A Thumbnail Sketch

A Thumbnail Sketch

Just a simple tiny line drawing of two people, twelve pages into the book, black ink on thick white paper; my favourite drawing from those two weeks in Italy.

I’d desperately wanted to go: it would be the first holiday without husband and children; first time with a female friend and fellow artist; first time on an art course in an exotic place.

Our children were moving on with their lives at university or starting careers. The cattle ranch had made it through ten years of rock bottom prices; all profits now were paying off the loan incurred during those tough years. My husband’s health was slowly deteriorating and soon I wouldn’t be able to leave him alone. I knew if I didn’t go I’d never have another opportunity. But wanting to and being able to, were miles apart. When out of the blue a cheque arrived.

Decades ago, as a newly married couple, we had been enticed into investing in a land development company. The premise was that by buying a share in a quarter of land near a major city, as the city grew, the land value would increase, the company would develop the land and we would be wealthy. It never happened that way. The land was sold but no grand schemes of development happened. The amount of our share, $20,000, was enough to pay for my Italian trip and a brand-new livestock trailer.

Twelve pages into the Moleskine drawing book a blank page stared at me.

The art instructor’s no-nonsense, commanding voice filled the piazza instructing us to do a “space walk”.

My eyebrows went up. I turned to look at my friend Gerry, whispering, “A what?” She shrugged her shoulders ignoring me, listening to Lydia continue her lesson.

“You are to draw what is important or attracts you first – your focus. Write down the words that emphasis this focus. Do five or six quick thumbnail sketches. Above all, remember, uncomplicate the scene.”

I slumped on the hard stone seat. How could an eight by five inch page suddenly be intimidating? It had been fun filling preceding pages during the last five days as Gerry and I made our adventuresome way from Firenze to this place in Tuscany.

I thumbed back through the fresh memories: Il Papiro, the tiny shop where Gianni demonstrated the old technique of marbling paper. The sample glued into my book was bright with green, yellow, red, white and blue peacock feather patterns. Gianni had drawn scalloped and squiggly shapes then dragged a fine comb through the paint to create the little piece of art.

Business cards, diary-style reminisces, drawings of statues and food, pictures cut out of brochures, tickets: ephemera collected and recorded happily, effortlessly, stress-free.

Now, on day one of “Painting in Italy”, the reason I was here, the blank page did not represent fun and freedom; it was overwhelmingly, suffocatingly intimidating.

Insecurities about my artistic abilities which had been tamped down during the past few days began swimming to the surface. I tried to swallow. I rubbed my damp palms on my jeans. I needed a drink of water. Fumbling for a water bottle in my backpack cum art bag, I dropped the book and pen. The bottle escaped and rolled across the cobblestone walkway.

Scrambling on my knees to retrieve the book, pen and run-away bottle which had stopped rolling at Lydia’s feet, I felt all the students and passersby watching me.

Lydia looked down her nose at me crouching at her feet and continued speaking, “This is a quiet time to absorb your surroundings. Respect your neighbours. Please, no talking during the next fifteen minutes.”

Possessions collected; face cadmium red, I mentally cursed my clumsiness and bad first impression. Gerry rolled her eyes, “Oh NJ!” I saw her unsuccessfully try to hide her smile behind her sketch book.

Absorbing our surroundings was calming. Bagno Vignoni, a village in the heart of Tuscany is known for its ancient thermal waters, used since Roman times. Nowhere else in Italy is the main square a large pool built directly over hot springs. I never thought that I would be here sitting five feet away.

I started to draw. First, a recessed curved door in deep shadow: people walking, the sound of a stroller rattling on the cobblestones as it passed, then calmness. The second was drawn to a sound of pigeons cooing and the only man in our class laughing. Cumulus clouds rolled overhead. The rough textured stone wall surrounding the piazza took shape on the paper; tree leaves softened the corner and a carved stone block added interest.

I gained confidence as I settled down ignoring the other students. The babbling of the green thermal water in the pool drew my attention next. In a couple of minutes, it too, was recorded as a memory.

Then, there they were.

Regal bearing, seeming to float as they gracefully strolled past me were Angelica and Stefano. She, of titanium white hair and stooped shoulders, used a cane in her right hand with left tucked gently in the tall man’s arm. He, of well-tanned skin and brown hair piled high in a bun, tenderly supported his companion.

She wore a cerulean blue flowered dress with a plain scarf knotted low on her breast. He was dressed as a Roman of old in a toga-styled garb. His white scarf formed a semi-circle across his broad chest while the ends hung low down his back. Their high quality clothes draped beautifully, swaying elegantly back and forth with each careful step.

Her face was old, wrinkled and beautiful. Her Mona Lisa smile drew my curiosity. While he was obviously younger than she, the deep creases at the corners of his eyes and around his mouth, made me think that he may have been in his forties or at least half her age.

Who were they? Who were they to each other? Mother and son, grandmother and grandson, or lovers? Royalty, celebrities or recently rich?

Recently rich? What made me think that? I reflected on them as I quickly sketched them a couple of times.

Silently they walked around the pool and were gone.

My husband and I were in agriculture for over thirty years, first producing sheep and wool, then cows. We lived in rural communities filled with farmers and ranchers, men and women, settlers and First Nations: people whose faces and bodies reflected hard work, tough choices, risk, and satisfaction for a job well done. I sensed that about Angelica and Stefano: that they had worked hard and well but now had time and money to enjoy life: leisurely, slowly, easily.

I asked about them later while we were dining. Several other students had recorded their stroll around the piazza too. The waiter told us what she had learnt about them during their stay: their names; that they had left for Rome and that they had won the SuperEnlotto the year before. Her answer to my question was that she did not know if they were a couple.

Just a simple tiny line drawing of two people, twelve pages into a book filled with memories. Black lines on thick textured paper. My favourite of all that I drew during those two weeks in Italy so long ago.