23 09 07
Sitting on the chocolate coloured sofa
The front door is open and I can see the Stagnone through the trees
Nicola is taking me to Mozia today
He shows me his saline but says it is unprofitable so lies unused
Coffee at Mama Cassa and he talks about his Marsala wine.
We get the boat accross to Mozia, there is always a sense of excitement in a ferry journey however short - the crossing of water to an island.
Mozia is small, with a group of houses, the largest was owned by Whitaker the wine merchant. The museam is full of artifacts from the Phonecian ruins, all laid out like a Morandi still life, very beautiful.
Nicola says he will show me around the Island, he insists.
We meet a family and have sweet coffee and they invite me for lunch.
We taste some local wine, then walk and talk in Pidgeon English / Italian
The stagione is beautiful, reaching out to a spit of land
We pass a man knee deep in the water bent down searching the shallows
Oysters says Nicola
then he pulls out a fish and puts it in his bag,
I think this has been done for centuries
just hands
I am left to wander the isle and ruins.
This place is perfect, I look with envy at a couple in a small sail boat out in the lagoon.
A lazy sail through the shallows, cool in the heat.
Lunch in Mozia with a large Sicilian family, around a large shaded table.
life outside.
I cannot speak Italian and they don’t speak english. We converse through jesture and humour.
Pasta, zuchine, melanane and sicilian sausage that has caraway seed in it, which in the heat gives it that southern spice.
There must be about four families all around the table, of all age making me feel very at home. The guy I was sitting next to me was very funny. In fact they all laughed alot and spoke at a rate of knots.
They cut me a large piece of melon for me - gesturing ‘prego’
I showed them my book which they all found interesting, they asked me if i was famous.
Drank coffee and smoked cigarettes. They couldn’t understand me not having sugar in my coffee. Sicilians have things very sweet.
Then a huge dollop of cake was presented, a sought of crumble filled with sweet ricotta cheese.
I parted saying gratzia gratzia gratzia and arriva derci
we took photos and waived goodbye
Next year you must return for lunch again was implied.
I will, but with more italian.
I sat on the sw tip of the island with a well fed glee in me, dosing in the sun by the gentle lapping waves.
Real Sicilians.
Nicola said rain tommorrow and you could see the weather turning
A nice working breeze coming up from the south
Oh to set sail out in the Laggoon.
On the ferry
“Ticket Ticket?”
“Accross Accross “I replied
“Ticket Ticket?”
“Freind Nicola Spano “ I exclaimed
“Gratzia “
Drove back along the lagoon road, back to a lonely dog and slept
Tonight is spaghetti, without pannichetto, just pomorodino, fungi and anchovies.
It seems that things are happening that are real and of the place.
Which is great.
Sat in thinking of Bonnard
Of what Nicola said about the grapes not needing too much water as this concentrates the flavour and sweetnes. In Mozia the vines are kept low to save them from the salt wind.
Think about my own work in context with wine growing - trying to be low, sheltered and concentrated.
There is so much I need to find in my work.
I hope I always have dificulty finding me in the art I want to find.
The sweetnes of Sicila is just right. It cuts through the heat, the same with the sharp wine. Marsala and Cassatta, it makes sense. The fig makes sense in this dry land.
A distilled sweetness, not syrupy.
As the water is evaporated into salt, the same process concentrates the sugar.
I can’t remeber the name of the large leafed tree planted by an englishman on Mozia. Leaves the shape of almonds, waxed green like plastic, the new fronds, uncurled and cadmium red. I sat under its spreading limbs in the cool shade.
The gaps of blue sky above like stars.
Small garish coloured flowers, yet in this light they sit in the brightness
( like fruit in a bowl of sugar )
I read somewhere that one of the English wine merchants was so carried away with Sicily and his wine that at night he used to run through his vines naked in estatic glee.
Being here I can understand that sort of ecstasy.
Its far enough near to an Eden.
The front door is open and I can see the Stagnone through the trees
Nicola is taking me to Mozia today
He shows me his saline but says it is unprofitable so lies unused
Coffee at Mama Cassa and he talks about his Marsala wine.
We get the boat accross to Mozia, there is always a sense of excitement in a ferry journey however short - the crossing of water to an island.
Mozia is small, with a group of houses, the largest was owned by Whitaker the wine merchant. The museam is full of artifacts from the Phonecian ruins, all laid out like a Morandi still life, very beautiful.
Nicola says he will show me around the Island, he insists.
We meet a family and have sweet coffee and they invite me for lunch.
We taste some local wine, then walk and talk in Pidgeon English / Italian
The stagione is beautiful, reaching out to a spit of land
We pass a man knee deep in the water bent down searching the shallows
Oysters says Nicola
then he pulls out a fish and puts it in his bag,
I think this has been done for centuries
just hands
I am left to wander the isle and ruins.
This place is perfect, I look with envy at a couple in a small sail boat out in the lagoon.
A lazy sail through the shallows, cool in the heat.
Lunch in Mozia with a large Sicilian family, around a large shaded table.
life outside.
I cannot speak Italian and they don’t speak english. We converse through jesture and humour.
Pasta, zuchine, melanane and sicilian sausage that has caraway seed in it, which in the heat gives it that southern spice.
There must be about four families all around the table, of all age making me feel very at home. The guy I was sitting next to me was very funny. In fact they all laughed alot and spoke at a rate of knots.
They cut me a large piece of melon for me - gesturing ‘prego’
I showed them my book which they all found interesting, they asked me if i was famous.
Drank coffee and smoked cigarettes. They couldn’t understand me not having sugar in my coffee. Sicilians have things very sweet.
Then a huge dollop of cake was presented, a sought of crumble filled with sweet ricotta cheese.
I parted saying gratzia gratzia gratzia and arriva derci
we took photos and waived goodbye
Next year you must return for lunch again was implied.
I will, but with more italian.
I sat on the sw tip of the island with a well fed glee in me, dosing in the sun by the gentle lapping waves.
Real Sicilians.
Nicola said rain tommorrow and you could see the weather turning
A nice working breeze coming up from the south
Oh to set sail out in the Laggoon.
On the ferry
“Ticket Ticket?”
“Accross Accross “I replied
“Ticket Ticket?”
“Freind Nicola Spano “ I exclaimed
“Gratzia “
Drove back along the lagoon road, back to a lonely dog and slept
Tonight is spaghetti, without pannichetto, just pomorodino, fungi and anchovies.
It seems that things are happening that are real and of the place.
Which is great.
Sat in thinking of Bonnard
Of what Nicola said about the grapes not needing too much water as this concentrates the flavour and sweetnes. In Mozia the vines are kept low to save them from the salt wind.
Think about my own work in context with wine growing - trying to be low, sheltered and concentrated.
There is so much I need to find in my work.
I hope I always have dificulty finding me in the art I want to find.
The sweetnes of Sicila is just right. It cuts through the heat, the same with the sharp wine. Marsala and Cassatta, it makes sense. The fig makes sense in this dry land.
A distilled sweetness, not syrupy.
As the water is evaporated into salt, the same process concentrates the sugar.
I can’t remeber the name of the large leafed tree planted by an englishman on Mozia. Leaves the shape of almonds, waxed green like plastic, the new fronds, uncurled and cadmium red. I sat under its spreading limbs in the cool shade.
The gaps of blue sky above like stars.
Small garish coloured flowers, yet in this light they sit in the brightness
( like fruit in a bowl of sugar )
I read somewhere that one of the English wine merchants was so carried away with Sicily and his wine that at night he used to run through his vines naked in estatic glee.
Being here I can understand that sort of ecstasy.
Its far enough near to an Eden.
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