Chapter 32: "In the Piazza, I Paint!"

The next time I see her is in late October, a day when the heat feels like a stifling blanket that won't lift. The smooth cobblestones lining the Piazza are glistening in the sun, and just before I arrive, a fierce little thunderstorm sweeps through the Piazza, forcing the outdoor customers at the Gran Cambrinus to hussle inside with their coffee and wait beside the glass cases filled with creamy confections.

By the time I begin setting up my easel, however, all is back to normal, except that there is steam rising from the stones -- I see a million thin feathery spirits all around me. And perhaps I've found my ancestors, in some of those ghostly apparitions!

I am here because I promised everyone back home that I would do this: I would come to the magnificent Piazza and publicly declare myself a painter, in Italy, in the middle of Naples, the land of my ancestors. As I start to assemble the wooden easel, always a first-class pain in the rump, a few tourists are assembling, wondering I suppose what I will do, I nod to them and what goes through my head is "oh dear God in heaven what have I done?"

No one would ever confuse my artistry with the likes of Caravaggio or any other Italian master. But for the past two decades, I've made hundreds of paintings,

enough so that I will, from time to time, among trusted friends, call myself a painter.

But why must I make this particular proclamation, here in the dramatically beautiful Piazza? I mean it's not like anyone is knocking on my door begging for my work. As I explained to my husband when he questioned my motives for wanting not only to paint in the Piazza but also to live here in Naples for several months, on my own, as I've been doing:

"I only live once, at least that's what I believe to this point, and I so the way I see it, my presence in Naples is a way of paying a deeply important compliment to my southern Italian ancestors, all of those I know and so many more I will never know, so many of whom might have picked up a paintbrush if they hadn't had to focus all of their might and their very thin resources on surviving."

I've got an exceptionally tolerant husband and because of this, I flew to Naples two months ago and took a room in an air B&B called Weekend in Napoli; not much can be said of this place EXCEPT the courtyard is alive in ferns and palms and so much other greenery. And here you see me, blissful, one morning recently, balancing my capuccino, one of the two cups I order each morning.

So now the easel is standing, albeit it wobbly and a 24-square inch canvas is in position and what remains is for me to turn it into something that suggests

ART.

The sweat that has been pooling in the armpits of my turquoise shirt is now beginning to trickle down both sides of my chest. Heart bumping, I inhale and open a tube of lime green and squirt a worm of it onto the wooden palette. My modus operandi as a painter is decidedly "intuitive," meaning, as I say in my Artist's statement, I give my paint its free reign, "I LET THE PAINT BE WHAT IT WANTS TO BE!" Mostly, that works for me, except ironically, not lately, not since I got here August 27th. Ever since, I have been trying so hard to

BE THE ARTIST I WANT TO BE, one who is trying to thank her ancestry.

I am reaching for yellow now. I squirt a worm of that onto the palette, too, and there it sits; so why did I think that coming here to the Piazza was going to unglue my artist's block? I am stuck.

"Whatever was I thinking?" I whisper that out loud to no one in particular, and now the crowd is sizable, they are starting to talk to one another, I realize that "whatever was I thinking" is exactly the problem, I AM THINKING TOO MUCH. Somehow I know that my best painting happens when I can proceed as quickly as possible into the thought-free ZONE.

I inhale. Hold my breath. Slowly slowly exhale. Now what?

And suddenly I hear a voice behind me.

"Ciao, Claudia." I turn, blink. She steps forward. Can it be?

"Ciao, Filomena," I say, lifting one hand to my forehead in surprise, thereby implanting both green and yellow paint on my face. The last time I met with her, we sat at the Gran Cambrinas,

I had hired a purple-haired translator, and then, just when things were getting interesting, my dear bis bis nonna Filomena acted like one of the spirits in the Piazza and poof, she just disappeared!

But here she is again, decidedly in the flesh and what's so spectacular is that her hair is falling softly on her shoulders, and she is wearing a perfectly sky blue dress instead of that drab grey number from the photo.

"Oh, Fi, you look lovely today," I say, and she approaches. She gazes at my blank canvas, and then gives me a comforting smile. "Something will come of it, my dear child, I'm sure of that." She crosses one forearm over the other. "Have you thought about closing your eyes when you paint?"

"Closing my eyes?" My eyebrows rise. In all the years that I've been painting, always claiming that I let paint skirt where it wants to, I can't think of a single painting that I have attempted, KEEPING MY EYES CLOSED!

"I think I will try it," I say, "I mean, it can't hurt!" I want to thank her but before I can speak she has stepped back into what is now a rather large crowd. I reach for purple and add a long curve of that to the palette. And then, letting my eyes close, I hold my palette knife and reach into what I hope is the paint.

With my eyes closed, suddenly my hearing is acute; I hear someone ask, "what exactly is she doing?" I put that comment aside, and slide the knife along the canvas. Then I pick up the knife and scoop a second time into the paint.

And then without knowing why, I feel like I need another color. But should I choose one with my eyes open? No. I drop slowly down to my artist's satchel and reach inside. I "decide" on a color knowing full well it could be a disaster.

But hey? What does it matter?

I continue this way, applyng paint in wide swaths around the canvas, reaching for more paint whenever I feel the urge.

After what feels like an hour of painting, I decide to take a look. Very slowly I open my eyes.

What a surprise!

I have produced a rather strange image, circular, more or less, with what looks like orange "arms" holding a small green-horned figure at the center of the painting.

I'm not at all sure it works, but that's not the point. I have painted, and miracle of miracles, I have retained most of my "admirers."

Including the one I love most, that being Filomena, who now starts clapping. Others join in with her; I smile and take a quick bow.

I open my phone to get a quick translation of what I want to say:

"I'm not sure it's finished, in fact, I'm fairly certain it isn't!" I raise my voice so that the whole crowd can hear me speak:

"Non sono sicuro che sia finito, anzi sono abbastanza sicuro che non lo sia!"

A round of "ah, si, si" goes up and people begin murmuring to each other.

I look over at Filomena; with no warning I am suddenly filled with an overwhelming feeling of love for her. I am so greatful that she has come to see me at the Piazza today that I decide I will tell her, publicly! But right now she is talking to someone else.

Meanwhile, that feeling of love inspires me to start painting hearts all over the canvas. Aesthetically I am pretty sure I will ruin the canvas but what can I say, I am an intuitive painter, I give way to whimsy whenever it suits me!

First I paint a red heart, and then a blue one, a small yellow, a red and several dark purple.

Once all of these hearts are drying, and staring back at me, I realize that I don't love this painting nearly as much as I thought I would before I painted the hearts.

The heat and the sun are so intense they dry the acryllic paint in a matter of minutes. And that's a good thing, because now I realize that it's definitely time to paint over the hearts.

Which I do after I mix up a pale purple. Taking my largest brush, I cover the entire canvas with a thin layer of this color, which reminds me of Easter.

When I finish, I step back. I take a clean rag and wipe some of the paint off here and there to reveal the underlying colors. And then I'm staring at something I rather like.

Gone, at least for now, is my artist's block, which is rather like constipation, it isn't until it's relieved that you can say that it wasn't so bad.

At this moment I know exactly what I need to do. I only wish I had a microphone. And once again, I wish I spoke real Italian rather than Google Italian.

"Per favore, gradirei la tua attenzione per un momento perché c'è qualcosa di importante che voglio dire. La mia bis-bisnonna, Filomena Scrivano, è qui oggi, è una donna molto speciale e vorrei riconoscere il ruolo incredibilmente cruciale che ha avuto oggi nella mia pittura.

"Please, I would appreciate your attention for a moment as there is something important I want to say. My great great grandmother, Filomena Scrivano, is here today, she is a very special lady and I would like to recognize the incredibly crucial role she played today in my painting."

I scan the crowd. Fi is rather diminuitive, no more than five feet tall, so I give careful attention to the back rows. When I can't find her, I step away from the easel and move right into the crowd, where I make a slow pirouette, carefully reviewing each face. But she is nowhere to be found.

Back at my easel, I speak once more to the crowd.

"Well, so, all I can say is that my great great grandmother is a rather shy and modest woman, and I'm fairly sure she decided to retreat from the Piazza when she realized that she was going to be publicly recognized."

"Bene, tutto quello che posso dire è che la mia bis-bisnonna è una donna piuttosto timida e modesta, e sono abbastanza sicuro che abbia deciso di ritirarsi dalla piazza quando ha capito che sarebbe stata riconosciuta pubblicamente."

Someone is admiring my painting now. She is wearing a straw sunhat with a wide band of orange ribbon at the brim.

"May I ask how much you are asking for this piece?" She speaks English with a crisp British accent.

I'm quite taken aback. When is the last time one of my paintings has sold? I can't remember.

"Well, honestly," I say to her, "I haven't given that a bit of thought. But I will, and if you wish, I will take your information and get in touch with you, probably in the next day or two." Later, my husband will say to me, "are you crazy, why the hell didn't you sell it to her on the spot?"

The truth is I've gotten to the point where I don't want to part with any of my canvases, with the exception of those I paint "from the heart" for family and friends. "Thank you," she says. "I'll just give you my card." She slips her hand into a large leather satchel, retrieves a card from an inside pocket and slips it into my hand.

And so as the crowd disperses, I pack up my easel, the paints and brushes and palette and knives and watch while the orange sun sinks lower into the hazy blue sky.

As I cross the Piazza, I realize that it has been a practically perfect day. I have generated a decent painting, and I have found a possible buyer. Moreover, I have "performed" in front of an appreciative crowd.

Now if only Fi hadn't pulled her vanishing act again!

I am almost at the Cafe Gambrinus when suddenly I am enticed by the thought of an iced latte, along with perhaps another dish of that tiramisu, which feels like an explosion of cream and supremely delicious chocolate in the mouth.

I stopped. Speaking of my mouth, it has now dropped open. Because sitting there in the furthest corner of the outdoor cafe of that most beautiful of coffee shops is none other than my bis bis nonna Filomena, with...guess who?

That straw hat with the wide orange brim gives her away. But who is this mysterious British woman, my potential painting buyer, and why is she in such earnest conversation with Fi?

When the waiter asks if I am "da sola?" I shake my head no and smiling, I point into the corner. He lead me there, me with all of my gear. I stand before the table, and suddenly I am unable to see Fi's face. Or the other woman's. Is this some kind of a shadow effect?

And now of all the strangest things, a dog begins to whine and whimper. And then she barks out loud. I stand there trying so hard to keep these two women in my field of view.

But to no avail. As the dog is now licking my face, and I hear my husband petting her so boisterously, as he does each morning, ruffling Poco's head in his two hands.

I groan. "I don't want to stop dreaming," I moan. "I was dreaming about Filomena and I did a purple painting after she told me to paint with my eyes closed."

"Oh. Super idea," he says. "How did it come out?"

I chuckle. "It was...quite lovely...a large purple thing, and there was a woman asking to buy it on the spot, and I had a huge crowd of people watching me paint." I am smiling just thinking about my "day."

"Well, so, you have found a way out of your artist's block perhaps?"

My eyes open wider. I yawn. "I guess so. I think I have to do have to try painting with my eyes closed." I pause. "But most of all I have to keep reminding myself that it doesn't matter what I paint, as long as I keep painting."

I reach over and start petting my darling Poco in earnest, with both hands.