|
|
|
Posted: May 4
(Lago de Bracciano, Italy) I sold my first painting on Saturday. It wasn’t planned, but a nine-year old boy named Matteo overcame my hesitation and uncertainty; he just wore me down until I had to give in.
Saturday was the first truly spectacular spring day we have had—so warm and green that I just could not remain inside. With my French easel loaded onto a two-wheel dolly, I caught a local train going from the Stazione S. Pietro up to Bracciano, a hill town north of Rome. A large Renaissance castle dominates the town which overlooks a lake settled in the remains of an ancient volcano.
I had bicycled to Bracciano once before, on the day before the feast of Corpus Christi in June, when townspeople set flowers in elaborate patterns to decorate the street leading up to the main parish church. Towards the end of that day I discovered a lovely little park perched on the side of the hill below the castle. Almost four years later my inherited good memory for places led me back to the park which I remembered as just the place to paint. The view of the lake was excellent, but when I turned around and saw the narrow spire of a church rising above the old stone houses, I knew I found my picture. With little fuss I opened up the three legs of the French easel and set to work.
The sky was a fairly dark blue-grey, which set off the light warm tones of the spire. The trees that I remembered as creating a cool oasis were almost bare because the town gardiners had pruned them back in the severe way that Italians love. You would think such radical cutting would kill the trees, but they don’t seem to mind, although they look kind of stumpy, even with the intense yellow-green leaves of spring trying valiantly to hide the truncated branches.
Many people stopped to watch me paint. Mostly I ignored them since you must expect company if you paint in public. Once boy, however, just stayed put. He had a soccer ball under his arm which he had been kicking in the little open space. And he said, several times, “Bello.”
Finally, we started talking. He thaught the painting was beautiful--“bello”. I noticed how unfinished it was. Actually, all of the paintings I do on site look too raw at first and then seem better once I am back home. No, he insisted, this one was very good. And then he asked if I would sell it to him.
I did not know what to say. I was caught up in the quest to make the painting as good as I could, and since it was coming along pretty well, I could easily imagine how nice it would be when it was finished—before it disappeared into the pile of unframed paintings that are piling up in my studio. Also, I had no idea what to charge. The last time I was in the framing shop in Rome getting some pieces framed, another customer had inquired whether he could buy one of the paintings, but I did not want to sell it. What is a Rochford painting worth? Who knows?
I asked him what his name was. “Matteo,” he replied.
”Just like the evangelist,” I responded. Matteo was not sure whether that was good or not. I then asked him why he wanted the painting, and he said that he lived in the first house on the edge of the park, the house that was in the front of the painting. He said he would go get his mother, who came out shortly. She told me that he liked to draw himself and was fascinated with paintings. How could I say no, especially when he had such a wonderful smile as he looked at my work and held his soccer ball.
I relented and decided to charge him the slight price of my train ticket to Bracciano. That was fine with him and his mother sent him back to the house to get the money. I removed the linen from the drawing board and told him to take it carefully back to the house and put it somewhere safe to dry. Smiling, he set off. A little bit later, after closing up my easel, so did I, also smiling.
back to previous entries