Yesterday, we finally bought an Internet stick device so that we can finally have some connection in our little apartment. It’s painfully slow (I have loaded about four pages in 30 minutes) but at least I finally feel a little more in tune with the planet.
Not that being out of cyber-touch is so terrible at all, though. Whereas before, I would wake up to check emails, news and updates, now I wake up to quiet mornings by the lake where I can run in peace while the boys are still snoring. Whereas before, I would stay up past midnight, staring at my computer screen, now I am back at the canvas. Good old aquarelle paint, an ink pen, and many glasses of shared red wine.
Recently I have painted a series of postcards inspired by the views on Lake Como, from the Northern tip where we live. When I tried to buy some postcards at the only department store in town, there were none to be found, and even in the bigger towns, there were no postcards from our small town that could accurately depict life as it is here.
I decided to paint the scenery I’ve captured, both through my eyes and my camera lens, to paint stills of life in motion, and to bring color to where it is mostly a thousand blue hues. Already, there has been some local interest in my art, and even the town priest has requested postcards of our simple chapel and bell-tower that stands by a river cascading down to the beach—just a short walk from our alleyway house. A few other local cafes and hotels are also displaying my art for sale, and that makes me quite happy.
Ours is a tiny town, but so charming. You know it’s small when you go out to the corner cafe, and run into your only upstairs neighbor jogging, your landlord going for cappuccino, and the mayor’s bunch just leaving the bar.
I feel strangely at home, and “home” is where my heart feels alive.