​A few weeks ago I posted a drawing of this boy, done from photo references taken 3 years ago when I got the chance to meet him. He was 7 at the time. When I drew him recently,

​I’d been trying to decide between two possible compositions for the painting his dad commissioned. For the second option, this final painting, I’d used current photo references. His father couldn’t decide which one I should paint either.
 
Pick the one that would give you the most joy to paint, he told me.

(A series of personal observations recorded as Italy takes action against the spread of Covid-19, first published March 30, 2020)

​We begin our fourth week of a nationwide lockdown. The other night our Prime Minister addressed the biggest question we all have with humility and honesty: I don’t know. I don’t know when we can return to “normal”, when the restrictions will be reduced. We’re working every day to understand the situation.

I’ve settled into this as best I can, as most everyone has by now.

In contemplating this near-global pause, I’m toying with this question today:

The silence wakes me at 6:30am. I think, it must not be 6:30 yet.
It wakes me again at 8am and I think, no it can’t yet be eight. I stay awake in the dark room listening.
Finally, I get up and go into the living room where the morning sun, reflected off the buildings across from us in the piazza, brings brightness into the room through our large french doors.
It’s as if it’s snowed in the night and everything is covered by a hush, by white, except when I peer through the curtains, nothing is pristine like that, just lacking.
Is this Sunday? It must not be Sunday.

Is hope something that is somehow in motion? or is it something that is very still?

I posed this question on Facebook today instead of writing a post. I'm working on a painting and am trying to get a better understanding of how images relate to feelings. How can we describe something without using the word for it? What kind of symbols are associated with the words we chose? How can we describe in an image the effect or quality of a feeling?

Not sure what will come of my "research" but so far here are some answers to the question,  
Is hope something that is somehow in motion? or is it something that is very still?:

(A series of personal observations recorded as Italy takes action against the spread of Covid-19)

​We wake to grey skies and a light snowfall mixed with rain. The precipitation is welcome, even if it’s cold. The warm dry winter we’ve had has been concerning.
I am grateful to the grey snowy day most especially because it’s perfect weather for staying inside, putting something in the oven and something else on the stovetop.
I will venture out just for a moment though.
Yesterday I went to the supermarket to stock up on some packaged items, but I didn’t get vegetables. I’m used to doing the major part of my shopping at one of two open air markets that happen each week, one in my town on Fridays, the other on Saturdays in the next town over. Both have been closed for weeks.

(A series of personal observations recorded as Italy takes action against the spread of Covid-19)

It’s my turn to go to the grocery store again. It shouldn’t be. After the last fiasco in which I not only left the house without a mask, I also stopped to drop a book off to someone and then proceeded to fare una chiacchiera with the shopkeeper (who was, in my defense, wearing a mask), it was agreed that I couldn’t be trusted with either the shopping or the lives of the people of our community. I get his point—we’re doing this to keep others safe, even more than for our own sakes, and who knows if I’m carrying this disease or not? I didn’t cough or touch my face (or anyone’s face) or shake hands, and I washed my hands both coming and going. But the mask… a crucial error. I’m learning.
 
G. has a cough today though, we need things, and, being one of the few genuinely altruistic people I know, he’s temporarily stepped down from his position as Official House Shopper, entrusting me with the job.

The sun disappears from the valley well before it actually goes down. My studio faces east and what I ever see of the sunset is maybe part of it’s reflection on the mountains opposite, or maybe red clouds in a rose-gold sky. There is a point every evening though, during the space between rose-gold and darkness, precisely at the moment of sunset, when the sky fills with birds. They swirl and caw and move in huge clouds from the flat of the valley up to the dark hills and out again and back... swooping, stirring, singing. Then, when it’s nearly dark, the sky suddenly empties.
Why do they do that?
Where do they go when they leave the sky?
Why at the hour of sunset precisely?
There’s likely a reason, neat and scientific. Or there is a story, tangled and poignant. I’ve asked around. Mostly no one knows. I’m disappointed at the lack of wonder and curiosity.

This morning there was the usual accumulation of news, things that multiplied or divided in the night. I start with “La Prima Cosa Bella” (The first beautiful thing), a column at the top of La Repubblica’s home page that always looks for a little light in the dark situations described below it. G. starts with a report that more people are dying with this than they say. More people are infected than they can count. There are a lot of questions. Mostly no one knows.

His mother calls. There’s the first case in the family: a cousin, a doctor who lives up north. He’s been hospitalized; intubated. His wife isn’t answering the phone and his son is too young to call. Everyone is waiting.

I arrive at the studio and call the cat who still doesn’t come. I call anyway, out the front windows too. I’d already gone calling down a narrow lane across the street this morning, but all that came was a small black dog who just wanted a scratch behind the ears.

I work without taking my usual afternoon nap, no 20 minutes of stillness today. I forget to. I’m absorbed. Light fades. I only hear it’s sundown from the birds.
​