Filed under: ...in my mind | Tags: adventure, fantasy, Greece, Santorini, travel
From the dock, without the whiteness of the hillside filling the viewscape, I could see the activity at street level and was overwhelmed. Not that I’ve never seen quaint fishing villages all over the world before, but each one teems with its own local activities, never the same from country to country. Of course they all have a lot to do with fish. At this time of morning, mostly boats are getting ready to leave for the early fishing run of the day. Even from my perch at the rail, I catch a whiff of strong coffee and pipe smoke. I notice many people smoking pipes. Haven’t seen that too much in recent years, other than the occasional pot smoker at a rock concert. I see stem after stem poking out from the mostly oversize mustaches on faces I think I would like better if they were smiling. I’m sure I wouldn’t be smiling if I was going to work at dawn without the first cup of coffee in me. Nonetheless, those faces certainly don’t match my post card impressions of Greece. Maybe on the way back with the ship’s belly full of flounder and the crew’s belly full of falafel. Oh shucks. I knew this wouldn’t last. The crewman is waving at me to get on with it. I’m sure they can’t reload until they’ve cleared the vessel. So, without fully absorbing the scene before me, but excited about giving up my observer status for one of participant, I grab my just so rightly lightly packed bags and hit the gangplank.
As soon as I begin the walk up the dock, children are yelling at me. Their English is horrible, but I am clear they are trying to sell me cheap souvenirs they carry on trays strapped over their shoulders. There is a row of the very magnets I’ve been staring at for years in anticipation of this moment. At first I am irritated at having to navigate this gauntlet of urchins. Then, I remind myself that I am here to experience everything and this is part of that. I give myself a quick check up from the neck up and meet the gaze of the child most earnestly in my face, with a smile on my own. I can see that he is unkempt, with streaks of dirt across his cheek. I can see a world in his eyes and his expression that is at once sad, pleading and I must say, worldly and complex as if he’d really been around at his age, which couldn’t have been more than 12 or so. Whatever I imagined I could read in that expression, I knew I had no idea what his life was like. I wanted to reach out, but knew I couldn’t buy from him or even interact with this child without being assaulted by all the others. I promised myself I would find a way to show some support for these street kids during my visit. So, still smiling, I imagine they can read the goodness in my heart but I know nothing matters except them ending the exchange with more money in their pockets than they started, and I move on.
There it hung, with sky for background. Saturn. With its green orb and ruby red ring. Dark clouds lumbering by behind, with patches of sunshine brightening things momentarily. Then back to grey. And Saturn changed colors and feel at the whim of the clouds and breezes. The wire that she hung on was most sturdily fastened to the very edge of roof over my lanai, so as I sat under cover in the drizzle I could just see the drops striking those ruby lips. And accumulating, until they rolled off the edge. I hoped Lino would be proud. I wondered how many of his Saturns were hung out in the elements, as those that weren’t considered seconds were quite pricey, more than I would ever afford. But I remember the first time I saw her. It was on a shelf in the back back room of a Seattle gallery that specialized in glass artists. I was cruising through with the owner one day and spied the piece. It was really beautiful though quite dusty. Obviously been there awhile. The ring was just a bit larger than a big dinner plate and the sphere in the center about the size of a cantaloupe. Much smaller than the later ones in the series. More colorful as well. There was one tiny little glitch in the glass. Not a problem for me, but obviously enough so that Lino wouldn’t sign it. Too bad. Having it signed by Lino Tagliapietra, considered by many to be the best living glassblower, would be nice for the value it would add to the piece. But I don’t really care. Nobody that knows glass art would doubt who made it and I certainly know who made it. I’ve really enjoyed looking at her for years hanging in the window of my Seattle home facing west so sunsets would pass through in the evenings. That is after I finally got it off the living room floor where it spent the first few years until I gained the knowledge and confidence to decide the best way to hang it. Then, very carefully double boxed and delivered with much more glass art to my new home in Maui. And, they all made it. I do remember shortly after I bought the piece I mentioned to the gallery owner that the next time Lino was visiting Seattle from his home in Murano I’d get him to sign it. The owner was adamant that I not do that. So I didn’t. But I’ve always wondered what that was all about and if he was really supposed to sell it to me.
Filed under: Artwords | Tags: art, glass, lino, lino tagliapietra, maui, saturn, tagliapietra
I was forged in fire so hot it hurt to get near me. The hands that made me were skilled from many years of apprenticeship and servitude which was given the chance to blossom into incredible creativity. Hands that were stigmatized, then later redeemed, for sharing the secrets of Murano glassblowing with the students of the Pilchuck Glass School an hour north of Seattle. Nobody had ever shared these long held secrets with the outside world. What an honor to be birthed from the furnace of he who is called Maestro by his peers. Over the years more respected, more able to bridge the gap between Murano and Seattle, so finally some of those peers also came to teach at Pilchuck. But the one who made me took the art and craft of making things from glass in many new directions. Creating things never conceived before. But certainly copied since. Though none has reached the pinnacle my maker has. The grand experiment of my unfolding was a brilliant idea for a whole new style of glass creations in a series known as Saturns. But alas, as one of the first I did not achieve the perfection of form that my later brothers and sisters did. But I’m proud of my one small flaw. It shows my humanity. And also let someone that really loves and cares about me be my owner instead of someone that might’ve just stuck me on a shelf, though a custom made one, and never let the sun shine through me and the wind blow over me and the raindrops land on me. I like it here in the Maui breezes. I hope I get to stay.
Looking out, I can see the dark water, watching it glide slowly by. I can just make out the land mass in the distance, dotted by dim lights. As the ship approaches the tiny, quaint harbor the dawn begins to break, sun coming up over my shoulder and the dim lights of shore disappear in the brightening sky and the world starts to come alive for another day. All too quickly to really enjoy the surreal awakening of the hillside, which, in the increasing daylight, becomes almost entirely white. I wanted to pay more attention to all the shades in between the dark and the light, but became overwhelmed by the assault on my senses that came with a first look at a new place. Do I smell fish, or just have such a strong idea of what I will find here that I imagine I’m smelling fish? Even as I finish the thought, I realize I am smelling fish. Maybe not all so fresh. Oh well, what do I expect in a fishing port?
Ever since one of the guys in my men’s group came back from Greece and gifted us all with ceramic refrigerator magnets, I’ve been imagining the isle of Santorini. It is much as I imagined from the magnet. What an amazing hillside of whitewashed structures. Surely all other colors must be banned by law, though later I discovered the brightly colored doors that must be exempt. The smiling, mustachioed port crew expertly guides our small, inter island ferry into place. One of so many vessels in the harbor, moored, but still bobbing in the chill morning air. There was clearly no law against the color boats could be painted. And I haven’t seen so many pea coats since the 60s. With matching seamen’s caps, they look just like a snapshot you’ve seen in a travel magazine of a Greek fishing village. As the passenger’s disembarked, all carrying their own belongings, I was still standing at the rail taking it all in.
