17 09 07

Think of dad - seventeen years since his death

The sea is always seductive
calm, lucid, warm
stretching into a near infinity of pale blue
the horizon a faint hem

It’s very quiet
I could stay here for a while
off season you can’t be frenetic
something of over
The off season
It just makes you want to slow down and amble south
sit in the shade and pick the ripe fruit.

This dream is not driven, more like trying to make a consequence of my past actions.
It is a state of mind.

The word thing has always been somewhere lurking
I don’t want to make a conscious thing of it
it has to happen underneath the painting
in an oblique way
a leap of faith
somehow somewhere

No green figs
the day of dads death

Toni takes me to a mechanic to look at the car, after fiddling about with various bits on the carb, he taps the webbers saying “spezialista”

I take him for a spin - ‘ ciao gratzi ‘

weave on along the coast towards Piscotia -
all is azure against the hard mountains
It is hot though the sea breeze takes the edge of it
Piscotia sits perched on a small hill

Set up easel and paint that view.
Someone from Italian TV films me, an artist with his canvasses in a push chair stops for a chat, we trade cigarettes for a book.
Piscotia is a place i will return to.

On towards Matera.
Marina di Camerato is all rocky coast and sandy beaches.
Up over the mountain
Lentiso a small tight village, church with beautiful tiled dome.
Hair pin bends up through the dry lands.
Sun blasted great swathes that are scorched from fires
How does a land so dry yield so lush a fruits
Over the top down towards Sapri
green woods
cool air
Find a bench in some shade near the water
under a pine tree
I eat my salami and pomordorini, aqua and two ripe sweet wet peaches
An old man stops to admire the car
no conversation no Italian no englese - why would he
The coast of Matera is blue and vanishes south into the haze.
Big dry mountains

The light reminds me of when I first left college and found myself in Dorset and in that still ageing September light.
As here all quiet after a season
Hotels closing
Locals reclaiming their place

It is delicious - my basket of fruit

Past Matera and Jesus up on the mountain, which I find somewhat scary and reassuring at the same time
- Faith - yes I have some but not in God, that is my lack of belief
the statue perched high looking inwards
his arms from this angle look almost avenging
facing towards the hard mountains
away from the light - it seems to me.

my lack of faith
a belief lost

Towards Scalea
the coast gives way to the flat beaches
the road hugs the hills with stilts
big hotel complexes like bee hives scatter down the hills -
seems empty
the road follows coastal towns
peopled by late sun worshippers hanging on to the season

Hotel Poseidon again
The same guy behind the desk gives me a friendly handshake and welcome
This time I get a room with a balcony and sea view.
I swim in the warm sea
late afternoon air above my head and thoughts
Bask on the deck chairs along with a few other sombre reptiles
I can’t do this sort of thing - the beach chair parasol thing
so I draw, paint and write
retire to the balcony to watch the sun set

pale yellow then orange.
there is a crescent moon and venus
now the light is dimming to an apricot yellow
out to the west
wind drops
sea curls along the shore from left to right

at night the surf and beach keep me awake - tissues in the ears

my dilemmas - will the car make it
If I was to buy a statue, would it be jesus, mary or a monk - maybe a trio.

Cilento - Clabria - towards an exotic dry south.