Firenze, Italy
17 November 1996
Watercolor on cold press Lana paper
I stayed in Tuscany for a few nights. Mostly, it was very confusing and exhausting because mostly, no one I met spoke English and my agent had neglected to arrange for me to be met at the train station or for proper accommodation. In one instance, I boarded the wrong train going in the opposite direction of my destination. There was a lot of talking myself down from intermittent panic attacks and carrying on as best I could when I really needed a good, uninterrupted night's sleep.
One night I stayed at some sort of country hotel although hotel might not be the best word. It felt more like an empty convent. Very bare bones with cold terrazzo floors. The woman who hosted me did not speak English but I managed to understand from our conversation that in June and July, the place hosted children from Byelo-Russia who had been poisoned from Chernobyl. You can learn more at The Chernobyl Project and about these children through one of the rescue organization sites . That conversation put my mild discomfort into perspective. I took Pipo, the resident dog for a walk at dusk through the Tuscan hills. Then I was carted off to some incredibly loud and raucous bar where I was set up on the floor in the middle of the place. I could not hear myself think let alone sing but there was a crowd seated on the ground and standing around me paying rapt attention so I did my thing and ripped up my poor voice in the process.
The next day, I was off to Bologna for a radio interview and record store performance. I knew the DJ who'd set that up and he spoke English so it was good to visit and the day went pretty well. The DJ used excerpts from my CD for the interview to save my tattered voice. The most memorable thing about that day was the memorial in the waiting room at the train station for the Bologna Massacre. The effective memorial incorporates a massive crack in the wall and the hole that was left in the floor by the blast.
For the other nights I stayed on a Biodynamic farm at a Rudolph Steiner community. That was right up my alley. It was beautiful and interesting and the people were great — not to mention the food.
I was so close to Florence that as soon as I finished my duties and before I had to go on to the next gig, somehow, I got myself there. I don't know what day it was but not long after I arrived I discovered that the museums were closing at noon or one. I managed to duck into some Medici room and am embarrassed to say that I can't remember what that was. And somehow, I managed to convince the guard to let me just run through part of the Uffizi. That was sort of ridiculous because I really did not even have time to orient myself before I had to run out again.
The day was raw and rainy so I just walked myself across the Arne, leaned against the river wall and painted this picture as the skies gave way to a little late afternoon sun. It was an o.k. way to contemplate Brunelleschi at a bit of a distance, away from the long lines to get a look inside.
Before I left Italy, I performed at a fabulous folk club in Udine where everything — the audience, the host, the food, the room, the vibe — was exceptional. I also managed to run around Venice for a long afternoon on a day when the water was at its lowest mark in years. I'll go back there any time.
Every Sunday I post a new painting and story behind the watercolors I made while touring as a singer songwriter. Follow the stories behind the paintings of these serialized posts by working your way up from the bottom.
Firenze
Vasto
Vasto, Italy
14 November 1996
Watercolor on cold press Lana paper
Vasto was like Brigadoon. A place out of time with a little bit of magic or historic curiosity around each bend. This ancient city has never been developed because it's built on a cliff subject to landslides. In the above painting, you can see one historic curiosity where the new and the old city walls attach with two different types of arches. Through this opening you are looking south past Vasto Marina, into the Adriatic mist.
If you missed last Sunday's installment, go to Amico in Vasto and Vasto Marina to read the first two parts of the story and hear my song on the experience.
Lino Salvatorelli was my host. He'd booked me into the Teatro Rossetti named for the poet and revolutionary, Gabriel Rossetti who, upon losing his cause, fled his birthplace of Vasto for England where his two children, Christina and Dante Gabriel were raised. It was a lovely evening in an old, old theater. As no one I met in Vasto spoke English, most of the audience had no idea what I was saying or singing but we enjoyed ourselves. Having spent the first couple weeks of this tour in the former East Germany where most people only spoke German or Russian, I was getting used to the scenario.
Lino owned a CD store called Kangaroo. He took me on a tour of the city and because everyone knew Lino, I met a lot of people, ate some great food and finished the tour at his friend Franco's sign making and sculpture studio. After Franco saw the paintings I'd made so far, he found me before I departed and sent me off with a gift of 4 pans of Lukas watercolors all wrapped up in tin foil. A very sweet and encouraging gesture.
It was difficult to leave Vasto but I was on to the next gigs in Tuscany, Bologna, Udina and so forth. I took the train north along the Adriatic coast and leaned out my open window watching the old beaches and beach towns slip by, wanting to stop at each place.
I left a piece of my heart in Vasto.
Also see: Vasto Marina and Amico in Vasto.
Amico in Vasto
Amico in Vasto, Italy
13 November 1996
Watercolor on cold press Lana paper
I headed north up the beach till I stopped and sat down with my back against a big overturned row boat. There I made the Vasto Marina painting I posted last week. When I finished, I continued in the same direction to the end of the beach.
A large, white dog came down from the rocks and over to greet me at about the same time a man brought a dog on a leash towards me from another direction. As soon as the white dog had sniffed and licked my hand, he turned, bared his teeth at the leashed dog and both started barking and making threatening noises. Oh, Great!, I thought. Trapped on an Italian beach in the middle of a dog fight. The leashed dog was led away by his laughing master. The white dog came to my side and would not leave no matter what.
I did not want to get involved with another animal and when we got back to the overturned rowboat, I sat down. The dog lay down beside me and went to sleep. After a few minutes, I stood up very quietly and headed back towards the apartment. A few hundred yards up the beach I looked back just in time to see him emerge from the other side of the row boat looking in every direction. He spotted me and high tailed it in my direction. Except for the time I spent in the apartment, he did not leave my side for the next three days. I tried to bring him up at night but he was a confirmed outside dog and at night lay down in front of the apartment entrance where he greeted me first thing each morning.
I surrendered to his companionship because, after all, I really needed it. He was my friend, so I named him Amico. Language was not a problem. Eventually, I learned that he was a Pastore Abruzzese, a regional dog bred from ancient lineage specifically to guard sheep in the Abruzzi mountains. Naturally, I became quite attached and was heartbroken to leave him at the Marina beach when it was time for me to go up and perform in Vasto. Our little tryst inspired a song.
Listen to the song
Amico in Vasto
(Pastore Abruzzese)
I freaked out in Verona
boarded the south bound train
my head was split with anger
and my heart was dulled with pain
Some fool had to leave a message
that my best friend ran away
the home I thought was anchored
floated off to yesterday
Lost and alone
so far from anything familiar
there was no one I could talk with
to relieve myself
Crazy with grief
the new moon cast everything in darkness
I tossed weightless in the strange air
like an autumn leaf
I arrived on the feast of San Martino
when the grapes turn into wine
it was summer in November
as the sun began to climb
The wind flew dry off the Adriatic
I was beckoned by the blue
I walked down to where the coastline changed
and that's where I met you
You ran to my side
as if you'd been waiting for my arrival
you leaned into my legs
as if you'd come back home
When I looked in your eyes
I could see that your love had found its mission
you were my guardian out of heaven
on a three day loan
Pastore Abruzzese
Amico, my Amico in Vasto
We stood in the waves and got sandy
I painted a picture of you
we climbed the palace steps together
and panted at the view
I bought you bones and cheeses
and I fed you at the fountains
I followed your gaze to the crescent moon
as it rose above the mountains
Steadfast and sure
you gave me the company I needed
and the unconditional love
that asks for nothing in return
I don't know where you came from
but I'm grateful that you found me
you saved a wandering soul
from drowning in the dark
Pastore Abruzzese
Amico, my Amico in Vasto
Where would you go when I left town
who would put food out for you
would you find some new soul you could shepherd
would they love you like I do
On the morning I was leaving
you appeared shampooed and shining
on a rope beside a young boy
who would love you like I do
Steadfast and sure
you gave me the company I needed
and the unconditional love
that asks for nothing in return
I don't know where you came from
but I'm grateful that you found me
you saved a wandering soul
from drowning in the dark
Pastore Abruzzese
Amico, my Amico in Vasto
©1996 Suzanne McDermott/Drexel Road Music (ASCAP/STIM) All Rights Reserved
For everything you might want to know about Pastori Abruzezzi, visit Marco Petrella.
A few years later, I told a bit of this story and sang the song for some nursing home residents in Philadelphia. Afterwards, one of the women grabbed my forearm and asked, "So? Did you bring the young man home with you?"
Also see: Vasto and Vasto Marina.
Vasto Marina
Vasto Marina, Italy
12 November 96
Watercolor on cold press Lana paper
So, there I was in Pesina, with a few days before my next gig, drinking too much Italian table wine. The TV was always on in the kitchen. As the ancient neighbor made the morning Polenta, fetching newscasters interrupted Sissy Spacek and Whoppi Goldberg spouting fluent Italian in The Long Walk Home to advise of a pending rail strike. My host and Italian agent insisted that I immediately board the next train to my next gig.
Before I knew it, I was jostling along on the Italian rail system. After lots of personal space in the 1st class compartments on the orderly German trains, I was now shoulder to shoulder with chatty, freely gesturing compartment-mates. Not that I had any idea what they were chatting and gesturing about. The corridors were packed. We were rattling south along the Adriatic Coast but night had fallen and I had no idea what scenes were flashing past the window. It was a long ride with a lot of Italian coming at me and I accompanied myself with two glasses of wine. By the time I arrived in Vasto, it was very late and I was very weary. I had no idea who was supposed to meet me or where I was supposed to stay.
A very kind man found me at the station and while I couldn't understand a word of what he said, I went along with him. He took me to a bar with loud music, which did not help me understand the situation any better, and there we met some people who apparently discussed and decided what to do with me. I was driven to an apartment complex, let into an apartment and told something... I had no idea what.
Early the next morning, I woke up slightly hung over, wondering just what in the hell I thought I was doing. In the throes of despondent emotional thrashing about exacerbated by allergic reaction to histamine and alcohol, I happened to look out the window. Wait a minute! What's that? It's the beach and the ocean! I was out the door in seconds flat, not even checking for a landmark to find my way back. I was on the beach. My feet were in the sea. That was all that mattered.
Also see: Vasto and Amico in Vasto.
La Rocca, Pesina, Italy
La Rocca, Pesina, Italy
10 November 1996
Watercolor on cold press Lana paper
4in x 6in, archivally matted & backed to 8in x 10in
US$ 295 (includes USPS Priority Shipping)
Email me to purchase
From Alkmaar, I traveled through Germany, night after night for a good three weeks. Most of those dates were in the former East and it was all very interesting and each stop in Jena, Weimar, Bautzen, Dresden and the rest was a story in itself. Finally, I left the order, clocks and chill of Germany (which I was becoming accustomed to) and boarded the train past Kufstein and the jade green Inn River, the darkened Alps, to Milano and then to Verona where I was met by Donato and Marina LaRocca. Donato, Marina, their full-grown son, my guitar, large suitcase packed with CDs and I crammed into their tiny car with Donato at the wheel and raced off (and I do mean raced) down the ancient narrow, curving roads up towards Lake Garda. I was already exhausted and now unnerved by the ride.
Not in the house ten minutes, Donato called that there was a message for me on the answering machine. I climbed the dark, narrow stairs and found my way into the unlit office, figured out how to work the answering machine and finally listened to the message. It was my roommate telling me, rather briskly, that my cat of seven years had disappeared into the White Mountains of New Hampshire one dark and stormy night. Sorry, she said, there was nothing she could do. And that was it. Between the incessant traveling, my exhaustion from the long journey of that particular day, the first year anniversary of my mother's death and the simple fact that this roommate did not call upon the sense god gave her to not leave such information on an answering machine in another country, well, I just freaked right out and began a head first plunge into a rather serious depression. Not the best start for the Italian leg of my tour. And being suddenly unable to control the flow of tears did not make me the best dinner companion but, somehow I managed to fulfill all of my performance obligations with a very good front, pro that I was. Everyone was very kind. Bob Neuwirth came to visit the day after I arrived and he sat and gabbed with me as I made the above painting of Donato and Marina's house. Later we split the bill at my house concert there. Of all people on earth, Bob was a good choice to show up at that particular moment.
My great fortune was that in my hands I held the tools for my recovery — the new little paintbox and watercolor pad. Those and a magical encounter, just around the bend.
