Seren bring out my serenity.

I wouldn't describe myself as zen or serene and neither would anyone else I know. Yet, these (almost) perfect strangers saw these traits in me and with their sixth sense knew they were things I needed to see in myself. Selfies don't catch this. Grabbing your camera, tilting your head and sillyly smiling at yourself is neither zen nor serene.

The next time you go for a selfie, why not go selfless? You don't need Matilde's moves to make the subject look better than they really are. Just look for someone that needs a photographer to find in them what they haven't yet found in themselves.

 






 

How to Live Life Before Retirement

Twenty-five years ago, after burgers and beers with an older couple, I was thanked for a pleasant night out instead of another organ recital. At their age dinners with friends always included a detailed description of their in-tune and out-of-tune organs. They said it was a pleasant change to talk about my future instead of their pasts.   

Although my current dinner conversations with peers aren't full-fledged recitals, I'll admit I'm starting to feel like a member of the warm-up band. What was once considering career paths is now reviewing retirement plans. Seeing that I never really had a path and still don't have a plan I usually just wait for the subject to change. ‎While they calculate their years left to work, I contemplate my years left to live.  

Just before Christmas I stopped by an old friend's office to deliver her card and heard that she'd retired a few days earlier. The plaque on the door still had her name so I took a photo and sent a message of congratulations. Later that evening on my way through the piazza to meet a student for coffee and conversation (aka work) I got a voicemail from the recent retiree. 

She said, "I have no more desire to push papers around a desk.... for me that's 'stupid' (my kinder, gentler translation). I have no desire to sit behind a computer or answer the telephone. Really, for me, I want to live my life, provided God gives me good health. Live my life? You might ask how I'm going to live my life. I'll live well just staying home looking out at the fields behind my house and enjoying the sunshine, taking a walk and doing any silly thing there is to do. For example, crocheting, knitting, going out to find a friend that I haven't seen for awhile just to drink coffee and talk. For me this is life and freedom. And then, also to travel a bit. This for me is living. I've had enough work. Enough. Now I'm really happy." 

Her message was an unexpected gift. It seemed like she'd taken a page from my book (a book I call How to Live Life Before Retirement). The excitement she felt about her new life to-be sounded just like the current life of me. I have to remember that my everyday life (albeit simple) is what many dream of for retirement. 

I don't know how to crochet (yet), but I've got the rest of her list down to a T.  Fortunately I don't have to wait for my last day of work (aka coffee and conversation in the piazza) to say, "Now I'm really happy."

 

It's Time to Start Answering (Part Two)

The reason I'm finally getting to Part Two of this post is not because I've been too busy being like Ester (see Part One), but because I'm finding it hard to describe the (mental) health benefits of 4 days in Rome in August. For Americans it sounds like a Roman Holiday....the Trevi Fountain, red Vespas and gelato. For Italians it sounds like Dante's Inferno.   

My hot trip to Rome consisted of reconnecting with Chicago friends for one day, reuniting with myself for three and refilling my water bottle for four. With 102-degree temps in well-ventilated  Villa Borghese, it seemed wise to avoid the unventilated buses and metro. Contrary to E.M. Forster's quote, "In Rome, one had simply to sit still and feel," I walked myself off the map in every direction and felt Rome like I'd never felt it before.

I was out every morning before things had opened and out every night 'til after they'd closed. I like closed shops. If I'm taken by something in a window I can 'just look' for as long as I wish never disturbing the shopkeeper by 'just looking'.

The last morning as I wove through the backstreets my thoughts wandered to life after August. Just as I was promising myself (again) that I'd really start creating in September, I was stopped by a colorful painting of a body that blended, dripped and took shape exactly how I dream of my watercolors blending, dripping and taking shape. Framed below the painting was this quote. "I do what I do so that when I'm on my death bed, I can look back & smile." -Gilbert Halaby.

At this point, the details are unclear. I think the door was open, but I'm not sure I went in. I can't remember if it was a shop or a workshop. There were other paintings framed 'as is', torn from the spiral pad and displayed with their frayed, untrimmed edges. I don't remember the art, but loved the imperfection of the presentation. And in this little scene that is perhaps more fiction than fact, a man I assume was Gilbert appeared and instead of "just looking" I said, "Che bello!" and timidly walked away. 

Fifty feet later I was struck by more colors, textures and shapes. There were paintings, handbags, books, plants and furniture. More than just looking, I was feeling. When I'd noticed that the shop was called Maison Halaby I turned towards the window I'd just admired. Gilbert was still by his door so I looked back and smiled.

On the train ride home instead of silently reveling in the magnificence of the city I'd just left behind, I googled the shop. In one article Gilbert said that he likes the people that enter to feel at home and not burdened by a forced commercial relationship. He said every guest becomes a friend and while he serves them tea, he tells them his story and they tell him theirs.

My Chicago readers may have made the connection. From inside my studio on a backstreet in Chicago I heard a lot of che bellos. It didn't matter if there were no purchases, the che bellos were payment enough. Some brave souls came in and over packets of Swiss Miss Hot Chocolate (with mini-marshmallows) we became running partners, lunch dates and secret keepers.    

Gilbert's words are with me every day. When I don't find the motivation to do what I think I want to be doing, it's his words that have started pushing me to paint, write, study and run.

Anatole Broyard said, "Rome was a poem pressed into service as a city." I say Gilbert Halaby is an artist pressed into service as an inspiration. Thanks to him I'm waking up before reaching my deathbed and getting closer to saying that I do what I do so I can look back and smile.

It's Time to Start Answering (Part One)

I'm sure I've received a lot of wake-up calls in the past, but since I'd never actually requested one the night before, they must have all come at the wrong time and I never answered. Recently it's been the unscheduled calls that seem to have shaken me from more than just bed, and I think the callers deserve recognition.

Caller number one, Ester from Finland. I met Ester on the beach in her bikini and crocheted hat. This seventeen-year old girl exploded into my life with a lot of everything. She knits and crochets (but first designs the patterns). She paints with such confidence that she prints her work and gives it to fans like me. She speaks beautiful Finnish, English and Italian. When I asked about other languages she said she studies German and Swedish at school and quietly added, "I also speak a little Spanish and I understand it well."

She often wore the same outfit on our nights out on the island. The essentials for her one-month vacation were yarn, watercolors, books and her cello....not a collection of hoodies and skirts.

Unlike me, Ester did more than just haul her passions to and from the beach. She effortlessly committed, created and played. And she unknowingly inspired. Every night when we said goodbye I was positive I'd wake up more creative and productive. I felt convinced that I had no more time to waste. Unfortunately, the next day was always the same as the day before. I did nothing.  

Regular readers know I'm not one to quote Shakespeare. "To be or not to be" is about as far as I've ever gotten. But searching for a quote about good intentions, I found this:

"If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do,
chapels had been churches, and poor men's cottages princes' palaces.
It is a good divine that follows his own instructions:
I can easier teach twenty what were good to be done,
than to be one of the twenty to follow my own teaching."

By midsummer Ester's example had come and gone (back to Finland). And even though I thought about her every day, I kept building mud pies instead of sandcastles.

And then.....I went to Rome.

American Delicacies

Italians love (Italian) food. After weddings they talk about the food with no mention of the dresses or flowers. After vacations you seldom hear about the people, places or things. If the trip was in Italy, you hear about the great food. And if it wasn't in Italy, you hear about the terrible food.

I shouldn't have been surprised last month when I told my Italian friends I was expecting visitors and their only question was, "What are you going to cook?" There was no interest in my guests' origin, the length of their stay or what we'd planned on visiting. The only concern was the menu.

Likewise, my friends shouldn't have been surprised when I answered, "I'm not cooking." Since a common Italian belief is that all Americans put ketchup on pasta, they should have been happy my guests would be spared such an atrocity. After all, they were guests in Italy. No one's ever said, "when in Rome, do as the expatriates."

Last week I went to a potluck dinner. One dish was some kind of flaky crust spread with a combination of cheeses and topped with prosciutto and sesame seeds. Then there was cold pasta with pesto and cherry tomatoes, cold rice with tuna, a cold omelette with zucchini and Delores' Delicious Dill Dip. Seeing that there are no Italians named Delores, you can guess who brought the dip.

Unfortunately, at the dinner the women sat at one end of the table and the men at the other. At the women's end they (not we) talked a lot about food. I thought they were just being nice when they asked about the ingredients in the dip. But when they asked if I'd made the mayonnaise, I'd had enough. I hadn't asked if they'd gone fishing for the tuna or raised the chickens that laid the eggs. Did they really think I'd made the mayonnaise?

That was my cue to excuse myself and head to the men's end where they were more interested in Delores than her dip's ingredients. When they asked for more I told them that their wives had licked the platter clean...first with the vegetables, then with a spoon and then with some bread for the hard to reach dip in the corners. When I offered the omelette and the rest of the rice they declined.   

The icing on the cake (even though most classic Italian cakes are frosted with a mere dusting of powdered sugar) for the ethnocentric Italians is US News & World Report's ranking of Italy as the country with the greatest food. The judges have apparently never been to a potluck dinner to see the giant plate of rice krispie treats (butter, rice krispies and marshmallows) devoured while the expensive tray of Italian pastries makes its third trip around the table.

It's time to stop attending Italian dinners with such trepidation. With a little (store-bought) mayonnaise and some marshmallows it's not hard to be the "bella" of the ball. 

P.S. If you have an easy American recipe, please send it to the address below. I'm running out of clinchers. Grazie!
 

Knights in Shining Armor

"Your hair," he said quietly. Without finishing the sentence he raised his eyebrows and lifted his head. That was enough to say, "Fix it."
 
She reached back and found the strand that had fallen from the loose knot. With a quick twist she was back to perfection. Not the perfection of the old chignon, but the perfection of the new messy look. I've forgotten it's (hair)stylish name, but it's probably something ridiculous like shabby chic.

I slugged the man and told him his wife's fallen lock looked lovely. The slug had come without thought, but later left me wondering if I'd been running to the rescue of the damsel in distress or flagging the finder of fault. Seeing that I so often play both roles, I considered it catching two pigeons with one bean (Italians' gentler version of killing two birds with one stone).

That night as I was letting my hair down (a more romantic way of taking my ponytail out) I thought about the couple's nearly silent exchange. Two whispered words intended for one were interpreted (or misinterpreted) by another.

My first thought was of a man with high standards accepting nothing but the best from his woman (which is why I slugged him).

Or was it a woman seeking perfection in herself? Perhaps she'd asked to be told when a hair was amiss. I've made similar requests. Tell me when there's basil in my teeth. Nudge me when I'm not sitting up straight. Help me when I'm being quizzed on the political situation in America.

Or could it be that we damsels (and dames) have forever been feigning our failures? When I'm by myself there's no one to save my cell phone from falling (it doesn't fall) nor warn me of rocks when I run (I don't trip). I (seldom) leave lunch with sauce on my sleeves and I don't see the peril in puddles. Had the woman with the loose lock been alone, the strand may never have strayed. Perhaps we aren't really damsels in distress, but rather clever creators of calamity. For without our daily mishaps, our knights in armor would have no reason to shine.
 

The Unreachable Egoist

My Italian friends often accuse me of not answering my phone, a reputation I'm proud to uphold. The reason I don't answer is because I'm seldom READY to answer. If I'm reading, I've chosen to read and that's not the moment I want to talk on the phone. And the same goes for running, walking, cleaning, writing, planting flowers, eating, visiting friends or, lo and behold, daydreaming. Egoistical? Perhaps. But I find it no different from the way my accusers handle their calls.  

Here's a typical Italian exchange on the telephone.

Instead of 'hello' they say pronto. The first dictionary definition of pronto is ready, prompt, prepared, immediate and rapid. Although those seem like 'at your service' kind of words, many responders are anything but available when answering a call.

Next, the caller asks, "Ti disturbo?" (am I bothering you?). In my opinion if someone takes a call they should be ready to talk (after all, they say READY when they answer). So I don't feel the need to ask if I'm bothering them. It's their fault if they've answered and they're not ready, so I just start talking. 

From here the calls have two possibilities. The first is, "Sorry, I can't talk. I'll call you later." Answering, apologizing and hanging up shouldn't get the egoistic answerer off the hook. In my opinion that response is the same as not answering at all.  

The second possibility is completely ignoring their current activity (taking a walk with me for instance) to answer the phone and talk to their cousin in Sicily about cannoli. What this demonstrates in courtesy to the caller, it lacks in respect to the person at hand. 

This is not to say that all calls should be ignored (or that Sicilian pastries don't deserve recognition). Quickly confirming an appointment, answering a call from a kid or talking to the mechanic don't upset this termagant. I understand that some parts of life require immediate attention, but the fresh eggs and radicchio your mom leaves by your door will be there whether you answer your phone or not.