#not the drawing i expected to do approaching V-day tbh but here we are | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

readfelice-blog · 5 years

Text

Moominland Chronicles achtzehn: Gran Torino

Hello, let’s just jump straight in shall we?

Oh, no wait, firstly, have a look at Colin Self’s Siblings (which is surprising and delightful in certain places, I’m only on my first listen though so havent got to its core yet.)

https://colinself.bandcamp.com/album/siblings

And something a bit more Italian for you, Franco Battiato, who was the essence that was channeled vicariously in the naming of LA LUCE AL BUIO,

-Un’ora Con…

….Makes for very interesting listening, there's a clangers track in there, though I’m not sure if that's what Franco was going for it definitely made me smile:

This is fetus (a track off the album but it's hard to source online so might be a spotify / google play search tbh) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cd_59SCLlZY

Well then, Turin’s right nice.

I got a plane at 6:30 in the morning, the wing of the airport I was leaving from was closed when I got there.

This time I got a seat on the bus to get to the airport. My seat was directly in front of a mentally disturbed man who was walking up and down the aisle for the entire journey. He eventually got blocked in by other passengers boarding, he had a strange distant smile, I can't say it wasn’t disconcerting, but it was also curious and strangely beautiful.

He disappeared when we arrived at Tegel, I doubt he was getting a plane, though who knows, perhaps he was some fractured billionaire burnt out from all the money he was juggling.

After customs took their seats and sent me through the barriers I sat to wait for the cafe to open, wrote my diary: which is another thing im doing now, in case you're not content with one ‘Felice’s tell all story’ - theres now a rawer instagram only version charting my journey through ‘восем acht ocho’ as well, its totally unedited bile and thoroughly embarrassing - I’m not re reading / editing it, but it’s the best way to keep track of all these publications being haphazardly launched around Central Europe.

The airline I was flying with was called Lauda, some subdivision of Ryanair, who I bought my ticket through, all the staff had Ryanair uniforms on and the plane was a Ryanair plane.

Last week I was a bit mad on death, I read Michel De Montaigne’s essay ‘To philosophize is to learn how to die’ and then put its message into practise - looking for and becoming acquainted with death wherever I went, envisioning it in the lamp light of darkened streets, the glass eyes of dolls and even under the toilet seat.

Lauda was death, a Ryanair flight would never crash, not in my mind, but a Lauda flight could….

We left Berlin in fine weather, we travelled to a sunless sky framed by thick blocks of grey. As we went along the turbulence was unbearable, I am not an easy flier, perhaps I've not done it enough, but also I’m riddled with anxiety before I even get in the sky, one small shake is ok, but a continuous rattle for 20 mins and the safety belt signs coming on whilst still mid journey does not fare well with me. I was utterly convinced at one point that it was the end of my relatively short but eventful time on earth and glad I’d written my last requests before I left, though much more scared than I wanted to be.

Breathe deep, it does work.

Just as we descended and the spectre of death rescinded I suddenly realised how incredible the view was outside my window and eagerly attended to the sight of clouds upon clouds, a dense celestial cacophony lit by the golden rays of the sun. We passed through this heavenly land, everything becoming hazy and disappearing into the fog of vapor.

When we landed the plane applauded the pilot, clearly I was not the only person on board so terrified that if I’d clenched my fists any tighter they’d have snapped off my wrists.

Our pilot deserved those claps, he flew us close to death but was strong enough to skim it rather than be sucked in.

The airport was the same as last year,

no wait no it wasn't because I flew to Milan

and then had two train rides to Torino (Turin), the second train was very pleasant, trains are nice in Italy, they have power ports under the seats and are 2 floors like double decker buses. I think some of them are like that in Germany to.

This year I was officially in Italy, joyfully attached to my window, taking in the edge of decay that skirted wonderful quaint yellow houses, one glass fronted building bursting out of another which contained hundreds of lamps in different shades and sizes. Studying the people, handsome and somehow and open, there was a vividness to their faces that arrested me.

And I was in Italy when I got off the train and walked on to the streets of Torino, it wasn’t Paris or Berlin or Helsinki or Cork, it wasn't the setting where I would be saved by a man I’d never met before.

It was captivating and full of heart.

Firstly, my ableton tote that held 3 publications needed attending to, I neatly veered towards Piazza Statuto, reputedly a potential gate to hell, this little trip would chart me walking from dark to light.

It was raining as I stood under the jagged rocks and mangled bodies of the Monument, I’d been panicking that the rain would ruin these labored over gifts , where would I leave them?? Not in toilets, especially not disgusting piss sprayed italian cafe toilets, they were worth more than that, as with much of my life I stepped back a little from this worry and just trusted that something would present itself.

A couple approached me after a short time of being stood in front of the gates of hell, they asked in Italian, then English, for me to take a photo of them, I talked myself down from chucking my parcel in their direction and then launching myself the opposite way. This turned out to be sensible, as the opportunity then presented itself, in the form of a thick tree stump, under the gaze of the tortured stone faces. It had once been a pair of trees, but now in the wet air of the afternoon, it was one tree and one monument of a tree, the remaining oak sheltering its lost compadre with thick branches still full of leaves.

They were off the beaten path, in truth I wondered if it would be found, the person that might spy it would have to be observant and sensitive: children would find it, but I don't want kids to find these books, there's some art smut not for children's eyes bound inside the covers.

The act of leaving this gift was much easier than I envisioned, it turns out you can do all sorts of things in plain sight and most people won’t even bat an eyelid, at least not in Torino that day.

I really like Italy now.

I left it, then I zipped off to a nearby cafe to have a cup of tea (coffee is to strong for my delicate disposition these days). Last year I spoke to no one for days, but after months of not being able to speak German in Germany, not being able to speak Italian in Italy wasn't quite such a big deal.

The cafes I visited remind me a bit of Amelie, who I couldn't find in Montmartre, she had somehow transferred herself to Torino.

This one was brightly lit, glass cases of cakes and thick sandwiches hugged the floor, then the bar followed round behind them, I blundered through asking for tea, was given a pot of water and a tray of teabags, i just took all the teabags unthinkingly and then considered the inadequate ratio of tea bags to water.

D’oh,

They were returned to the counter and I parked myself outside to start my diary.

When I went in to pay at the end I found out that it was the lady, on her own little island aside from the bar, nestled amid nik naks and sweets, who was the person i should give my money to. I chuckled a bit to myself for my lack of common sense, the staff had big smiles on, it was a happy place I left, it was a happy place I had entered.

Then to Piazza Castello, but via Dama art fair.

In the rain it suddenly struck me how incredibly sensible and kind all these covered footpaths were, graced by arches and gorgeous decorative embellishments, they sheltered the people of the city and provided ample space for outside seating, whatever the weather. Because, the people of Torino like to be outside even when they’re inside, lots of cafes have glass paneled structures adjacent to the main building, so you can always eat on the street.

I sidestepped the main street, a direct passage from dark to light, to go to Dama art fair, a smaller less commercial affair than Artissima, set inside a baroque palace. It announced itself calmly, no fanfare and the first room you entered was empty, aside from sound, then into a journey, maps stretched across the wall, details of the passage overhanging the main plots, drawings and observations, in monochrome.

Dama art fair was elegant, but not arrogant, against the gorgeously decadent furnishings and trimmings of the palaces rooms quiet art pieces, drawings and sculptures mainly, investigating and working with form, sat just ebbing and pulsating in the atmosphere of the surroundings they inhabited. On arrival upstairs, after dumbly staggering around a courtyard for about 15 mins with a wealthy and well dressed man and his companion, who were also very friendly.

He “Its the most secret art fair in the world”

Me “You have to work for your art”

On arrival you were greeted by ‘THE END’ : woven fabric around big wooden words hung from the ceiling between two large blue speakers.

“How do they know?” I wondered to myself - “How do they know that this is my ending, here in Torino?”

No sign of a beginning though, I guess I will find it somewhere else.

Then back out onto the street again and walking past high street shops to the Piazza Castello. On my straight line from dark to light.

I’m glad my bag is light, you don’t need much to travel.

It’s raining and overcast, but the Piazza Castello is opening up in front of me like a beacon of light, it’s not an angel that stands in its centre, which I expected to find, but a man, I feel like he's a logician, an academic, an emblem of reason and enquiry. I haven’t done my research because I like to work with impressions and weave my own kind of mysticism into what I find as I walk around, so I don’t know who he is.

The piazza is huge, on my left to horseback riders announce a big art gallery where curious visitors stand in bunches waiting to go inside, on my right are white fronted buildings, all majestic and grand, there is so much room to breath here. But where do I leave my publication? I circle the statue and then spy what looks like a plinth, a kind of chalice almost, I imagine it’s filled with the elixir of life but as I get closer I find it’s actually an ashtray, its covered though and as I take a turn about it I notice that the wise man in the centre of the square is pointed towards me.

It might be an ashtray but it’s the right place, I’m more confident this time as I prop my publication on its rim, take a photo and then walk away. I’m noticing though that I barely take in the surroundings I find when I’m doing this and then I get panicky and run away, I make a note to myself that after all this work I need to sit where I lay my gifts, I need to draw them and understand them, be able to describe them to myself for years to come. Quick photographs don’t give enough time to what I’m doing.

I then arch off and look for food, because I’m hungry. Lots of people seem to be gathering about a nearby pizza shop, like a chicken headed tourist I join the crowd, I’ve decided I’m allergic to lactose and wheat but hey, I’m on holiday, when you’re abroad your hysterias change.

I get myself a ‘Gran Torino’ and then I eat it there on the street, wrapped in paper, there’s a man sat down nearly opposite, the first homeless man I’ve seen here, we don’t interact but I pay him mind, I don’t want to make him invisible to suit my view. As I’m just stuffing the last of the delicious breaded cheese feast into my mouth I enter another cafe, pulled in by its ample outside seating and its corner position, I don’t want any more tea but they have freshly squeezed orange juice, yes please.

Whilst sat outside I am approached 3 times at my table, twice by Italians looking for somewhere to eat, who are very friendly when they find out I’m not Italian and go on their way cheerily. Once by a woman pushing a very young girl and braced little boy who very aggressively asks for money, her young son and her stand and shout at me for a few minutes whilst I refuse to give them anything then go off into the surrounding city, they shout in Italian and I think to myself that it’s probably not the best way to ask for charity, but maybe it works for them sometimes.

I’ve already experienced more interaction with people in a few short hours than I did in the 4 days I was here last, who am I this time? I’m not the same person that traipsed miserably up and down these streets 12 months ago.

Nowhere is this more profound than on my walk to my air bnb, the wet warm air and clouds hug incredible views down each street that I walk past, as I look to my left I can see the glorious green hills that surround the city, I can feel the magic that is rife here, and I notice the Italians going about their daily lives so full of energy and vitality. There’s a spring in my step every cm of the way that I walk.

My air bnb host is a superhost, I’d actually settled to stay alone but my trip was cancelled a little while before I went to Paris and her place was available, I’d taken it because I wouldn’t be alone, because even though my stay in Paris was not great I’d appreciated having someone there when I got to my accomodation and I’d wanted to repeat that more sensibly this time, with a private room rather than a sofa bed in common space.

The house is spotless, she is a compact and very handsome older woman, it feels safe, I feel like I’ve been here before. We can’t really communicate, she cant speak English and I can’t speak Italian, it’s frustrating but we manage somehow. I have my own private bathroom in this house and a little tidy bed with soft pillows that make me realise the one I have in my room at home is far to hard and unfriendly.

I have a nap, which I’ve promised myself since getting aboard the plane, I get into my pajamas and lie in bed for 3 hours, half awake. Whilst I’m spread out in my little bed I listen to the noise that surrounds me, the young family that live next door chatter and argue and laugh, the birdsong echoes outside my window, the sound of cars and the church bells fill my ears, they are resonant, like a chorus. I find my demons lurking inside me, but I just face them and then have a little stretch and turn over, we are a multitude of traumas and triumphs, not just one but several people and in order to rest we must be able to live with all these voices inside us, come to terms with them and pull them together to fight for us.

Because life isn't simple or easy all the time, no human is not inflicted at some point in their lives and it's very important when you face problems to be able to know who you are, so that you can love yourself whilst you receive the madness of the world.

I get up when it’s dark, thinking I’ll order a taxi to the AC Hotel, I shower and furnish my face with glitter, put on my blue velvet dress. I’m not excited, but it's what I must do and so I will go to the AC Hotel with my last publication stowed under my arm, to the garden where last time I had invested so much hope, though I know logically now that it's not the key to this trip, in some ways I’ve already lived what I came here for, but I must re walk these steps to release myself from the past and move forward.

I end up walking because buses and trams are to complicated and the taxi doesn’t come.

Before I get to the hotel I want to eat, the cafe I went to last time is closed but there is a gelato shop on the opposite side, with a hot pink table, totally empty. I’ve still not had any gelato in Italy and as I used to work in a gelato shop it's something I’d like to try.

Its an old couple that own the shop, I get the most gelato I possibly can: fior di latte, amaretto, pistachio, in a great big cone, I’m treating myself because I’m not drinking and I need the energy. Though I worry it’ll make me puff up I eat it enthusiastically at the hot pink table whilst looking out at the rainy streets of Lingotto, considering the other desserts in a glass case by the window.

I’m quite a sight tonight, in blue velvet and glitter, my red tousled hair brushing my shoulders, I can tell its made an impression on the owners of the shop, who buzz about, welcome a customer that seems like a friend, go about their lives surrounded by all these delicious sweets.

Once I’m done I consider leaving my last publication there as well, but think better of it, sling it over my shoulder and continue to the AC Hotel.

Everyone’s so good looking once I get inside the hotel, a smorgasbord of chic sportswear and chiselled faces, I don’t look anyone in the eye whose not a member or staff so I manage to kid myself that people are who they are not to suit my fantasies. I go upstairs to an ‘installation room’ which is some led lights and a person fiddling on a laptop, the room is filled with people socialising, I go downstairs to try and see if I can get into the secret rooms, but the hostess, after flirting for about 15 minutes and ignoring me, gleefully tells me there are no rooms left, except lust at 21:40, its 20:00 ish, I don’t know what I would do whilst waiting for that room and actually of all the rooms lust is not whats in my heart right now, I do think about just taking it to prove a point but really I’m not petty enough to sit in this place bored for over an hour waiting to go upstairs.

Clearly the secret rooms will remain secret to me.

I don’t get a drink because I don’t drink (alcohol).

I go to the garden, there’s a lot of people gathered around the door and I push through them to find space and to consider where to leave my publication, it's still raining.

This garden is not the Garden of Eden tonight, perhaps it never was, now its a concrete courtyard with a tree and some grass in the dipped area, and rain streaked white seats on the raised platform I’m standing on. It's not the Garden of Eden, its a hotel courtyard. Where do I put my publication?

Just past the crowd, behind a shrubbery, there's a window sill thats large enough to perch on, which is sheltered from the rain, it's quite hidden but it seems like the place. I sit in the cove and have a cigarette then I get out my book and place it where I’ve been sitting, take a photo and scamper off. The last of the 3 now placed in Torino.

After this is is a kaleidoscope of moments: wandering around a shopping centre, which is called 8, going up escalators to unravel the triple 8 scrawled on a door before me and see where the seeds were sown. The venue and Aphex twin and all his lasers, scurrying from room to room through intolerably long hallways to watch a myriad of vocalists, dancing about in various places, realising that the toilets were never that bad, as long as you manage to effect a good squatting position. Finding out that question marks are not always doorways that open to fantasies being realised.

I stand and wait for a taxi for an hour behind women with artist badges around their necks.

I Get home after a 20 minute detour because my taxi was invaded by impatient people.

I Sleep.

In the morning I wake up in good time despite not getting my full 8 hours (or anywhere close to this) I wander out and make tea, I try to talk to my host but it’s very difficult, though I’ve noticed the traces of her in the flat, the handmade lemon body wash, the single malts, the honey. Eventually after starting a note to her I just use the paper in my hand to write what I am saying, my London accent is always a problem wherever I go but she understands written English. This works:

“It took me 90 minutes to get home last night.

12:30 > I’m going to shower, my aeroplane is at 3:30 (15:30)

So hopefully I have time

I like to have a lot of time

Biggest stress

Lots of people don’t understand my accent because I mumble”

Me and my host have a strange connection, she is another angel, she sees my fragility and the sadness that sits at the basin of my eyes, she offers me food and shelter, I can feel her heart wrapping around me and giving me warmth. I go to sit outside and wait for my taxi 20 minutes in advance, she comes and brings a sock I’ve left in the flat, as we embrace its tight and full of love, not like the hug of strangers, like family. Later she tells me via email that I am always welcome, that I am a friend now and friends don’t have to pay to stay with her.

I will go back to that house and those church bells, though I can’t say exactly when.

My ride home is flawless, as I sit on the mezzanine over looking TXN airport, a beautiful well proportioned space where you can look out at the snow capped mountains, I listen to a man playing drukqs by aphex twin on the piano below me and I let go of Turin, of last year and all the residual pain that I brought here when I came before.

There’s no need for me to go back to that festival again, there’s other places and new journeys I must embark on.

I enter Turin a mangled and not very good musician, I leave Torino a curious and dignified artist, that sings. I let art return to me and realise it never really left, I will always be an artist whatever I do.

That's just me.

85 publications to go….

#aphex twin #torino #turin #travel #self growth #dama art fair #piazza castello #piazza statuto

0 notes