Inspiration…a Driving Force

The Twirl and Swirl of Letters

I was drawing in the Academmia the other day, when I overheard a girl say to her friend, “Oh Sarah! You want to study art, you should do it here!”

Of course, they were standing right behind me.

It’s so interesting, to imagine how I (or another art student) could inspire another to do something. Years from now, when that girl is old enough to go to college, will she remember seeing art students bent over their sketchpads, cursing Michelangelo for creating something so perfect?

Which brings me to my writing thoughts.

What inspires our characters to act? Is it a chance encounter, as mine with young Sarah may prove to be? Or are their actions planned for them by others?

Our characters don’t exist in vacuums (something I need to work on). They have motivations and things pique their interest, too. Their own little eccentricities, which may or may not ever see the light of day.

On the inspiration front, take my characters Griffin and Pryce. Both are doctors, both trained at the same university. But what brought them to this school?

For Griffin, it was carrying on the family trade. Both his father and grandfather were physicians, and both trained at the University of Edinburgh. As Griffin is both a native of the city, and continuing the tradition, it was a no-brainer.

Pryce, on the other hand, always enjoyed science and falls into the “I want to help people!” branch. He longs to escape his hometown, and ends  up in Edinburgh.

So, there we go. Two different means to reaching the same end.

Che la diritta via era smaritta.

General Geekiness

Sometimes, you just get stuck.

It doesn’t matter what you’re doing, there’s just a mental block. Yesterday, I was working on a picture of Michelangelo’s David at the Academia and found I couldn’t draw. No matter what I did, the lines didn’t look right, the pencil felt wrong in my hands. Eventually, I managed to work through it (ish). Now I have to go back to the Academia and finish my homework, but no complaints here.

Tomorrow, I’m making a presentation about the historical Virgil versus the literary Virgil in Inferno. I’ve done tons of research, but I’m still stuck. I find myself procrastinating, reading far ahead in Vita Nuova and dawdling about Inferno. Ah, such is life. At least I’m stuck in an interesting read.

Venetian Carnevale Beats Halloween in Salem, MA.

Florentine Scribblings

Yep. Carnevale is just so much fun–I wish I could return another year and participate fully, huge ball gown, wig and full face mask. My half mask (very simple and completely different from everyone else’s–mine looked as though a child painted it poorly and stuck some faux gems on, but that was part of the charm).

Venice is even more of a labyrinth than Florence. Since the city is on the water (in the water, in some cases, such as the flooded St Mark’s Square), places that are geographically close together. My friends and I ended up on the wrong island, and instead of  having a direct line to St Mark’s…well, we could have gone swimming.

We ran through the alleys, the narrow streets. Our hearts thumped. We were late. If we ran…maybe we could get there…no such luck. We raced, myself and two friends changing position as the leader. People crowded closely, guarding the four bridges we needed to cross. “Permesso! Permesso!” I bellowed. We grabbed each others’ shoulders, flying through the streets in a maddening game of crack the whip. It was stressful, insane, but above all…fun.

I may have missed the first boat to the mainland (but I did get there–thankfully there were two boats waiting). Would I have traded making that first boat with not having that little jaunt through the city? Nope. Whenever I think of Venice, I’ll remember that weaving, laughing, forty-five minutes.

With the extra long bus rides from Florence to Venice (the first being at six am…ouch), I managed to get some writing in. Alas, no good short stories, but the ‘impression’ writing I did turned out good–some of it may end up in future stories or perhaps in essays.

On getting lost (or, exploring)

Florentine Scribblings

Yesterday, two of my flatmates and I decided to go on a quest. Our Grail was the Coop, a large supermarket outside of the Florence Center. We took a wrongish turn and completely missed the supermarket.

What we found was something better.

In our wandering, we stumbled into the outskirts of Florence. Gone was the hustle and bustle of the tourist district. Instead, there was a magnificent calm. Sure, cars and scooters rushed by with the same sense of urgency, but the street vendors of San Lorenzo were no where to be seen. No catcalls, whistles or hawking of wares here.

It’s the Florence known to the locals. We found schools, not only universities but elementary schools. We listened to kids at recess, found another train station, and just were overwhelmed by the peace. We could see the mountains from there, the buildings, the smaller towns. The buildings are shorter, less crowded together.

I might just move here one day.

First Impressions of Florence

Florentine Scribblings

With a decaying elegance, the buildings sprout from mountainsides. The new exists beside the dead, mere ghosts of their former glory. The houses move and progress, pieces forgotten and discarded like exoskeletons.

There is a dusty, beat up loveliness to Florence’s walls. Exquisite grace exists as one with colorful, stringy graffiti. This is a place well loved and well lived in. From the earthly marring, the buildings rise tall, stately and solid.

There had been doubts. Concern that this wasn’t where I belonged, that I should have been going elsewhere. But as I made my way from Pisa to Florence, a calm fell upon me as a blanket. This is where I ought to be.

Caravaggio Come to Life

Florentine Scribblings

Early mornings come too quickly, no matter what time zone.

One morning, though, my sleepy eyes were greeted with a pleasant sight. I stepped into a painting by Caravaggio. The dark room was illuminated by only the space between the shudders. The light itself hit only the turned down bedclothes, which become a brighter white. I smiled, resisting the urge to go back to sleep.

I wish I had taken a picture, but I was afraid of ruining the lighting.