Italia Mia - Note 4

Friday, 15 April 2011

Wireless internet remains a mystery to many Italians I've met on this trip. Though friends at Sorrento's city hall have tried to set me up with reception for the iPad, it's still not fully successful. Efforts to email today failed, and I can't know when I'll be able to transmit more of these notes. But I continue to write them, possibly because it's easier to document activities than to work on the manuscript I'd hoped to further while here. That novel requires exclusive attention, which I'm not able or want to give it just now. Concentration on the story and the people I've created for its development would mean holing-up someplace -- a form of hermitage, really -- where friends could not intrude or local sites and treasures distract me. Notes for this giornale are not governed by fictional characters who, when stirred, dominate everything writers of creative literature think or do.

All morning was spent at the elegant town hall where architectural students from Alfred State University, New York, were showing and explaining their designs for the evento Immaginare un Nuovo Futuro per Marina Piccola. This program, inevitably, did not start until an hour later than scheduled, and I used the time to study displayed renderings of proposals for Marina Piccola; and, of course, to tell anyone who spoke to me that Ellen and I with infant Gian had attended a summer course in ceramics at Alfred University in 1954. I don't know which of the students spread that word, but very shortly I was approached by a professor who insisted I must meet Alfred's president, who'd come from the States for this occasion (the students have been here for 4 months working on the project). When I was introduced to President Dr John M Anderson, a photographer suddenly fronted us and began taking photos. Most people there hadn't been born in 1954, and I assume I appeared a relic to them.

All of the students' designs were good, a few outstanding, and the best in my opinion was by a young man named -- if I remember correctly -- Daniel Lamm. His plan and elevation included, in addition to handsome portals lining the boardwalk to ferries at Marina Piccola, a tall column topped by an arch which contained a statue fronting the sea. I spontaneously began telling him about the aborted project for my bronze of I Pescatori Dispersi al Mare, originally conceived for Marina Grande under ex-mayor Marco Fiorentino's direction, later considered for Marina Piccola, eventually abandoned. Antonino happened by as were talking, and went into his customary complimentary spiel about my work, particularly lauding my wax model for I Pescatori Dispersi. He also mentioned the San Francisco with Prairie Dog bronze fronting Santa Fe's City Hall, which he'd seen on official Sister City visits. The student was most impressed, didn't have a card but asked for mine, said he'd email me.

At the ensuing hours-long Evento, I was escorted to and seated in the front row of the hall by the mayor's Public Relations director, had my first glimpse of newly-elected Mayor Giuseppe Cuomo, and for the most part -- though it could have been shortened -- enjoyed what all the politicians, business men, architects and students had to show and say about the future for Marina Piccola. It's evident that none of the students' designs will ever see fruition -- if good, they are nevertheless too bold or overly abstract, too divergent from traditional Sorrento architecture and cultural values. But there's a good chance that the project has given Sorrentini interest in fostering Marina Piccola upgrading from local architects. The ubiquitous growth of cruise-ship tourism is dictating change to accommodate hundreds of increased visitors to the city brought to the Marina by tenders from their floating palaces out in the Bay.

Light rain started in the afternoon and has continued since then. Quite chilly, locals bundled heavily against it and complaining how unseasonal it is. I spent a little time in Antonino's office, where one of his associates it trying to get me wireless iPad connection. If works off and on for web browsing, but not at all for email. Seeing how cold I was, Antonino suggested we cross Piazza San Antonino Abbate for a hot drink at one of the bars. Wonderfully delicious cappucinni, and Antonino insisted we have dolce to go with it -- he's convinced I don't eat enough because I'm avoiding restaurants. After leaving him, I went under light drizzle to Standa Supermercato and made a few more purchases -- mineral water (drinking much more than I usually do), coffee (there's an espresso pot in my kitchen), and, wanting greens, a prepared chicken salad (little chicken but abundance of greens, carrots, olives and fine condimento balsamico).

10:30 PM

Antonino just phoned. He's loaned me a cell phone to keep in touch, wanted to know if I'd had dinner, do I need anything, etc. He'll take me to Sant' Agnello in the morning to Areavacanze's office to complete registration forms for this apartment. Said it's still raining outdoors, was pleased to hear that these notes and reading have me utilizing time well once beyond the locked entrance to Residence Tasso.

Birdsong

I could have been buying a pig-in-a-poke when I purchased our canary nearly a decade ago. The pet shop that day was overly crowded and noisy, clerks frenziedly busy with little chance, or inclination, to give any customer special attention. The selection of a canary was limited to a mere three sharing a small room of cages housing scores of parakeets, finches, doves and parrots. All chirping, shrieking, clattering, clucking! A din. I'd come to listen to and compare the song of available canaries, but it was impossible to isolate any sound or its source.

Aside from the three upstaged --intimidatingly silenced, or else non-singer females -- canaries in the cacophonous aviary, there was one other in a small cage atop the checkout counter. I kept watching its throat for vibrations, and detected that it probably was singing. Although the clang of the cash register beside its cage and a loud waterfall display behind the counter, accompanying the shrieking parrots, yipping puppies, caterwauling kittens and voluble shoppers, negated anything so subtle as birdsong. When finally able to get a harassed employer to give me attention, I asked if the canary on the counter was a male and a good singer. "He never shuts up," was the abrupt response. Sale, but not without doubt that in my impatience to have a canary in the house, I'd purchased an untested product.

A given in manuals on the nurturing of canaries is that they require a period of settling into a strange environment. Don't expect them to be normally active, and certainly to sing, until they've spent a few days, even a week in the new habitat. Giorgio broke all rules. He burst into song immediately after release from the small dark carton from which he left the pet shop and was placed in a flight cage I'd purchased. Was very active, and quick to sample food and drink. We soon discovered that he was rarely quiet, that his song was strong and beautiful, and that minutes of silence were quickly broken, greeted with melody if he heard running water or music from the stereo. No doubt, the kitchen tap substituted for the splashings of the shop fountain he'd heard, and our stereo for the "music" reaching his ears from hundreds of creatures sharing the emporium he'd known since a nestling. He preferred vocal music to instrumental, our large collection of opera recordings eliciting wondrous bursts of accompanionment to sopranos, tenors, quartets, choruses. His name Giorgio commemorated a basso we'd known who'd made it to the great opera stages of the world.

Neighbors loitered near our home during warm summer days when house doors were open to hear Giorgio sing. And the song frequently lured tourists on Canyon Road into our studio/gallery. Business asset? On a few occasions, visitors told me that curiosity brought them into the studio because they'd assumed such exceptional birdsong had to come from something mechanical! There was even a breeder of canaries, visiting Santa Fe from out of state, who heard Giorgio and came in from the street to ask if he were available for rental!

One of the many rules Giorgio's broken is to live longer than the 5 years most references estimate as canary lifespan. Giorgio's entered his 10th year, and did have me thinking in recent months that he was nearing the end. Decline started with loss of wing feathers which prevented his flying, and had never before happened with annual molting. Not just flying -- he couldn't flit from perch to perch, spent most of his time huddled forlornly on the bottom of his cage. With never a sound. An octogenarian myself, not unfamiliar with the limitations of aging, I wondered what he was feeling. No running water, no stereo music stimulated him. But he stirred often enough to visit the seed and water cups, and I told myself he wasn't suffering. Morning after morning, when I uncovered his cage, it wouldn't have surprised me to see an inert body. But then wing feathers began to grow back, he was able to gain lower perches. Phoenix-like, Giorgio, following months of non-flight, was brightly hopping about. And if still not singing, well, wasn't that to be expected. Opera stars give up the stage at advanced age. But he's made a Comeback! Beginning over many days with chirps, peeps, then short trills, a few runs at the sound of water or the stereo, the voice has grown impressively strong and beautiful again, and he gifts us with it many hours every day. Last week a local FM radio station broadcast the 1962 recording (remastered) of Madama Butterfly starring Leontyne Price and Richard Tucker, Erich Leinsdorf conducting. Giorgio was transported, his song as strong, clear and beautiful as in his early years, in crescendo with soprano and tenor for every rise in aria or duet. Un bel di!

Next month the New York Metropolitan Opera inaugurates its Saturday radio broadcasts of the 2009-2010 season. I'll be listening. Not merely to the Met's great roster of stars, but to Giorgio.

Response to a Granddaughter enamored of Italy

“An Italian woman came into the store today while I was working … then she answered her phone. "Salvo!" Chattering on and on, "Sono in un negozio, aspetta, ti chiamerò dopo, a dopo, si, va bene, ciao. Si, ciao." And my heart just broke. I had no idea how much I missed Italy until that moment. I wanted so badly to stop her, and say, "No so dove tu vai, ma devi rimanere qui perche ho bisogno di parlare italiano con te." I wanted to beg her to stay and talk to me, my mouth was forming the words silently, "Mi chiamo Gianna, sono Italiana." … only Grandpa Drew, I think, can fully comprehend how much my heart ached with longing for Italy this afternoon when I heard her speak. I'm still sad.”
Excerpt from posting by granddaughter Gianna

You are young, Gianna, with many years ahead for returns to Italia. I hope you’ll have the opportunities I had, to live there, not just visit, for extended periods; to study and work there, among the cittadini of that extraordinary peninsula. Yes, I fully comprehend how you heart ached with longing for Italy, but that was a mere pang triggered by your first brief stay, the few weeks you spent there this past summer. Once you’ve known more time with her, cara mia, every leave-taking won’t just inflict an ache—it’ll break your heart.

At my age, with the days dwindling down, I know that heartbreak on a daily basis. The thought that persistent physical setbacks and diminished energies could mean trans-Atlantic travel is a thing of the past, that I’ll never again look on paese dearly loved—italia ,italia mia!—is hard to bear. Never again, when every time I alighted on Italian soil was, despite love for and loyalty to my native USA, a homecoming: Sono qui, ho tornato a casa mia…sono Andrea ,mi chiamo Andrea, not Andrew, not Drew, more myself, truer to myself, here than anywhere else I’ve ever been.

You share my love of the language, Giannina mia, and I know you’ve already embraced Italy’s scenic and artistic treasures, her cuisine and rich cultural heritage. As I embrace them. But I’ve long acknowledged that these incomparable tesori are not what bind me so strongly to her. It’s her people, gli italiani, from whom I’ve learned whatever good I know of the human condition and how best to savor allotted years. Never one to romanticize Italy—my introduction to her was as a graduate student during the post World War II period, il tempo della miseria—I’ve known harsh times there and inevitably encountered a few individuals best forgotten. But, oh, the beloved friends and joyous, memorable times I’ve had among them. Or alone, exploring cities and hilltowns, wandering valleys and coastal plains, laboring in bronze foundries at Pietrasanta and Napoli. The dinners at family tables in villas where practically every word spoken, in many languages, was not trivial. Nights, following days of incomparable discovery and beauty, when I could not refrain from lifting my voice to the Mediterranean: Voglio restare qui.

Recently I’ve been remembering a gentleman encountered one Christmas day on the isle of Capri. At the time I was merely middle-aged, he an advanced senior, though likely not so old as I am now. The weather was a bit nippy when one was out of the bright sun, and the old man exited the gate of a handsome walled villa attired in a heavy ankle-length coat, bright scarf, and a hat topped by a clutch of colorful feathers. But though certainly decked out in style—that fare un bel figura I’ve known so long in Italy—his days as a jaunty giovanotto were long gone. His walk faltered, his cane tapping erratically along the cobbled narrow strada. We were both headed to the same site, a belvedere which I knew looked over the island’s famed vertical rocks rising from the sea, I Faraglioni. I stationed myself at the railing of the circular piazzetta, marveling at the spectacle of crashing waves against those fabled pylons jutting from the depths. The old man was seated on a bench, his face lifted to the sun. A slight smile was on his lips. I thought what a wonderful way for him to be spending Christmas afternoon—following the festive, and no doubt very lengthy, family dinner; with the senora if she were still alive, certainly with children and grandchildren, invited relatives and friends. Like so many family gatherings I’d attended in Italia. And now he’d opted for a respite from lusty domesticity, sought out solitude and meditation on a favorite bench commanding an exquisite panorama which he’d long known and loved.

That was years ago, and one might think that today, in this bludgeoning 21st century, even in Italy the elders can’t know such serenity. But the frequent communiqués and photos I receive from loved ones north and south, young and old, belie that. Their words and their images testify that they remain true to their environment and culture, its splendors sustaining a philosophy of life triumphant over whatever the times or personal destiny bring. Yes, granddaughter Gianna, distance from Italy, lontana d’italia mia, can break your heart. No matter. Torna, as often and whenever you can. And for as long as you can. Surrender to the song of the offshore sirens, Vieni, resta con mi.

Camino Canon - Peerless peer encountered

Though exorbitant gasoline prices and the threat of economic recession have sparked a decline in tourism to Santa Fe this summer, visitors to our gallery number about the same as other years. True, our modest establishment has never attracted casual sight-seers lured by larger, more prominent commercial facades and outdoor exhibits, has for decades drawn limited visitors and clients curious about what lies within the humble adobe. Many of those who've crossed the threshold became lifetime friends; many more, colorful and loquacious characters, have afforded indelible memories. Another such came through the door just this morning.

Petite, ambling with two canes and with an oxygen tank slung over her shoulder, she entered the studio with a much younger companion, obviously employed to assist her. When the aide suggested that he charge take advantage of a vacant settee, sit and rest, the older woman strongly refused, slowly circling the room to study paintings and sculpture. It was only after long minutes that she steered herself toward the settee. I heard the familiar heavy breathing of someone who has difficulty sitting or rising, the heavy sigh as her body collapsed rather than lowered into the upholstery.

She and I exchanged few words, as years greeting visitors to the gallery has taught me when silence is best. The old lady's companion seemed to know, too, the less said the better. Her employer's furrowed brow did not invite chit-chat. Yet, I studied that commanding presence -- white-haired, face lined but fine-boned and testament to great beauty, figure slim, held erect despite dependence on the canes. A multi-hued Mexican serape draped the austerely ochered Moroccan caftan she wore, and Navajo silver and turquoise jewelry adorned her bosom and arms. She'd traveled far. Yet I envisioned her in a stately parlor, simple black dress, pearls and white gloves, taking tea with the ladies, the American matron from decades long gone. Her first words to me were confrontational: "You damned artists, staring into people. The arrogance, thinking you can see more than others." The younger woman lowered her head and stared at the floor.

"But the work is good," the dowager conceded, "and those bronze medallions would be appropriate Christmas gifts for my great-granddaughters." Remaining seated, she directed her aide to bring medallions to her for selection, and chose six from the semi-abstract, stylized forms of angels and madonnas I've designed. As I wrapped the purchase, I heard her call across the room, loudly, addressing me. "You're a World War II veteran, aren't you," she stated rather than asked, and my affirmative response triggered the remark "I can always smell them out. My husband was one. Terse to the point of rudeness, you silent generation of bonded brothers." I've rarely been accused of reticence, often damned as extrovert, and her comment made me laugh. There was no need, really, for me to respond further, as the lady -- apparently assuming she was with a peer who'd comprehend whereof she spoke -- launched into a lengthy monologue of what was wrong with the world and how those of our vintage could set it right.

It was difficult to find proper gifts for young great-grandchildren because decency wasn't part of marketing for youth these days. Book she perused -- "designated children's literature!" -- focused on the trauma of teenaged protagonists from broken families, or their problems with drugs, and "always, sexual awakening, sexual orientation. A world devoid of Innocents." One of the great-grandsons asked for video games as birthday gifts, but all she previewed were awash in violence. A great-granddaughter collected discs of pop music, but most she monitored were strewn with lascivious, vile lyrics "no doubt even worse than phrases once restricted to the barracks you and my husband frequented." She'd always loved the arts, she said, all of it, but now when in New York, frequent attendance at the performing arts and in museums paid little dividends. Too much theater and "most of the cinema" contended that good drama has to be bolstered by ubiquitous profanity, pornographic language, a brutal offense to her ears. Too often museum exhibits were the neuroses of celebrated artists blatantly exploited in their paintings and sculpture. She was sick of "installations and happenings" in galleries where once she found walls aglow with modern works interesting, even beautiful, if challenging. She periodically sought escape to Europe to be again among the great public arts in the streets of Paris or Rome, to look once more on ancient masterworks. "But nowhere today is there true graciousness. I go back to my hotel and the local newspaper is at my door, wide-screen TV's in the room. No matter the country, the journals headline corruption, scandal, violence. Abhorrent American television ads cross oceans, and wherever in the world you are, assault you in English with their spiels on bowel and bladder medications, yeast infections, erectile dysfunction. Lewd. Disgusting. Sewers may be necessary, but must we frequent them." She paused, drew a deep breath. "Have some of us," the voice went plaintive, "Stayed -- as some wit put it -- Too Long at the Fair."

Talk exhausted her. Assisted by her aide, she rose from the settee with great difficulty, and I had a better appreciation of her years -- and the toll they'd taken on her -- than when she entered the room. She teetered just a bit on the two canes before achieving balance. She'd not used the oxygen mask while in the gallery, nor did she apply it on leaving, yet I was certain she would once inside their vehicle parked in our driveway. Santa Fe's 7,000-foot elevation doesn't well tolerate extended monologues. And I saw her pinch at a slight bulge in the elegant caftan. Did it conceal some kind of back or spinal brace? But once outside the gallery, on our front terrace, she straightened her back, held high her chin to face the brilliant northern New Mexico light, and with one of her canes tapped the foot of her anxious companion. "Okay, Girl, let's get on with it."

Camino Canon - gallery hopping, arts crawl

I'm not Francesco from Umbria I tell the red-headed finch which dogs my footsteps as I work in the patio. Fully feathered, it's not a fledgling fallen from a nest, flew perfectly from a high branch to the ground, and obviously is not wounded or in need of aid. But it persists in staying close to heel, sometimes blocking my path, looking up for some kind of communion. Can't help you, little fellow, I'm not gifted at interpreting the wants or needs of undomesticated fauna. Minutes pass before its questioning eyes recognize that fact and it flies off.

The finch is merely the latest encounter with wild neighbors which have elected -- or been forced to -- establish residence on Santa Fe's Camino Canon. I well remember the days before our once-dirt thoroughfare became the city's "art and soul," Canyon Road -- when the animals one saw on a daily basis were generally restricted to roaming "outside, watchdogs" and stray felines. You occasionally heard a burro bray or a cock crow, and one of my friends kept geese which raised an alarm whenever anyone set foot on her property.

Ancient history. Before the family residences were sold and became galleries, and fields cleared to make room for condominiums. Perhaps the earliest influx of critters I saw were the raccoons. Once their own territories had been invaded, they found refuge in one of the few remaining open lots on the road, an expansive field and garden behind our small enclosed patio. The raccoons discovered we had a few vines trained to grow tall over an arbor and shade a terrace. The vines produced delicious Concord and Niagara grapes, and for many years had never attracted birds, much less raccoons. But now families of the masked critters come on autumn nights, and the fruit is quickly gone. During the night, I hear the raccoons scudding across the house roof enroute to the arbor, and at dawn have seen Momma leading as many as six well-rounded, satiated toddlers down our driveway back to their lair.

Now it's rabbits. For the past three years, after more than half a century in this residence with no evidence of any, the bunnies explore the patio, nap under our car in the driveway, often peer into the dining-room window when we're at table. And like that red-headed finch, sometimes mistake me for the man from Assisi, loitering inches from my toes, looking up with beseeching eyes. I've seen them gallery hopping, too -- aping the Santa Feans and tourists who clog the Road on Friday nights for art openings. One early evening recently, I watched a very young bobtail brave traffic to cross the street repeatedly, one gallery to another, checking out the plantings. New hollyhock leaves seemed to be his tidbit of choice.

In late spring, I twice saw two small black snakes in the patio gardens. Not to worry, just harmless creatures good for the soil. A day later, a young man told my wife he'd seen a snake in the driveway, and he obviously didn't consider it small or harmless. Then a neighbor feared a snake she saw in her patio was a rattler, and phoned Animal Control. It proved to be a bull-snake, three-feet plus in length with markings similar to a rattler's. Then another small black snake was spotted sunning off my front terrace, and an observant sculptor told me that one could well be no garden variety but a young bull-snake. Maybe they're nesting around here somewhere, he suggested. Snakes on Canyon Road! Certainly we'd always had sharks here, the human variety, with quite a few ending up in court for various shady dealings in the art world. My friend the sculptor advises that if more large bull-snakes show up, we're not to phone Animal Control, but let him know. He has many friends who live in the country, keep horses, and their fields and barns are overrun with mice. Bull-snakes eat mice.

A city-boy until well into adulthood, I was a slow learner regarding all creatures not native to the Concrete Jungle. But decades on Camino Canon fostered the assumption that I knew a thing or two about native flora and fauna. Explosive growth of our town, crowding out old habitats of animals that once lived nearby but not with us has me reappraising extended family in future years here.

Italia Mia 1

Vesuvivo, computer art 2006

The strength of the Euro against the US Dollar continues to bring more foreign tourists than ever to Santa Fe's Canyon Road this summer. And it's a given that if they're from Italy, they'll stop in our studio/gallery after seeing the family name on our sign. They enter prepared to use their native language, exchange personal data on origins, share experiences of places mutually visited in Italy and America. Today it is a young professional couple from Chivavari, where the surname Bacigalupo seems as common as Smith in this country. They were were curious to know if I had relatives in their home town.

No such luck. I repeated the history given to many of their countrymen who've in the past expressed interest in my origins; a fourth-generation Italian-American, I never knew the great grandparents who came as youthful bride and groom to the US (1870) long before Ellis Island existed, did not know their names until late in life and only after many hours spent on genealogical research. They must have assimilated life in the New World rapidly, for their children (my grandfather) and subsequent generations were deprived the language, traditions and culture of their ancestors. My interest in the Mediterranean as a youth and young adult was in France, having studied French in high school and lusted for the highly-publicized romantic lives of American expatriates living in Paris. Italy was someplace my forebears had left behind. I'd probably never get there.

The couple from Chiavari were visibly distressed. Che brutta, the ignorance of heritage, knowing so little about where and from whom you've come. Mustn't one have some knowledge of what he was yesterday to understand who he is today? Once again I launched the discourse on rediscovery of my roots. There was the opportunity in 1950 under the GI Bill to pursue graduate studies abroad, and I submitted an application for a school in France to the Veterans' Administration. The response was that current exchange policies could offer art studies in Italy, not France. Though reluctant to compromise France for Italy, I became a graduate student at L'Accademia di Belli Arti, Firenze.

That disclosure won the interest and approval of the visitors from Chiavari. But they were not yet born in that year I spent in Tuscany, never knew the Tempo della Miseria which gripped the country even five years after World War II had ended. My introduction to Italy was harsh, subsistence under the GI Bill providing an unheated room in a crumbling cold stone palazzo and one meal a day with a desperately impoverished family. Yet, despite severe privations, love for the country took root. I have never since been free of her claim, repeatedly drawing me back for study, work and joy in the wealth of her artistic and scenic treasures, a culture rich in beauty and knowledge of the good life, among a people who've accepted me as their own, uno di noi, and whom I love.

My visitors now recognized that hyphenated Americans, at least some of us, choose to look back, research ancestral records, learn even a little about our ancestors. Sometimes grow to love the country of our origin. But this young man and woman do not know split allegiances. Their love for and loyalty to Italy, and particularly for their own region of Liguria, is paramount. Travel outside their country is a pleasure, and they've roamed widely, but no place on the planet can ever share commitment with the homeland. I'm suggesting, they say, something akin to adultery, passion for more than one beloved. Where, they ask, if forced to choose, would you prefer to live -- America or Italy. And of course don't quite accept an elder's view that one needn't choose, that both places exist and that if and when possible both should be embraced. They persist. If, per exempio, world politics alienated all of Western Europe and the US, if travel were restricted, if -- God forbid -- there were war between our countries, where would you want to be. As if I hadn't already demonstrated, proved that.

I lost patience with specious argument, and made an excuse about having to get back to work. The Italians graciously rose, and our farewell abbracci and buona fortunas were warmly sincere, we'd definitely found simpatico a chance encounter. Think of me when back in Chiavari. But some minutes later, as I worked, classical music on the radio gave way to an hourly news report. Audio clips of bombastic speeches by Republicans and Democrats lauding their candidate and reviling his opponent in the Presidential Election campaign. The latest, during months of obscene politicking which has many of us feeling we need a national cleansing. And I was keenly aware that the drumbeaters were insisting, as the recent visitors had, that I make a choice, this time for a party. Having been staunchly non-partisan for many years, faithfully voting for individuals I believed could best serve the country regardless of party affiliation, I refuse to surrender the option to listen and wait, study and decide, not jump on the bandwagon under pressure from strange bedfellows. Which makes me wonder if the Italians didn't have a point about shared allegiances. Much as I love Italy, her politics have never much engaged me. I care about America's, and strive to act conscientiously when facing them.

City Different 1

One of my granddaughters, visiting Santa Fe, came upon this guitarist strumming away beside Grandpa's bronze of San Francisco which stands in front of City Hall. Seldom passing up a photo op, she captured a moment typical of incidents I've heard relating to the statue during the 28 years since it was installed.

The Santa Fe County competition for Art in Public Places, 1979, called for entries, preferably a mural, to grace the wall of a second-floor hallway in the city's municipal building. I took a look at the designated wall and considered it inappropriate, a location where few visitors to the building would see art work meant to be public. The rules of the competition did not, however, limit one to suggested media or specific site within or on the grounds of the building. I thought an icon of the city's patron, San Francisco, should stand prominently fronting City Hall where all citizens could view it. And submitted a maquette for the bronze to the juried panel of the Arts Commission, city councilors and the mayor. A few fellow artists who hadn't carefully read the competition's rules were disgruntled when an entry for sculpture took first prize in what they'd believed to be a mural contest.

I absolutely did not want to produce still another version of San Francisco holding birds, and so deliberately modeled the small maquette with the man of Assisi's hands folded behind his back. The figure was bent slightly forward, its head tilted downward as if gazing on something, and the composition demanded I put a sculptural element in his view. For weeks that element remained a lump of clay. Though I consider my work stylistic rather than representational, nothing abstract would do, something recognizable would have to justify Francis' rapt attention. One night, a friend visiting my studio demanded that I resolve the dilemma, turn that lump of clay into anything--a rock, plant, why not some small creature, wasn't the saint the patron of animals. When my response was that I could think of nothing, he countered with "It already looks like a prairie dog!" Miracolo, I think you've got it. And so it became. Once dedicated, the bronze was officially labeled San Francisco del Desierto. But locals never refer to it as such; for them it's always been and remains St Francis and the Prairie Dog.

I've cherished the public's acceptance of and interaction with the statue over the years: the many telephone calls from friends who've asked if I've been downtown, have seen the latest gift bestowed on Francis or his small friend by an anonymous donor--a bright red scarf circling Francis' throat following a heavy snowstorm; a Santa Claus cap upon his head during the Christmas season; a beautifully hand-crafted, flowered and beaded bonnet adorning the prairie dog one Easter Sunday; the coins left at Francis' feet, reportedly collected by an elderly senora and carried to the Poor Box at the Cathedral where she attends daily morning Mass. The frequent times, while downtown, I've seen residents or tourists sitting on one of the benches which flank the sculpture, reading or merely resting in the shadow of Francis, sometimes being photographed with a friendly hand on his arm. I get emails from across the country as well as from abroad by people who've read my signature on the bronze, google the name and locate my website on the internet, write words to gladden the heart. Art is essentially communication, and when we accomplish that, it makes worthwhile the hardwork and periodic rejections which come with the territory in this field of labor.

But if public approval of the statue has given me much pleasure, the city's neglect of its site triggers frustration. Awarding of the competition prize specified only that I was to execute and have the bronze freighted to City Hall. Someone employed by the administration at that time, whose name I never knew or can't recall (possibly the city architect or landscaper), designed and had constructed a solid and attractive base for the sculpture. At the dedication, on the feastday of Francis, 4 October 1980, planned and discussed (promised!) landscaping and lighting had not been done, but on such a joyous occasion I didn't consider that it never would be. The dedication was most festive, a procession of adults and children, led by vested priests, carrying or walking leashed pets from the terrace of St Francis Cathedral through the Plaza and down Lincoln Avenue to where Francis and the Prairie Dog awaited them. Speeches were made by politicians, clergy blessed the animals, and it was announced that the Procession and Blessing would become an annual event, that every year on October 4 we'd gather to honor Francisco, patron of this city named for his holy faith and patron of El Senor's wide animal kingdom. There was never again another procession or blessing, the landscaping plans not realized, no lighting installed.

Worse. The corner at Lincoln and Marcy Streets where the bronze fronts City Hall has over the years been disfigured by a long line of curbside newspaper and periodical-handout kiosks, directional signs and occasional illegal parking which all but hide Francis from approaching pedestrians or vehicles. Whenever I receive another phonecall or email from someone expressing delight in the bronze, I think of its violated site and wonder how anyone could fully appreciate it there. Those of us who love our City Different are dismayed, even angered, when someone disillusioned with it refers to it as the City Indifferent. But after many attempts with various city administrations to improve, clean up, the site, I'm no longer quick to argue the negative adjective.

Under construction adjacent to the Municipal Building and City Hall is Santa Fe's nearly completed multi-million dollar Civic Center, scheduled for opening before summer's end. A huge complex of excellent design trumpeting northern New Mexico's architectural traditions, the Center will be approached by many of its future thousands of visitors from the corner of Lincoln and Marcy Streets where Francis and his prairie dog look out on the intersection. I want to believe that pleas to rid the site of shabby accouterments--"To Beautify A City," as the Santa Fe Reporter headlined the story (27 September 1979) announcing the competition result--will not go unheeded. There Is a Season for All Things. Time to address this matter, give Francis his due as he anticipates welcoming crowds on their way to the Civic Center.

Camino Canon 1

Lazy June afternoon. The hottest month of the year in Santa Fe, and "the art and soul of Santa Fe," Canyon Road--still known as Camino Canon when I moved here more than half a century ago--is free of tourists, mad dogs and Englishmen under mid-day sun. They'll reappear, some of them that is, once the brilliant light begins to fade and the faithful cool of the evening sets in. The Road will then again be awash with visitors who stop and stare, intrigued by the sights and sounds of our now-renowned thoroughfare in this City Different.

It's pointless to resist change, and most of the time I accept, frequently prefer it to what went before. But one can't help sometimes remembering, when observing the plethora of high-end art galleries, restaurants and boutiques, the family neighborhood the Camino once was, the unpaved road and modest adobe homes, open fields where children played. The field across the unpaved street fronting my house--a vast stretch of land containing little but clusters of indigenous chamisa and a crumbling stable which sheltered two burros; and with an unobstructed vista clear to the Rito de Santa Fe, and beyond to the peaks of the Sangre de Cristo mountain range. How I used to love that view and the braying (rusty hinges!) of the burros. Wonderments to someone whose youth had been spent in crowded east cost cities from Maryland to Massachusetts. View long gone, I look out now on a wall encircling condominiums within a gated community.

An early riser, there was a time when the only pedestrians I saw on the Road at daybreak were a few neighbors on their way to daily Mass at Cristo Rey Church. Senoras, their heads draped with lovely mantillas, often robed in severe black but occasionally sporting colorful fiesta skirts; the Senors sombreoed and booted. Always a stray dog or two, it was a time when Animal Patrol didn't exist or wasn't enforced. This morning when I stepped onto to the front terrace to fetch The New York Times, subscription gift from a daughter and son-in-law, joggers were coursing both sides of the street under faint eastern light, and there were dogs but not a cur in sight, thoroughbreds all on leash being walked by physically fit owners astride in summer shorts. As the red dawn brightened, more joggers, more dog-walkers, quite a few seasonal residents going to or coming from the neighborhood coffee house, out-of-town newspapers under their arms.

A posted notice in my studio/gallery informs visitors that they're in the oldest commercial establishment on the Road, and offers a brief history of my family's 50+ years occupation of the premises. This to forestall the inevitable questions about the obvious "old Santa Fe" ambiance we maintain compared to the modernization of many structures no longer family homes but chic galleries. Posted notice or not, there are comments and questions about our extended time here. Very often, disappointment in the changes to the city are expressed by tourists who were last here years ago, sometimes by decades. They rhapsodize about an old Santa Fe so much smaller, vehicular traffic not heavy, hotels and inns modest, the Spanish-American and Native-American cultures more dominant than they are today. Everything so simple, pure, free of the elegance and sophistication many of them consider pseudo, affectations. I've had to adopt a stock answer to the question of whether or not I'm bothered by all the changes I've seen on the Road.

No. Everything changes. I see that in the mirror every day when I shave. And many of the changes in Santa Fe make this a better city to live in than when I moved here. Of course, one doesn't like the snarled traffic, the inflated real estate and high-cost-of living, the loss of not knowing practically everyone in town when it was a smaller community, the preponderance of strangers everywhere one goes now. But as an ex-New Yorker, there was much I missed in the old Santa Fe I dearly loved despite its lack of cultural venues. My arrival here predates the Santa Fe Opera, which has afforded countless hours of enrichment since its founding in the hills north of town. In the early 1950s, there were but two movie theaters in Santa Fe, neither of which ever showed foreign films. Touring theater or ballet did not come to the city, nor did art exhibits on loan. There were long stretches when the thirst for good drama, dance, opera or painting and sculpture would demand one leave town if he could afford it, flee to New York or San Francisco for a glimpse, taste of the arts without which life is impoverished. And if you couldn't afford it -- .

With all the change, the landscape of northern New Mexico is constant. Our tierra bendita, our incomparable turquoise sky, those Sangre de Cristo and Nacimiento ranges, the great stretches of valleys and mesas. Adobe homes burnished by fiery sunsets, chamisa and pinon, cottonwoods and aspens. And in this Land of Enchantment, the Spanish-American clings to his fine heritage, his traditions still observed in the homes and churches, in the streets where you hear his musical language and see many of his courtly customs. We gringos love his cuisine, have adopted his architecture, many of his building and maintenance skills and some of his dress codes, revel in his Viva las Fiestas.

As I write, the temperature's lowered and tourists have begun to reappear. With the door open, I hear from the street their Oohs and Aahs about this exceptional Road, my Camino Canon. And not all in English. Or Spanish. No longer a small terminus at the end of the Santa Fe Trail, we're an international must-see in the new millennium. I hear French, Italian, Irish brogue and British twang, German, Slavic tongues which I can't identify. The weak dollar against the Euro undoubtedly partially accounts for so many foreigners in town this year. But those visitors have also heard or read about the exceptional La Villa Real de Santa Fe de San Francisco de Asis in the foothills of the Sangres, and their gasps of approval tell me they are not disappointed.

Neither am I. It's changed, yes. What hasn't? Santa Fe remains the place where I most want to live in the US.