architecttrice

My most feminist hobby of all is looking for (and sometimes happily finding) and learning about female artists of history. I taught a survey of women artists for several years at a women's college, and even when I can't teach that level of topical focus now, I insist on highlighting the work of women in other courses.  Although I have taught this material in one way or class or another for a long time, I took an online course offered through the UN agencies for all of us chilling at home during lockdown last Spring. I expected to already know much of what was taught in that course, but was happy to learn more about select artists and eras. 

Several months ago I posted an entry about our trip to Milan to see an exhibition addressing an impressive number of Italian female artists. So much more is known about them than when I first began brushing up on the subject before teaching my classes, years ago. This is only proof that like science, history is an evolving discipline. More information comes to light, and it is embraced, incorporated, and sometimes put in place of whatever was previously established as a truth.

Yesterday, we went to Palazzo Corsini, a museum featuring mostly 15th and 16th century Italian art, for the second time...because they are hosting a new exhibition of works by and related to Plautilla Bricci (1616-1705), Italy's first female architect (and also an artist, which deserves a bit of explanation).

'Portrait of a Woman (as the Allegory of Architecture),' presumed to portray Plautilla Bricci (plow-TEE-lah BREE-chee...be sure to roll that r like a proper Roman!) 

I had just learned in March and April about where in Rome I could find some lesser works of several women artists I already knew about, but Bricci was more or less unknown to me. Only very recently is she getting more airtime. One of the more exciting facts from that online course? Bricci created both the large painting AND designed the chapel to house it in the church directly behind our apartment (which is far more known for its Caravaggios, naturally). This exhibition at Palazzo Corsini featured that painting and also plumbed the depths of a few other institutions - as well as a private owner's collection - for the few remaining Bricci works in paint and on paper that exist. 

Cleverly, Palazzo Corsini's arrangement of this exhibition is peppered throughout its 8 rooms of collection works, typically hung in a salon style (meaning, from ceiling to midway down the wall, in rows and/or columns). An innovative solution for an otherwise small feature show that might have simultaneously seemed too small and yet still a consumer of precious little space in this relatively small museum, this arrangement enabled the visitor to always be able to enjoy the collection works. This provided important context, since the collection is largely contemporaneous with the career works of Bricci. Additionally, this unique installation enhanced the context of supplemental, borrowed works meant to expand upon concepts introduced through the exhibition. For instance, these three works - like all others curated for the show, identifiable as such by their bright blue labels - all portray allegorical portraits of women artists as the art of painting and/or architect/astronomer (scholars remain undecided on that third image). Artemisia Gentileschi fans will recognize the center painting, which is arguably attributed to her. 

A case in point for how the Corsini's permanent collection benefitted from this special exhibition peppered throughout the rooms: here are four pastel portraits by another Italian female artist of the 18th century: Rosalba Carriera. These two images feature personifications of the elements of air and water. Having seen an emphasis placed upon allegorical imagery in the Bricci exhibition, these personifications relate as well as compare. 

Bricci was, like so many female artists of the era, the daughter of a painter. She therefore was able to receive training in techniques and media and observe both her father's and his colleagues' careers as she matured in the arts and crafts-rich neighborhood surrounding Piazza del Popolo. 

It seems that the reason Plautilla Bricci was able to excel in not just painting but also architecture was her chance introduction to an abbot who functioned as an especially arts-savvy agent for the cardinal and prime minster of France, Elpidio Benedetti. He saw Bricci as a young artist worth promoting, but in a way that would seem a bit curious to us today. Put simply, he mostly employed her for her drawing and painting skills to help illuminate many of his ideas. At the time, so the exhibition text explains, it was not uncommon to claim credit for both the idea AND its execution, even if the latter portion was not necessarily your hand. He was trained and skilled - in embroidery (a common skill for male artists as well as female), painting and etching - and a very small sampling of his work was on view at Palazzo Corsini. However, he must have seen a greater talent in Bricci, and therefore promoted her for commissions when he wasn't directly collaborating with her to realize drawn plans for ideas that in some cases came to fruition and in other cases, remained only plans that he fervently and ceaselessly promoted. 

While it would be easy to leap to the conclusion that Bricci's few existing works are so small in number because the abbot was busy using her for her skills and claiming credit for it, the problem with this premise (which is justifiable against the collective history of women artists) is that very few of Benedetti's works remain, as well. 

Madonna of the Rosary, with Saints Domenic and Libero, 1683-7

I rather like the inclusion of this dog holding a lit candle.

It is also worth noting that Bricci - introduced to us in the first piece of wall-text of the exhibition as 'not a nun,' and 'not a wife' - occupied a tiny gray zone in the Venn diagram of 17th century Italian society, its art world, and womanhood. Despite the existence of more women artists in the Baroque era (far exceeding the number from the preceding Renaissance), they were still looked upon as unusual. Women were expected to instead be married and mothers or, if not that pair of roles, nuns, and Bricci avoided being both. The exhibition text mentions that during the time she crafted a painting for a convent, she undertook an oath of chastity, thereby cementing her choice to remain unmarried and yet also not committed to a cloistered life. It was this, plus the constant endorsement of the abbot, that kept her working and living independently.

Rarer still in this era was a woman who would design structures and buildings. Compared to the hyper-specialization of artists and designers of today, it was not uncommon for an artist to have several skill sets in the Renaissance and Baroque eras. Gian Lorenzo Bernini was a sculptor, first and foremost, who accepted commissions for architectural work quite frequently. Michelangelo also considered himself to be a sculptor in his heart of hearts, but honored the requests of popes who wanted ceiling frescos, basilica dome designs and plans for elaborate tombs. And while I differentiated those two giants from the artists and designers of today, who among us as contemporary creatives haven't made brave attempts at working outside of their wheelhouse because a) the request came from someone we just couldn't disappoint, or b) the money was needed at that very time or c) we thought to ourselves 'I don't know why I CAN'T do that, so why not try?'

How Bricci was familiarized with the principles of architecture is not firmly known, but her brother was both a painter and an architect, and there is speculation that she may have been trained within a circle of artists who benefitted from the patronage of Cassiano del Pozzo, who supported the artistic training of women. 

Assisted by her brother (to what extent exactly is not certain), Bricci the erstwhile painter designed a major palazzo that would still stand today were it not for the 1849 French siege of Rome. Bricci also painted wall murals inside the villa, but those images are now gone.

Below are the drawings for Villa Benedetti, otherwise known as Villa Valscello, because it resembled a kind of ship posited on the crest of a hill. 

All original architectural plans by Bricci. Her lovely, spidery handwriting labels various components. 

A little loupe magnification of the central elevation of the palazzo facade. 

The appearance of the palazzo after French canon fire destroyed much of it (with a dead soldier in the foreground for historical context, I suppose).

Numerous other works by Bricci - commissioned frescoes, other paintings, etc - no longer exist. 

On my way home today, I stopped by San Luigi dei Francesi, the French national church of Rome, to visit Bricci's chapel. Although the city is crawling with people for the holidays (mostly Italians, but some European and American tourists too) and they were flocking inside to see the Caravaggios that sit approximately 10 meters from my bedroom, Bricci's chapel - just two chapels away from those famous Caravaggios - designed for Louis IX (1214-1270) was completely free of spectators. 

Bricci designed and oversaw the construction of the chapel (1672-1680) itself, created reliefs and other architectural features to celebrate the martyr King Louis thanks in large part to the promotion of the abbot, who had demonstrated his fidelity to France by staging a funereal display for Louis XIV's mother, Queen Anne of Austria, at the same church just a few years before. 

Bricci's centerpiece painting portrays Louis carrying a martyr's palm, bearing a sceptor and clad in the well-known fleur-di-lis cape. Despite collaborating with the abbot on contriving this emblem of the absolute monarchy with a deeply faithful connection to the Church of Rome, Bricci's signature on the bottom of the painting contains the letters 'INV,' indicating her claim as the inventor of the concept as well as the executor of the image.

In so doing, she adopts the bravura of the masters. 

 

The chapel itself is full of typical Baroque resplendence, with gilding, polychrome marbles, curvilinearity of forms, gravity-defying figures and a delightful cupola with white stucco reliefs that lead the eye upward and help reflect the natural light emanating from above. 

Perhaps Bernini would have been proud to see how she incorporated some of his innovations - with the use of natural light, the figures inside the little dome, and the highly dramatic synthesis of upwardly moving forms. 

Perhaps Plautilla Bricci - pittrice (painter), architecttrice (female architect), and invenit (inventor) - did not particularly care whether he was proud. 

I would like to think so. 

What Pandemic?

If being in SW Virginia for about a week taught me anything, it is that American agnosticism about the ongoing pandemic is alive and (un)well. Signage in storefronts and restaurants amount to: would you pretty please think about wearing a mask if we say 'strongly recommend' in our signage? No? Well, ok. We will force our employees to do it, but forget about the whole 'over nose and mouth' part after some time passes. No big. 

A man far older than me working the cash register at a grocery store, sporting one of those infernal plastic shields, which are the protective equivalent of licking a doorknob, working with more than a few other staff members sporting masks that they have pulled down to their chins for one reason or another, and have just left them in place. When an item I had planned to purchase wouldn't scan properly and another poorly masked staff member was asked to go looking for it in the vast expanse, they then came back and asked if I could remember on what aisle I got it (as if I worked there), I said, hey, I don't need it that badly. Thanks anyway. 

A school bus driver with whom I was in a laboratory waiting room - as he waited for his random drug test to be performed (and hey, props to whoever is really doing that, because it's what parents want to believe happens), and I waited for my Covid test in order to fly - stated that he was due to schedule his second shot soon. SECOND shot? And you're a BUS DRIVER? Let me guess: you didn't make a move toward vaccination until your employer forced the issue. Routinely subjected to random drug testing (no complaints there), and yet, reluctant to submit to a safe vaccination...and you work every day with children...are you crazy? 

Also at home, I learned about an alien thing that no one in Europe has seen in forever: a buffet. Those were eliminated in 2019 and show no signs of returning. And yet, it is alive and well at an Italian restaurant in my American hometown. When the option came up for a family luncheon - buffet or menu? - you know I chose the menu. 

I realized way too late that the person who prepared my burger in one of my favorite hometown places to dine was completely maskless. It was when she came to deliver my otherwise missing pickles. And she decided to chat me up at my table, and I just sat there, leaning as far backwards as possible in my booth, horrified. Gosh, she was friendly, and also....freaking me out. 

All of the Americans who flew with me from Atlanta to Rome a couple of days ago failed to notice the imposition of signage on the floor at Fiumicino baggage claim, instructing people (in ENGLISH) to stand at dedicated places, a meter apart, while waiting for the bags to roll out on the conveyor belt. I kept having to move away from fellow passengers who just crowded in to look for their bags, standing cheek by jowl. 

And as I write from the comfort of my sofa here in Rome, I am seeing posts on social media: one from a recently retired art professor who posted video from their university's holiday gathering, featuring a choir singing in front of its conductor. All maskless, standing within non-social distance proximity to one another on risers. 

Another academician posts a picture of the drive through Covid testing line she has been sitting in for one hour, and she is not quite halfway through. 

Thanks to my recent visit, here are my fundamental takes on what's wrong with this whole scene:

1. Y'all are WAY late to the party on boosters. The middle-aged guy who handled my father's cremation at the local funeral home indicated that he was scheduled to get his booster the day we spoke in person. Um, what? Your business involves direct dealing with people every doggone day. And you aren't requiring that they be vaccinated before entering your premises, so dontcha think it'd be a good idea to GET AS VACCINATED AS POSSIBLE?

The sentiment is not isolated to any single country. 

2. Not unlike the U.K., the business of testing is like Wild West capitalism. It is TERRIBLE. Because arrangements for my father and his estate are way more extended than I anticipated (due to Covid, one way or another, believe me), I found that I had no need to change my return flight. There was simply no more that I could do. So I wound up scrambling for a Covid test in order to be, as Delta Airlines put it, 'fly ready.' No appointments were available at select local pharmacies (because not all pharmacies do it....why? WHY?) for the only day I had to do this before boarding a plane. Any of those appointments would have been free. But since they were gobbled up, I had to then look into quick care facilities. Aha, I found one. Drove to it so early that there was still frost on my windshield. Police tape surrounded the building. No one was inside. Turns out that they had a fire several weeks ago and...um, I don't know. No one bothered to, for instance, post any signage on the door to help those looking for a testing center that required no previously booked appointments. I finally wound up at a lab with school bus drivers joking about taking their randomly assigned drug tests. That antigen Covid test cost me $100. 

To complete the Wild West picture, here's what happened as I was in transit from my hometown to a major American hub for my airline. Italy changed her entry rules, requiring an antigen test within 24 (instead of 48) hours of arrival. For this purpose, my $100 test had expired. But there was another lab in an international terminal at this airport. Only PCR tests, they said. Fine, I replied, but how much will this cost? 

$250

That's approximately $240 more than the test costs to produce. 

But see, I was captive. I had no choice. No at-home tests were available in my entire home town. No appointments at pharmacies. No choices that were reasonable and fairly affordable. 

This is untenable. One crucial thing for success in this pandemic is to have some degree of accuracy of reporting for the sake of contact tracing. So that means that you must have readily and widely available testing that is affordable and accessible for all. A reduction - if not a complete elimination - of barriers to testing is SO VITAL. (Another barrier, in my opinion, is the ream of paperwork you have to complete before getting the test. This is required because of course everyone is loathe to participate in a nationwide vaccination record system, which would be easily accommodated if we weren't so hung up on ideas about privacy. And I say 'ideas' about privacy because it would be very easy to protect privacy AND maintain a national health network if America wanted it to streamline lives and medical support. Where there is a will, there's a way. But instead, it is easier to imagine the untold horrors and thwart progress)

But barriers to testing are par for the course in America. While I find plenty of things completely infuriating about the place in which I currently reside, a few important differences on the Covid front strike me as, dare I say about anything Italian, imminently sensible. 

I can go to any pharmacy with a white pop-up tent that is labeled with bright red letters: COVID. And most pharmacies have one (or two, as you see in this photo below) of those tents. I can call to make an appointment, but I can also walk in. I go into the pharmacy to pay ahead for my antigen test. It costs 22 euros (about $25...and it is 60 euros for a PCR test...this is true everywhere in the country, as far as I know). I take my receipt outside to the tent and get swabbed. I wait 10 minutes. I leave with certified documentation of my results, good enough for travel requirements or entry to a hospital for surgery (I've done both). And get this: the results are even written in English. 

While it's entirely possible that some people here can't spare a $25 fee for a test, there is a far greater proportion of the populace that is capable of undertaking this cost vs. something that is 10 times greater. 

And the only justification I can come up with for this American (and Anglo, just to be clear that is not  only one country) wreck of a situation is that capitalism reigns. 

3) As Nick Cho (YourKoreanDad) recently reminded his followers, wearing your cute fabric masks - emblazoned with messages and sports teams' insignias - and thin surgical masks (and Delta Airlines, I'm sorry, but this is what you elected to distribute to all of your customers on the departing flight from Rome...and what on earth are you thinking??) might make you feel cool and comfortable, but neither of them make a difference, particularly against the Omicron variant. It's N95 or...stay home. The bandannas and scarves and plastic shields...and the same mask (with stretched out ear loops and stains) you've been wearing for the last three months...are USELESS. Do yourself a favor and get your hands on something like the NY Times' recent article on how to double mask, in fact. My physician insists that the way to go is to place a surgical mask OVERTOP the N95. 

This elegant lady has it right: double masked. Neutral heels optional.

While it seems that the Omicron variant is so very wily and speedy, mask wearing is still advocated. Here, we are back to wearing them outdoors in crowded areas as well as all types of interiors (fun fact: since the inception of mask advocacy a very long time ago, we have never been allowed to go maskless in public access places such as grocery stores, restaurants, shops, transit, etc.) Restaurants check our green passes for proof of vaccination that is not older than 9 months. Police are on buses and trams and trains, doing the same. 

As recently as today, I continue to see footage - of both American and English citizens being interviewed by news gatherers, reporters and the like in both interiors and exteriors, with people in their midst, talking about Covid transmissions, case numbers, and the potentiality of refreshed restrictions, and no one...is...wearing...a...mask. 

While the person walking in this photo is masked, and that's great (it was taken last May), I feel the need to post this one more time, because shortly after I took the image of Rome's rose garden that she just happened to be in, she approached me and asked me to delete it because as a model, she felt that she should have control over the portrayal of her face. 

Her masked face. Occupying a tiny fragment of the entire photo. 

Because of course, I must have been photographing her and not the rose garden.

Of course. 

So here is my pictorial equivalent of flipping her off. 

Finally, I'm pretty tired of seeing and hearing about public perception of any of political leader being directly related to the fact that pandemic is far from over. To be blunt, this is ridiculous. None of them started this, and none of them will end it. Some of them may be overreacting in attempts to stop something that has already begun (shutting down borders is pointless now, and amping up specific testing requirements for border entry is clearly becoming a fantastic boondoggle for pharma and its purveyors), and some of them may be under-reacting in attempts to placate the 'Covid fatigued' by withholding from imposing Covid restrictions until after Christmas (looking at you, Boris, and while you can't take credit for starting all of this, you will have credit for helping it perpetuate by choosing paths of least political resistance). But this is science unfolding around and literally in us. Attributing causality to a few people in suits is utterly misplaced. 

If we want to end this, we do have to act like it. We know how. We just have to do it. 

Commitment

My father died yesterday. 

I had just spoken with him the prior evening. The conversation was prompted by his partner who had written me earlier, terribly worried about the alarming symptoms Dad had been experiencing for 5 days. And indeed, they were alarming. 

Only more alarming than those symptoms was his persistent aversion to emergency rooms, hospitals and physicians. 

I had concluded that call with this parting shot: you really should go to the emergency room now, but if you insist on seeing your physician tomorrow morning, I can't make you do otherwise. 

The Spouse mused: I wonder why he is so distrustful of medical practitioners? 

I know precisely why. The formula for producing a person like this is to take one mother - his, of course - with an utter reliance on a general physician who was well past his prime when he was advising her to use folk or low impact remedies when more serious interventions were required. And let's not forget that once upon a time, your primary physician was the person you saw for almost everything. That person held a lot of sway, rightly or wrongly. 

Later, as cancer ravaged what remained of her body, my father witnessed the terrors of at-home hospice care. She wanted to die at home, she insisted. It was a horrific experience. 

The equation requires the addition of my sister, who at the 9 month mark in utero was in breach position. In the mid-70s, doctors did not automatically resort to c-section deliveries in such cases. They took their chances. In this case, the chance yielded a brain-damaged baby, issued into the world with the umbilical cord wrapped around her neck. During her infancy, multiple tests were performed to determine the extent of the damage. Terrible predictions of no walking or talking or who knows what else (I was 5, in the beginning, so forgive my gloss) unfolded with one specialist after another. Despite this, she lived to be 35 before dropping dead (from a free, standing position, after saying "I don't feel good") of either a neurological or a cardiac issue. We will never know what precipitated what. 

And lastly, we have to factor in my mother, who went into the hospital with pneumonia in 2017, and never successfully emerged from the induced state she was placed in so that she would no longer fight the mechanized assistance for breathing. Every time there was an attempt to bring her back to consciousness, she had seizures. One hospital threw up its collective hands and transferred her to another. An attending physician said to Dad: I don't know what exactly is going on, but your wife has significant health issues that may prevent easy rehabilitation. At the two week mark, while no one could manage to bring her safely out, her heart stopped. My father theorized that mistakes must have been made by - you guessed it - practitioners. Something was administered in the way of a too-strong sedative or...well, you could spin this a variety of ways. But for him, the cause was always going to be the same thing: medicine is a practice, and in his estimation, it is too often practiced poorly.  

He would fight with his own physicians if he didn't agree with their advice or declarations. He grumbled about his ultra-healthy tee-totalling primary care physician asserting that he should stop drinking beer. He had atrial fibrillation, but he hated taking blood thinners and finally, when a specialist retorted - OK, stop taking them if you hate them so much - he did. He took plenty of vitamins and his blood pressure medications. He rationalized that he, and not genetics or the plain fact of aging, was still in charge.  We pseudo-argued (hard to explain, but in this family, a discussion sometimes sounds like an argument, when it isn't) for the last month over whether he should consider undergoing an outpatient procedure to help thwart his high potential for stroke, particularly given his discontinuation of blood thinner meds. He veered between claiming that he'd never heard of the procedure before (as if that alone indicated that it was inappropriate for him) and talking off the ears of anyone in (or out, I can testify) medicine about whether it was a good idea for him. No one but his overworked cardiologist would make the hard sell. My father would inform his own son-in-law - a public health specialist and a veterinarian - what was what in the worlds of disease and medicine, telling me privately that he thought my Public Health Specialist was a know-it-all. Because three degrees and years of experience didn't amount to a hill of beans for him. 

He was infuriating and exhausting, in this regard. He would rare up like some kind of cobra, always at the defensive, ready to go full-on in the ring with anyone who had the temerity to suggest that he needed medical intervention. His loving partner grew accustomed to calling on me - the only equally stubborn person he might listen to? MIGHT? - to help with coercion for a sleep study to see if he had apnea (he did). Finally outfitted with his breathing machine and after surmounting difficulties and complaints and sheer orneriness, he expressed simultaneous bitterness and wonder (how is that possible?) at the prospect of sleeping deeply and awakening rested. 

And there was no 'I told you so' on the tip of my tongue. Because another battle would come up, most assuredly, and I would need to have his openness, if there was any. 

The night before last, I argued alongside his paramour on that online call, looking at a man who was miserable with symptoms that he had rarely ever had before. But here is where he still had reason to distrust medicine: he had been to an urgent care facility two days prior, because he had agreed with her that yes, he was not feeling well at all....where they tested him for Covid and flu, informed him he was negative for both, and he was sent home to 'treat his symptoms.' 

The last things we said to each other, once the battle to get him to go to the emergency room appeared resolutely unwinnable, were 'I love you" and that we would 'talk tomorrow.' 

We will not do that. 

To be utterly and totally fair, that same bullheadedness was another kind of shaping force in my life. 

It drove his sense of unwavering commitment. 

As a child, I recall summer after summer of babysitting my sister while my mother was at work and Dad was driving us across our small town between three different yards to mow and gardens to tend. His parents divorced sometime during those years, and like every confounding family member I have, practically, they kept vegetable gardens. Dad kept one (and produced so much yield that neighbors would sometimes have to waive him away, claiming an existing surplus of tomatoes and zucchini from his last giveaway). My mother complained that almost all of the trees, and it was apparently a great number, in the back yard came down so that the earth could be tilled, plants could be staked and weeded and tended. That man was committed - to making things grow, to keeping a tidy yard, and to taking care of his estranged parents' gardens and yards. It was a seemingly endless repetition of bi-weekly visits, with me situated in the cab of a Ford pickup, my sister to my right, my shirtless, denim cut-off wearing father to my left. Brown as a nut from the sun. These arduous tasks kept him fit and busy. Right up to the point that he changed clothes and went to work as a welder on second shift. 

Commitment came also in the form of simply staying close to his mother. And later, keeping his promise to her to take care of his little brother. Of sticking it out in a challenging marriage, with a handicapped child who would never leave home on her own. Of paying for - with small loans and extra work shifts - his oldest daughter's college degree, leaving her debt free and in possession of a diploma. 

Commitment came in the form of hanging upside down in impossible positions to perform welding tasks at General Electric. The ultimate result, decades later, was a spine riddled through like Swiss cheese, and constant, unrelievable pain that he simply lived with, because medicine would fail him on that count, too. 

Commitment came in the form of loving someone new when the time was right. First was Charlie, a mature tabby supplied by the animal shelter as, per Dad's request, 'the one who was too old for anyone else to want to adopt.' And second, more importantly, was a Rose, with a wicked sense of humor and the strength to take on his most stubborn qualities. The love of a lifetime squeezed into just a couple of years. I am so grateful to have as a lasting memory the sight of those two, walking hand in hand. One tall, one small. Such big, warm and raucous love. 

Busy taking care of others. Not always taking care of himself. Exhausting. A force of nature. Hellbent on doing the right thing. 

That was Dale Clayton Looney. A curmudgeonly paragon - and paradox - of commitment. 

I have to pack up and go home now. I have to do all of those expected and unexpected things. Some day I will stop being angry about this. 

I will never stop being his daughter. 

Four generations: Me, months old, in the lap of my father Dale, his grandfather Ryan Gordon, father Ryan Gray, mother Ruth, and wife, Barbara. 

 

Roman Moment

A lot of people persist in thinking that I live some kind of ultra-charmed life here, and I want to just share a slice of how charming it can be. 

Yesterday, I met my class at Santa Maria Maggiore. 

The first church dedicated to Mary....unless you say this in front of fans of Santa Maria in Trastevere, in which case you have to concede that TWO churches vie for this position. 

Well, I met a percentage of my class. Four people were absent. 

I would not mind this so much if it did not also mean that I would be responsible for delivering three of those four students' presentations on assigned objects for the day's itinerary. It seems like a great idea to have students take on responsibility for a portion of a day's course content - even if only superficially - by requiring that they be prepared in advance of said course...unless they don't. No messages, no apologies, no word at all...just no-shows. 

From the before times, when people were taking notes (sure, on their phones, but so what?) and not missing  scheduled presentations)

After we got through our itinerary, I walked to Rome's main rail station to renew my recently expired transit pass. 

As I entered the station, I recalled the reviews I'd recently read about the Rome transit office (they just come up when you seek out directions on Google maps). People angrily complaining about the extreme difficulty of finding the office within the rail station.  Cursing the terrible service. Bitter about the lack of clear information. I felt pretty confident that I would be less angry after I went through this because I've done it a few times before. 

After 5 years of being here and having them confirmed in an extraordinary number of ways I never imagined possible, I must verify that there are two realities that you have to accept about this place: Italy does not - and as far as we can all tell, will NEVER - care about customer service, and Italians are very much in favor of being first - in line, to board the bus, to get the taxi, to get whatever meager service is possibly on offer. 

These two realities combine perfectly in the case of the working Italian's lunch hour. 

After easily losing 30 minutes to a trek to find a bathroom in the train station (sure there are signs, but they don't continue to appear frequently enough to actually get you to a bathroom), standing in line to first pay 1 euro to use the bathroom and then wait with all of the other women to access what appeared to be four working stalls (out of a total of 7), giving silent thanks for stocked toilet paper and a lock on the door (it's the little things, when you consider the nationwide state of Italian restrooms), and then trying and failing to retrace my steps to get back to where I thought I saw a sign for the transit office. I covered every inch of that place. Where the heck is it? Oh. Two levels down into the belly of the train station and behold, there it was. 

A line consisting of about 15 people was in place. The three windows for service were in operation. Much like other Italian businesses that have become fed up with people jumping the line and causing a commotion, this office has a machine that generates a number on a ticket for you. This is intended to keep people honest about where they are in the queue. 

But the transit office's machine is broken. This should come as zero shock to any former visitor or resident. 

It is about 1pm. Blinds on window #3 are lowered, leaving us with only two functioning windows. 

There is no prioritization of service, by the way. There is no fast lane or dedicated window for people who have quick business vs. more involved needs. You need to buy one single ride bus ticket? You need to obtain a student bus pass for the 6 months that you are here? Great. Everybody stands in the same line, and they go to whatever window is free. 

I should add that when I first arrived, I did see a man in a transit company uniform, standing behind a kind of mobile kiosk with this poorly hand-written sign in thin black marker, informing customers in Italian that they could go down the hall (where exactly, I couldn't tell you if you paid me) to obtain single tickets. He wasn't talking to or greeting anyone. He just stood there. No one talked to him. But about 15 minutes later, he rolled the little kiosk up against far wall and left. 

By the time I am second in line behind a couple, there are about 25-30 people in the line after me, sitting on their suitcases, staring at their phones, seething. 

And the blinds are then lowered on window #2, leaving us all to wait for service from one remaining window. 

You might be wondering why no one would come to relieve someone for their lunch hour but still maintain a degree of service for all the people in line.

Oh sure, I saw that happen. Once. But this was for the single remaining window operator. Nothing was done to open up the two shuttered windows. 

The bottom line: if you come to the transit office for service during the widely observed lunch hour - perhaps during YOUR lunch hour - you are going to endure this. 

While the process of renewing my transit card was admittedly painless, the rest of my afternoon would not be. 

I have two arthritic knees. I would prefer to use an escalator to go UP. Contrary to my usual experience in Italy, the escalators I find are actually working. 

But for some colossally stupid reason, they are - all FOUR OF THEM (I checked, in disbelief) - running in the downward trajectory. 

Now, let's consider that this main rail station has a lot of travelers in it. Travelers with suitcases, baby carriages, and whatnot. What's easier to do: manipulate your cargo down - or up - a flight of stairs? This is what I mean when I say that the Italian lack of interest in customer service can emerge in astonishing ways. Someone just turned on all the escalators to run in the same useless direction and no one will do anything about it. 

It is supremely difficult to not imagine someone in an underground office somewhere, watching people on closed circuit cameras, twirling their evil mustaches as travelers struggle up the stairs with their luggage and kids.  

Before I leave the next level of the station, I decide to stop by Sephora to see if I can find a particular brand of nail polish remover. 

Because businesses have had to navigate the murky world of routing foot traffic through their spaces - dictated by some Byzantine method of reducing Covid transmission - there are some spectacular successes AND failures. 

Imagine a long rectangle. At one end, there is a doorway. It is closest to the next set of escalators (which thankfully, are running in both up and down directions). It is roped off. You cannot use it. 

You must walk all the way around the long rectangle to get to the other end, where you find an arrow on the floor directing you inside, and another arrow pointing in the opposite direction, approximately 5 feet away, but using the same wide door. This is not what Covid guidelines ever intended for a business to do with its foot traffic. This is not a unilaterally safe means of routing people through your shop. 

After wandering and wandering (there were approximately 8 black-garbed staff aimlessly milling about, heads clustered together in conversation or, predictably, furtively looking at their phones, but unlike any American version of this store - in which you must grimly fend off the syrupy 'Hi! What can I help you find today?' "Do you need a shopping basket?' "Has anyone assisted you yet?' queries that come as a never-ending onslaught, only one INSTRUCTED me to use the hand sanitizer at the entrance and I was subsequently left completely alone), I realized that not only was there zero nail polish being sold from that shop, there was zero nail polish remover. I stopped at the samples aisle, which as many of you know is directly located by the cash registers....which are directly beside the doorway that no one is allowed to use. And I realized what else was so wrong with this arrangement. 

I have to go inside the store right beside the people who are exiting the store. Mmmmm, Covid intimacy. How nice. And those people have come all the way from the other end of the store where the cash registers are, carrying their stripey Sephora bags and, what, helping themselves to merchandise on their way to the exit because they have to walk through the entire shop in order to get out, and NONE of the staff give two hoots what the customers are doing or need? 

I leave empty-handed, walk to an Asian grocery store and realize that almost all of the things I intend to get are in heavy glass bottles and cans. Awesome. 

I walk several blocks to a bus stop. By many (but certainly not all, because why does there have to be consistency, exactly? What's in it for Italy to have any consistency?) bus stops in Rome there is an electronic sign that regularly posts updated information on bus arrival times. 

Unless it doesn't. 

Instead, today, all of them (I saw it again later in the day, at another stop) simply read: Informazioni temporaneamente sospese.

I turn to my phone app, Moovit. It too is blank. 

I stand there indefinitely, holding bags with heavy cans and bottles. 

And it begins to rain. 

I'm prepared. I have an umbrella. But my hands are full and it's hard to get it out. So I have to fend off one of those annoying street vendors who forcefully offers to sell me one of his crap umbrellas. 

A bus finally arrives and I board it. The bus is full of people bundled in puffy coats and scarves. The windows on the bus are closed because Italians are terrified of cold air hitting their necks. There is no air movement. 

The day's high temperature is 70 F (29 C).  I might as well be a dumpling inside a bamboo steamer. 

All of my friendly food vendors start to inquire after my lack of cold weather clothing at this point in the year. Aren't you cold? No jacket? Where is your coat? And I just shrug and say 'sono Americana.' I know that I talk a lot about the heat here, but it bears mentioning that when the outdoor temperatures become bearable, Italians at large find them nearly UNbearable. And meanwhile, every Covid-safety-theater temperature gun aimed at my forehead or wrist as I enter a building or office here yields the same spooky conclusion: by Italian standards, I am dead. I do not register at a normal human temperature. 

NO WONDER I'VE BEEN SO MISERABLE AND DEHYDRATED.

By the time I arrive home, I am full-on sweaty, tired and over it. 

I logged over 8,000 steps for this charming day. 

A colleague used to say that at our particular place of work, if you were having one of those days in which it was abundantly clear that the environment is steeped in futility and you are but a cog in the wheel with virtually no control or agency, you were 'having a (name the place) moment.' 

Well, dear readers, this little summary of my Roman moment might help take the shine off of your perceptions. 

Funghi!

This is a little (feminist) story about loyalty in Italy. 

I've been cheating on my fruit and veg guy. 

I mean, I still see him regularly because his stand is close by, but I've been going to another vender a little farther away, too.

It's mostly because of apples. I am an apple snob, and I can't help it. Some vendors carry the Pink Lady variety, and that is my favorite (no, I can't get Honey Crisp here). It's crisp and tart-sweet. My regular fruit and veg guy carries Fujis and some Granny Smiths, but they just don't do it for me

Enter Franca. 

I discovered her at Campo dei Fiori several months ago when everyone's business was completely dampened by Covid restrictions and the square that is usually so lively with tourists and locals shopping for fruit, veg, cheese, fish, and even some kitchenware was kind of dead. I spotted her Pink Lady apples and made a big purchase.  She is my apple supplier, but I usually pick up other items from her too. 

Franca and her daughter have a fairly comprehensive stand. It is comparable to most of the others at the Campo. They do like to specialize a bit in tomatoes that are not hothouse grown, so that customers who can't handle the extra fertilizers used for those varieties still have something to purchase. I like the way they pre-bundle herbs that you can just select out of a large basket. But otherwise, their goods are more or less like anyone else's. 

The real differences?  First, it's a solely female-run business, and I'm all about supporting that. Second, Franca is old. I have no idea how old, but she is really up there. And let's not forget that Italians are some long-lived people. She has grasped my hand in greeting and her grip is FIERCE. Hand her a heavy bag of apples that you have selected and she hobbles over to you but then handles the bag weight like a champion bowler. There are no chairs under her tent. She stands from some outrageously early hour in the morning until around 2pm six days a week, greeting customers and upselling like a fiend. If you have no self-control or ability to refuse this woman, she will sell you everything she has. And you will have tasted much of it before it went into your bag, because she does not ask if you want to try something. She simply takes your hand and puts that fig or grape or whatever in it. "Mangi," she commands, pointing with a bony finger. Her daughter tries to rein her in a bit, but it's a pretty futile gesture. 

All year long she wears her Roma football team flash in one way or another, on a knitted cap, pins on her face mask, a neck scarf. She is loyal. 

She is a force of nature. 

Her business card tells you that you can get her goods delivered to your door, which was definitely a thing during the height of the pandemic. But the service still exists now. During hotter weather, I was grateful for the option, although I only used it once.  

Yesterday, in the (blessedly) cooler temperatures ushered in by October, I approached her stand and she greeted me warmly, sliding empty paper bags to my waiting hands, encouraging me to fill them. I got my apples and clementines and a few other items and then asked: 'Hai funghi?' (Do you have mushrooms?) 

It is the season for them, both chanterelles and porcini. 

No, was the answer. Tomorrow, yes. 

And before I knew it, I was being asked to dictate a quantity (I asked for 6 porcinis, as they can be about the size of a 12 oz. soda can, which is big enough!) and a time for delivery of said mushrooms.  

Would you like for me to pay ahead? I asked, expecting to put some kind of money down on the venture. 

"Oh no, cara," that idea was waived away. You'll pay next time. 

And here are two of the six, with a 12 oz. soda can for scale. 

When the delivery guy - probably Bangladeshi, as they commonly hold service positions everywhere here - handed me the bag this morning, I first thought that there had been a mistake. It was way heavier than I expected. I honestly expected to look inside and find cantaloupes. Instead, there are 6 monstrous porcini mushrooms. 

I can't ever be certain, of course, but I strongly suspect that she gave me some of her best selections of the day. Had I known that they would be this scale, I would have asked for three. Aside from the new (and admittedly, fun) puzzle over what to do with so much bounty, I also know that I'll probably pay a pretty price for those hefty mushrooms. Next time. 

And that is completely fine by me. 

Another One

Today, I am struck by the news reports that are creating news out of...news about news. 

It is one thing to report on the updates unfolding after the body of a young white woman was found in a national park campground in Wyoming, her MIA boyfriend, and the emerging contributions from other outdoorsy people who saw the couple - or a single member of the couple - in late August. 

It is quite another thing to see the desperation in news outlets' new attention to the attention paid by official and social media alike. This story has 'lit up the internet' because everyone wants to play online sleuth. Followers are also allegedly fascinated by 'true crime' stories. 

Reporting like this really only highlights news media concerns about keeping the victim's name in headlines because people are hungry for any word. 

Because the couple in question was enlisting social media to publicize their cross-country trip in a van, it is quickly presumed that we should learn everything we need or want to learn about the more sordid details of the relationship and its evident deterioration (let's face facts: he came home alone). We alight on the thin testimony from an emergent witness who saw the boyfriend driving alone in the vicinity of where the victim's remains were eventually found. But that's all they have to tell us: 'I saw him driving there. He pulled over. He was by himself.' 

We watch the bodycam video released by Moab police, in which the couple is pulled over and questioned after the van was clocked for excessive speed and erratic driving. She is teary, struggling to breathe between sobs...she seems panicky. How many young people have we observed talking freely about mental health conditions, owning them, but not really? She says that she 'has OCD' and she didn't want him to get into the van with dirty feet. Somehow this escalates? She admits to striking her boyfriend repeatedly as he is driving and they are arguing. He acknowledges that they had a dispute, but he exhibits self-control. Calm, even. He is extraordinarily cooperative. They both are. It is later reported that upon law enforcement's (astute) suggestion, they agreed to spend that night apart to allow things to 'cool down.' 

A domestic violence expert observes that in the footage, the young woman voluntarily takes all the blame for the incident. He does not. 

We keep clicking. We will learn what happened, won't we? 

The longer the boyfriend remains a fugitive (while only a 'person of interest,' according to investigators), the ascribed guilt ratchets up with every additional click. 

Here is why I think many of us are clicking: we see ourselves, maybe right now, maybe some time in a previous life. We are clicking the same way we pick at a scab. We shouldn't, we know, but it's THERE and WHAT IF. 

What if she had been me? 

Many years ago, I had a terrifying argument in a car with a boyfriend. We were driving in my car to his parents' cabin. The cabin is in a deeply rural area that takes at least two hours to reach. The roads on the route are lined with the rare mailbox or armadillo carcass between long stretches of murky pine forests. I now cannot recall what exactly caused the boyfriend's explosive temper to manifest, except that I was talking in a jeering sort of way about something related to him. I remember thinking that I was being critical, but conversational in volume. I did not realize that my commentary would provoke him, the driver, to turn from the waist, almost lunge over towards me in the passenger's eat and bellow into my ear. He was so loud that I felt the sound more than heard it. I suddenly realized that I had something akin to a live, wild animal driving my car; everything about the threatening movement, the unbelievable volume, the wide-eyed facial expression, all combined, scared me in a new way. 

I was never touched. But I was certain of this much: he made that move to suggest that I could be. 

I cannot remember the rest of the drive, other than keeping my eyes fixed forward. I do recall arriving. His father stepped out of the cabin to greet us. Boyfriend behaved as if everything was just fine. Both men walked into the cabin together. In a split second decision, I walked around the front of my trusty Subaru, got into the driver's seat, turned the engine back on and drove away. 

I had no idea how to get home, exactly. I had never made the drive by myself before, and I am terrible at paying attention when I am a passenger. I was too blinded by tears and adrenalin to make heads or tails of the map I carried in the back seat. I ignored my ringing phone. I did not call anyone. I just kept taking one little rural road after another, in fading twilight, following an occasional sign indicating a town I knew, and eventually - I do not recall how many hours later - I was home. And while it sounds as though I was intimidated by being lost and struggling to navigate, I was in fact quite soothed by regaining agency over my sense of safety. I knew what state I was in. I knew that I could sleep in my car if I just kept wandering aimlessly in the dark and ran low on gas.  I knew that I would get home eventually. Quietly. Alone. And alive. 

The aftermath of the saga that matters here is that on that day, a kernel of hate was planted somewhere. I hated him for introducing doubt, for revealing that he had a capacity for violence towards another person he claimed to love, and for pretending that he did not have that capacity. Hate infiltrates. It hastens rot. It erodes foundations. 

This whole passage is, by allusion, a practical indictment of a 'person of interest,' and it is also just another story to add to the seemingly neverending stack of near-misses and real altercations involving lovers' quarrels that go badly. It does nothing to offset the media fixation with 'missing white woman' stories that journalist Gwen Ifill rightly pointed out years ago. 

Of course, the truth is that such stories belong to any gender, relationship type, race or class. We absolutely need to be telling all of them. Right now, you can find an abundance of clear and thorough analyses of statistics, speculations on why we fixate on the white young woman of privilege above all others, and the implications of our failures to account for all the missing. 

And in the meantime, some of us toggle between wanting to see the next twist in the story and knowing how it is already written. This particular young woman's murderer doesn't have to be her betrothed in order to still place blame on his prematurely balding head. If not murder, for what should he sustain blame? 

I will leave the question of violence and who began it and/or sustained it to witnesses. I have no authority to speak about it. 

But the enactment of violence is on par with the very real issue of abandonment. In either case, there is abandonment, either the casting off of basic responsibilities in a relationship (i.e., I am responsible for another person's well-being. I am responsible for not harming) or the very literal leaving of a person (for whom you ostensibly have concerns). He left. When he left, and whether he left a living or not living person, we cannot know. But he left. And he brought home the one vehicle they were using. She was not in it. 

Many followers of this story may be fascinated with the notion of privileged white people encountering an utter tragedy. Many may equate the stated social media-oriented purpose of this young couple's trip with a call to scrutinize those very platforms for clues. 

On the other hand, some of us follow with a level eye on the probable developments to come. We will relive our own moments of risk. We will find the strangest reminders of them in something as innocuous as my recent hearing test, in which my left ear was determined to be inexplicably impaired. 'Were you in the military? Exposed to repeated loud noises?' the ENT asked. 

No, I have to answer. But I once felt rage vibrate on that ear drum, sending a shockwave to my fight or flight-triggered center. Does that count? 

And if I emerged on the other side to tell the tale, does it matter? 

It may only matter if that same center - the gut, the instinct, the source of self-knowing - is activated in others, and empowerment drives important decision making. 

Let the teaching of that begin, or continue. But never allow it to stop. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QK2LfWAzDIY

 

"Cool"

People living in a wide swath of cities around the globe are familiar with the Eataly chain: a store concept associated with the Slow Food movement, featuring only Italian made foods, ingredients and products. Little Eatalies are in many cities outside of Italy. The biggest such store is the one in Rome, which occupies four floors of Italian foodie goodness. Shopping there is as close to a food mall experience as you will ever get here, and it requires a commitment of at least a few hours. 

You shop, you taste things, you park your cart and have a meal or just a drink, and you shop some more.  You can go for a thematic food festival and try all kinds of things. You can take a cooking class on the top floor. It is a lot of fun. 

Wines occupy a whole floor, and are divided by region. Remember that Italy has only recently outpaced France in terms of wine production (France still makes more money off their wine, but it's because they charge more per bottle). 

It has only been during the pandemic that we learned why there was always such a line outside the pizza restaurant inside Eataly. 

Oh, we said. No wonder. Delicious!

The absolute BIGGEST version of Eataly is located just outside of Bologna - a foodie city, for sure - and it is a giant sprawl involving not just the Eataly concept in its essential form. It also includes

 on-site food production displays and laboratories, as well as whole agricultural displays with an active chicken yard and coop, cows and goats...It is tailored to not just the individual consumer but also corporate clientele. A special city bus in Bologna takes you there. The place is so big, you can grab a bicycle outfitted with a cart and ride around inside, shopping, eating, watching chickens, whatever. 

This mega-Eataly is known simply as 'Fico.' 

Friends, that's a LOT OF SALAMI.

Ahem. Excuse me. SalUmi. Not salami.

Naturally, the chickens get to roam a bit here.

(Every time I scroll past this image in my phone photos, I remember...best. popsicle. ever.)

Fico in slang vernacular is 'cool.' 

Fico is also, more directly, Italian for 'fig.' 

Some readers of this post need no introduction to the humble fig. I certainly knew what a fig was before moving to Italy, but I only came to understand its importance to this country - as well as the world, really - and its history over time. 

Botanically speaking, the fig is a kind of wonder. Its flowers grow inside the fruit.  That fruit can often contain remnants of the fig wasp that participates in its fertilization. People often say that they have sliced open a fig and found some waspy remains. Tasty! 

At the same time, the sap from the fig plant/tree is poisonous to humans.

Have these realities stopped Italians from prizing figs? Absolutely not. 

Figs are an excellent source of calcium, potassium and a moderate source of fiber, and if you like your fruit on the less 'dolce' side, then plenty of fig types land on the not-so-sweet end of the scale. 

Most superficially speaking, the fig is something you can expect to find sold by your Italian fruit and veg stands during the latter summer months. I don't know if this is a climate change thing, but fig availability seems to be widening, time-wise. This summer in particular has been very, very figgy for awhile. 

There are a number of varieties, and of course all food snobs swoon over Mission figs, but I'm not sure why. They are beautiful, of course, with their bruise-colored skins. But the yellow-green ones pictured above are, I've discovered this summer, like honey in fruit form. Incredible.

 When you get figs, you have to get busy. They are incredibly fragile and short-lived. You have to eat them within a day or two, or figure out what you will do with them so that you can preserve them. I'm still saving a jar of rosemary fig jam from a friend. I brought it here with me five years ago. Those of us from the South, in particular, know the value of a preserved item like that, born of much kitchen labor and sweat over a stove. 

When we requested an apartment in the city center of Rome, we did not think about trees. As in, we did not think we would be almost completely deprived of trees. But more or less, we are. 

On my way to visit my favorite art supply store, hair stylist or butcher, there is one, lone tree situated between two buildings. 

It reaches out for the sunlight and shades a few feet of sidewalk in the warmer months. To me, its insistence and resilience is a bit astonishing. 

I've come to think of this as 'my' tree. I am utterly charmed by it. I stop and regard its status on every walk I take near its vicinity. 

After several trips underneath it, over time, I noticed that there was a lot of bird poop on the ground underneath this tree. 

And eventually, I happened to notice a smushed fig on the ground, too. Ah, it's a fig tree!

Obviously, this tree has been in this location for some time, and the birds benefit - so much so that sighting any growing figs still on the branches is a challenge.

I can't really say for certain whether volunteer fig trees are considered problematic here, but what I have noticed in my city wanderings is that they tend to appear in assertive ways, and at least some are allowed to flourish, however impossibly.

Of course, it turns out that fig trees are ruggedly drought tolerant. They root VERY deeply.

A favorite small piazza near my apartment is in fact called Piazza del Fico. Old men sit underneath the lone fig tree and play chess. There is such regard for this tree that despite its age and sag, it is lashed to a building so that it remains upright and provides shade. Look closely for the tether above the extreme bend in the trunk, below:

By now, you are probably recalling that the fig leaf is the historically understood way to make a frontal image of a nude human being more PG. And quite rightly so, as its size covers a lot of area. 

Upon delving further into the topic for a book structures project (when we are conversing in person, ask me more about this, as I could show you the result), I found that the humble fig has an extraordinary history. 

Not only did the twins Romulus and Remus survive their mythic abandonment - set adrift in a basket on the Tiber, only to arrive here and be suckled by a she-wolf (or a prostitute, we will never be certain, except that the Italian term is the same for both creatures) - courtesy of a wild animal, they were also sated by figs from a tree on the river shoreline.

Augustus Caesar made sure to plant sacred fig trees on and around the Capitoline hill. They were always revered during the festival known as the Lupercalia (remember the twins' story above, and that the term for both wolf and prostitute is 'lupo' (m) or lupa' (f)). 

Romans believed that the fig tree could thwart deadly lightening in a storm. 

Adam and Eve never picked an apple from the Tree of Knowledge (wrong part of the world for apples!), but instead, probably sampled figs from that tree before being cast out of the Garden. 

Jesus Christ is described as having cursed a fig tree, causing it to wither. 

Judas hung himself - in shame and despondency, following his treachery - from a fig tree. 

Mohammed insisted that every man in possession of a fig tree was a man with wealth. 

Buddha reached enlightenment underneath....sure, you guessed it, a fig tree. 

Here is a small watercolor on parchment by artist Giovanna Garzoni (1600-1670), one of the rare female painters to be represented in the famous Medici family's collection of curiosities. She has to have had either a steady collection of figs she could rotate in and out while painting from this still life, or she was a fast painter. To get watercolor to dry on this unique surface, she had to apply it in thin washes and tiny dots.

If you have a fig tree, you are a fortunate person. If it is bountiful, you are of course a fortunate person with a lot of fig-loving friends, probably, eager to arrive for that short window of time to harvest, process and enjoy the fruit.

If you have a farmer's market and you encounter figs for sale, buy a few and (carefully!) bring them home. 

Slice them open. Regard their unique structures. They are beautiful! Look for waspy remains. 

Reflect on their longstanding relationship to - and widely varied meaning for - humankind.

When you eat a fig, you are not only 'cool,' you are partaking in a deep history of rescue, protection, risk, nourishment and abundance.