April 13th, 2011
Today I spent the day working behind the scenes on things related to Artful Play.
I messed around with its organization, systems and structure.
All these things sound very boring. Which is why I had to employ a plethora of brightly colored folders, crayons, stamps, and post-its, all of which worked remarkably well.
(I would never have guessed that the key to getting stuff done around here might involve ditching my black ballpoint pens in favor of a set of Crayola crayons. Who knew?)
Anyway, I thought I’d document the scene over at Artful Play HQ:
As you can see, Artful Play headquarters is basically located on my kitchen table and inside a big plywood box masquerading as an office.
Occasionally my projects take over the sofa as well. Or a blanket stretched out in a park, when I’m lucky.
I like to think that Artful Play is growing, and that someday (soon?) it will be too big for this space. Maybe it will demand a space of its own.
Then, one day I’ll look back at this blog post and say, “Hey, remember when I used to work in a plywood box? Oh man, I can’t believe that ever happened.”
And I will get slightly misty-eyed as I sip my champagne and reminisce about the early days.
In the meantime, I’ll keep at it with my crayons.
COMMENTS: What sort of stuff do you use at your HQ? (Have you tried crayons yet?) I’d love to know.
April 12th, 2011
This morning I was at Florence city hall, getting the certificate that proves that I do indeed have a right to be here.
I happened to be doing this in the same office where, about three years ago, city officials discovered an interesting error in my files. Remembering the episode made me grin in the midst of all those bureaucrats today.
Yesterday’s post was a bit artful, so today’s post will be about play. Here’s the story.
“I’m sorry, you do not exist”
So, a few years ago I went to city hall to get my ID card made. I had already registered as an official resident of Florence some years before that, but had never bothered to pick up my ID card. I already had tons of forms of ID, so I had put it off.
That day, I went to the proper office and headed for the information desk. (There were five people sitting behind the desk, but no line. Interesting.)
“I need to pick up my ID card,” I told one of the workers. “I’m already registered and everything, and I’ve brought my photos. What else do I need?” That last sentence is key in this country – you have to use it all the time.
The woman helping me asked for my last name. Now, I am sure that there is only one person with my last name who is registered as a resident of Florence. It’s a pretty rare last name.
“No,” the woman said brusquely, “You’re not in our system.”
“That’s impossible,” I replied, “I’ve been registered here for years. Can you check the spelling?”
She checked again, but begrudgingly. “No, I’m sorry,” she snapped, “You don’t exist. You’ll have to re-register as a resident. Take a number.”
Fume, fume
I took my number and sat down, fuming. How was this possible? I had already jumped through these hoops. Not again!
I was annoyed at myself for not having brought more documentation to back myself up. And now I’d have to spend the entire morning at city hall, waiting my turn. So frustrating!
An hour or two passed. I kicked myself for not bringing a book.
Finally my number was called, and I went into the back room to speak to an official.
O Madonna!
The city official helping me was a slightly more cheerful woman sitting at one of several desks in the room. I sat down and explained my situation and my confusion about not existing. I insisted that there had to be a mistake.
Once again I was made to spell my name (it’s Bologna-Ancona-Imola-Roma-Savona-Torino-Otranto-Washington, by the way) and the woman tapped away at her keyboard.
Suddenly, her eyes grew as large as saucers. “O Madonna!” she exclaimed. “O Signore! Nooo! I don’t believe it!”
“What? What?” I leaned forward, my knuckles turning white as I gripped my fistfuls of official documents.
Two trains of thought were screeching through my mind. First among them was: what have I done wrong? Have I forgotten to pay some tax? Is there a 5,000-Euro fine in my files or something? What if I get deported?!
And the other one was: is she going to call on all the saints?
The truth comes out
Then the woman started laughing, and I relaxed. A little.
“The reason why they couldn’t find you at the information desk,” she explained when she caught her breath, “was that they look people up by last name and by sex – male or female. And for the last few years, you’ve been registered as a man.”
Now, dear readers, you can say a lot of things about my appearance but you can’t say that I could be mistaken for a man. People who have met me, back me up here?
At this point, I began to laugh too. “Problem is, I don’t know how to change it! I need to consult one of my colleagues.” The woman picked up her phone and called another office. Speaking in a very loud voice.
“… so they made a mistake when they registered her. Yes, M instead of F. I know, HA HA HA HA! No really, she’s right in front of me…. I’m telling you, she hasn’t had a sex change…. Yes, I’m sure. Definitely a female, I assure you… I’m looking at her right now! I’m telling you she’s a woman! AH HA HA HA!”
And then she somehow managed to change my records.
So, friends, that was the day I discovered that I had been a man for three years or so, without having enjoyed all the benefits. If only I’d realized it sooner!
 This time they wrote it in caps. Coincidence? COMMENTS: This post is part of my (admittedly new) practice of bringing play to unlikely places. It’s not always easy – I did a lot of cursing today, believe me – but it makes horrible errands a little bit more enjoyable.
Anyway, it’s an experiment. So any notes you want to leave are more than welcome!
April 11th, 2011
The other day as I was writing the post about drawing the cell phone charm I realized something: drawing and translation have more in common than I had thought.
It was a somewhat upsetting realization, because one of these two things is my day job and the other is the thing I wish I could be doing all day long. One uses words – boring old black-and-white text – and the other uses line and color and texture and all that wonderful stuff.
They couldn’t possibly be similar in some way. There had to be some law against it.
But, funny thing about realizations, once you have them they won’t go away.
Here’s where I geek out a little bit
I once took a course in literary translation. One of the instructors said something that stuck with me, because it is very true. He said that few people read a text as closely as a translator does.
There were a lot of nodding heads in that classroom.
As a translator, you have to have a certain understanding of every single word and its function in a sentence before you can even begin to work. Each word has so many meanings depending on the context, which is made up of so many factors. Sometimes you’ll have to stop and think about one adjective, or the placement of a semi-colon, for ten minutes or more.
Of course, when the text you’re translating is a user’s manual for a blender you may not feel very inspired to ponder the nuances of one specific blender-related term. But regardless of the kind of text you’re translating, you get to know it really well.
What all this has to do with anything
As I was saying, the other day I wrote a post about my meandering thoughts as I was drawing a silly cell phone charm. And it made me reflect on what happens when I’m drawing. It’s not easy to describe, in part because I don’t understand all of it.
One thing I do know is that the relationship I have to an object (or a person!) changes dramatically once I’ve drawn it. After I’ve finished my drawing, it feels like I know that object really well.
When I’m drawing the object, I observe it more closely than I would ordinarily. I try to figure out what makes it the color it is, why it casts a certain shadow, how it relates to other things in its environment. I try to get at its meaning in its context.
There’s more to it, of course, but that’s the part that’s easiest to explain.
What’s the moral of this story?
Translation and drawing actually do have more in common than I had thought. (Dang!)
Because it seems to me that very few people see an object more deeply than an artist trying to render it.
So if you want to get to know something really well, I recommend reading it closely. My preferred reading method involves a pencil and a sketchbook 
COMMENTS: I’m kind of thinking aloud these days, so I’d love to hear any thoughts or ideas or miraculous insights that come up for you when reading my ramblings. Happy Monday, dearest readers.
April 9th, 2011
For the past week, I’ve been unable to draw. I did try. But even making a big mess with some crayons seemed completely impossible.
Now, it appears that I am slowly awakening from my anemic stupor and can finally do something. Hooray!
And for some reason this cell phone charm caught my eye. As I was drawing it, I thought about its story.
 About a month ago I was buying a present for a friend’s birthday, a necklace in the colors she always seems to wear. I love this particular shop because all the jewelry is handmade and the colors are gorgeous. I had to stop myself before I bought everything in the shop.
As I was paying for the necklace, one of the women working in the shop gestured to a box of these little charms.
“Pick one out,” she said, “They’re free.”
I thanked her and took a green one. Of course.
Now, as I was sketching the charm, I began to think about this object, its story and its purpose.
I wondered why I had taken it at all. I am not the kind of person who bothers to put a charm on her cell phone. (If anything, I’d rather chuck my cell into the Arno River but that’s another story.) In fact, originally I thought it was a rather flimsy keychain, which proves that I do indeed live under a rock.
So had I taken it to be nice? Because I was taken off guard and it seemed the right thing to do? Or was it part of a larger pattern of taking things because they’re free?
Hang on, I’ve seen this before.
Thinking about this little charm reminded me of an experience I had a few years ago.
At one point in my life I worked at an art gallery that held openings every two weeks. The entire town was full of galleries and they had all arranged to hold their openings on the same night, being the smarties they are. So on gallery night, the town was full of people hopping from one gallery to the next.
Each one of these galleries offered some refreshments, usually wine, cheese and pretzels. Part of my job was to keep the table full of snacks, pour the drinks and make sure no kids got at the wine (this was in the U.S., after all).
The horrors!
Every gallery night, I was horrified by the scene people would make when they approached the refreshment table.
Many of these people were quite well off, and the “economic downturn” was a few years off in the future. And yet, when these folks were offered something free, they acted as if they hadn’t eaten for weeks and didn’t know where their next meal would come from. They would devour pretzels by the handfuls, grabbing at the last slivers of cheese, elbowing others out of the way.
I know this sort of thing happens all the time, but each time I see it happening it amazes me.
What is this all about? And how often do we do it?
As I was sketching, I thought about all the free things I’ve taken – even information, oh man, so much information – that never really did me any good. Like this cell phone charm, which I will never use.
I’m thinking that this phenomenon has something to do with our notions of scarcity and competition, but I’m not sure I want to think about it too much. Also, it’s time for my Campari B12 cocktail, so I’ll leave it for another time.
COMMENTS: Have you ever found yourself accepting free stuff you never would have bought? What do you think this is all about?
Also, does anyone need a green cell phone charm? 
April 8th, 2011
Friends! Despite my resolve to post every day this month, I didn’t post yesterday. Yes, it is true.
And I have a note from my doctor. So I hope you’ll excuse me.
Well, rather than a note, I have a series of lab results that say, “Dear madam, do you realize you’re running on pathetic amounts of B12 and half the iron needed by a small child? For goodness sake, get some help.”
So that’s what I’ve been up to. And I wanted to tell you about the fun parts of my adventures in anemia-land.
Now, I am not the type to make lemonade, if you know what I mean.
If anyone tells me to turn my frown upside down, they will get hurt. And to be honest, when my health gets in the way of my work, it annoys the hell out of me.
And yet, the whole point of this blog is play (well, art and play) and I am experimenting with bringing play to unlikely places. Even the doctor’s office. It’s not easy, and I don’t always remember that I can do this, but when I do remember it tends to work really well.
So, here are the fun parts.
1. Brain fog hilarity!
One of the reasons why I couldn’t write a blog post was that my brain wasn’t working. I couldn’t concentrate. In particular, my vocabulary seemed to be affected the most.
This led to a series of hilarious conversations with the Resident Male. Example:
Me: Hey, you know that thing? The… white thing?
RM: … white thing.
Me: The one that you put your clothes into, with some… um, detergent, and then it goes around and around, and the clothes come out clean?
RM: Are you talking about the washing machine?
Me: YES. I am going to run the washing machine now.
RM: Did you really think I was going to guess that with “white thing”?
This entire week has been frustrating as hell hilarious.
2. My doctor is awesome.
Not only is Dr. T really good at her job, she makes me laugh too. When we talk about possible bad diagnoses, she and I instinctively make the corna sign. And then we have conversations like this:
Dr. T: Your B12 levels are not looking so hot. You need a supplement.
Me: I know.
Dr. T: I’ll prescribe some little bottles of B12 that you can drink before dinner. It’s a bright red liquid – you can just pretend it’s Campari and have it as an apéritif.
Me: Can you just prescribe Campari instead?
Dr. T: No.
I love my doctor.
3. My hospital makes other hospitals jealous.
Was your hospital founded in 1288?
…No?
Oh, that’s a shame.
 Does yours have frescoes by Buontalenti?  Was Leonardo Da Vinci ever a patient at your hospital? ...No?
Okay, kidding.
I had to visit Santa Maria Nuova a few times this week. Each time I rounded the corner and saw its impressive façade, I admit I was almost excited to be there. Almost.
And they have a shiny new unit there for getting tests done and such, and it is so well-organized and bright and pleasant. They have these fancy chairs that can recline (which is great for people who faint while getting blood drawn, not that I’d know much about that). And the staff is lovely.
I had such a good time hanging out there that I recommended it enthusiastically to the Resident Male. He said he’d think about it.
That’s all for now, friends. I hope that the brain fog lifts soon and that writing an ordinary blog post will no longer take me two hours. As soon as that happens, your regular Artful Play will resume, I promise.
COMMENTS: This time, I really have to be specific: please no advice about “seeing the glass as half full” (not that you’d do that, because you are all awesome) and please no advice about health stuff. I assure you, Dr. T rocks and I am in the best hands.
Anything else you want to leave is more than welcome, as always
Also, if I am making no sense whatsoever, please be nice. I have an excuse this time.
April 6th, 2011
If you’ve been reading my blog, you may have noticed that I tend to walk around a lot with my camera and take pictures of things I find on the street.
This is something I do sort of automatically, even when I don’t have my camera in hand. I take pictures of the things I see in my mind and I tend to remember them.
But when I do have my camera with me, well, that’s when my superpower comes out.
I’m not talking about being a good photographer. I will freely admit that I do not know what an f-stop is. I’ve been taught all that stuff, but for some reason the basic elements of photography have slipped into that murky oblivion where I keep the names of all fish and the rules to poker. I can learn them a hundred times, but by the next week I will have forgotten them.
No, my superpower is to attract the people who own the thing I’m photographing.
As soon as I get out my camera to take a picture of a Fiat 500, lo and behold, here comes its owner. No doubt thinking, “Damn tourists, always taking pictures of my car.” Or perhaps, “This photo had better not result in a parking ticket.”
I’m often taking pictures of interesting walls and doorways. But before I can press the shutter (see? I do know photography terms) the door will always open. Or someone will come up to ring the doorbell and look at me quizzically. Or at that very moment, someone will decide it’s time to hang out their laundry right over the ochre wall I’m hoping to capture.
Every. Damn. Time.
I am quite convinced that if I stood in front of a tomato red Fiat 500 for 24 hours, nobody would ever use it. It would sit there, looking forlorn, wondering when it would get a chance to go for a ride in the countryside.
But all I’d have to do is take out my camera, and the owner would come running. I am sure of it. It’s sort of like lighting a cigarette a the bus stop.
Here’s an example. I walk past this one particular door nearly every day. It’s an interesting door to me, because it’s been painted and carved to look like it’s part of the wall around it. It almost looks as if someone cut the door out of the wall, but a closer look reveals that it’s actually made of wood.
It’s a little door, and while it has a blue number next to it (meaning that it’s technically a house), I had never seen anyone go in or out of the door.
Until I took a picture of it.
Observe:
See how the edges of the door don’t quite match up with the frame of the photo? That’s because I ran away mid-photo when I heard the hinges beginning to creak.
So hooray, I have a superpower. Now, how can I use this for good?
COMMENTS: I want ideas on how to use this for good. Or, failing that, ideas on how I can exchange this superpower for another one. Possibly an invisibility cloak so I can take photos undisturbed.
April 5th, 2011
… Okay, that title isn’t entirely accurate. This post features scenes that were photographed in an alley. And it wasn’t really an alley, but more of a side street.
Alright fine, I took a bit of creative license with the post title.
So. About this time last month I was in Arezzo for its monthly antiques market. I’m not much of an antiques fan (the explanation why is too weird even for this blog) but I do like Arezzo, so I was happy to visit.
This antiques market is held in Arezzo every first Sunday of the month, and it’s pretty impressive. The market takes over the city’s main streets and squares, at times spilling into side streets. If you ever get a chance to see the market, I highly recommend it. Even if you’re not an antiques person.
 Parking sign not for sale. I’d brought my camera with me to Arezzo, but since I have this weird neurotic thing about antiques, I took most of my pictures in a side street that didn’t have many wares on display. Here are my two favorite photos:
First, a shop selling various wrought iron items. I love the curlicue shapes and the colors of the walls.
 I don't think any of the clocks were right. And across the street I found a series of chairs lined up against the side of a building.
 One of these kids is doing his own thing. I’m sure there were plenty of marvelous finds to be had at the market but I was too busy taking pictures of shrines and stray cats to notice. Maybe next time!
April 4th, 2011
 Any elves in there?
I will be honest with you.
It’s past midnight. Today was one of those Really Long Days in which I spend a truly indecent amount of time in front of the computer doing work that is neither artful nor playful. One of those days when I wish I knew of some translation elves who could come and help me get through the work.
What happens when I’m this busy? It comes at a certain cost.
Somewhere around here I have an itemized list of such Business Expenses. One of them is that I expend all my energy on doing so much work and being annoyed that I have to do it, which, admittedly, takes up the most energy in my case. By the end of the day, there’s not much energy left for my artful projects.
On days when I’m less busy, I have the time – and the energy – to take my daily walk and find little doors in the walls, just like the one pictured above. Or time to do a drawing, or write a semi-coherent blog post. I may not be able to do all three, but I usually manage to find five minutes somewhere.
Today, I’m finding my five minutes after midnight. I think it still counts.
I’m curious, though: when you’re working hard on something you’d rather not be doing, where does your energy go? To the work or to being annoyed at the work?
What are your business expenses?
April 3rd, 2011
This post was supposed to feature a photo of one of my recent food obsessions, cecina.
Cecina by any other name
Cecina is apparently eaten up and down the coast from Pisa all the way to Nice (says Wikipedia) but it goes by different names depending on where you eat it.
The basic recipe, as the man behind the counter explained today, is a mixture of chickpea flour, olive oil, water and salt. Once mixed, the batter is made to sit for a number of hours and then poured into a big, flat pan, which then goes into a wood-burning oven. The result is a thin, golden-colored pie with crispy edges. It is delicious and quite possibly good for you (that is what I want to believe, at least).
The plan (because there was one)
Today was one of those rare Sundays when the weather forecast was good and my partner was free. We decided to head to the coast for a walk along the water and a slice of cecina. “I know,” I thought, “I’ll get a picture of cecina for the blog.” For some reason this made the fairly indulgent trip to the beach (do you know how much gas costs around here?) somewhat justifiable.
We arrived in Viareggio at about noon. It’s not one of my favorite beach towns, but we do know of a really good cecina place there. We worked up an appetite by parking down at the opposite end of town and taking a long walk by the water. By the time we got to the famous cecina place, we were famished.
But the road to hell is apparently paved with cecina
What happened was that as soon as we sat down to our piping hot slices of golden deliciousness, we devoured them gleefully. Without so much as a thought to our cameras.
(Hanging head in shame)
I guess we’ll just have to go back there and get some more. You know, for the blog’s sake.
In the meantime, here are a couple of non-cecina photos for you.
First, a concrete mole on which some very proud Viareggio resident has painted – really roughly translated – “Viareggio, here was I born and here do I hope to die”:
 Must be the cecina. And a photo that could have been taken in Anywhere, Italy but was actually taken in Carrara, not far from Viareggio. Carrara is famous for its fine marble (which Michelangelo used in his David) and for its anarchists. No, really.
 This Vespa may belong to a marble worker. Or an anarchist. Possibly both.
That’s it for me today, dear readers. How was your Sunday?
April 2nd, 2011
… I am really off my rocker.
One of my Twitter friends, @KarenCHyde, sent out a tweet yesterday:
 Now, bear in mind that when I saw this tweet, I had just returned home from having massive amounts of blood taken from my scrawny little self, and was probably light-headed and definitely incapable of making decisions. Also, it was April 1st, a dangerous day for accepting challenges, if there ever was one.
But for some reason I decided this would be a good idea.
I told Karen I’d join her. And what’s crazier, I am publicly admitting to this on my blog.
Add to this that I simultaneously decided to give up all sugar and caffeine after sleeping for four hours, and you can just imagine how many amusing typos are flowing forth from my keyboard right now.
Today, after a long day of working on translations, I began to despair. Only one day into this self-imposed challenge, and I felt ready to quit. Waaah, the experiment was already a failure!
Somehow in the fog of my sleep-deprived, caffeine-hungry brain, an idea began to take shape.
What if I followed the example of my five-minute drawings?
Every now and then I decide to do a series of five-minute drawings, one per day. Just to prove to myself that I do, indeed, have time to work on a creative project every day, no matter what else is going on.
As you’ve probably guessed, the drawings end up being rather crappy.
Five minutes is not a long time to spend on a “finished” drawing. But that’s not really the point.
The point is that I show up and do them in five minutes. I find those five minutes at some point in my day, even on hectic days. And when the time is up, I don’t try to fix the drawing, make it into something more acceptable. Sometimes I even post it to Flickr in all its craptastic glory.
And you know? I like to think that those five-minute drawings have a certain fresh, spontaneous quality that my other drawings don’t always have.
How can I apply these ideas to the blog challenge?
I’m not entirely sure yet, to be honest. I certainly don’t want to “add to the noise” and post something crappy just so I could say I posted.
But I might post a drawing or a photo, and a little story to go along with it. Rather than attempting to create some sort of Groundbreaking Masterpiece Blog Post bursting with priceless wisdom and insight.
And anyway, I’m off caffeine and sugar. If I can manage to write a blog post without hideous typos, I count that as a huge victory.
COMMENTS: I’m not suggesting that anyone try this at home (although I would certainly love the company, heh).
I’m just sort of wondering aloud what might be possible if we just give our projects five, ten, or twenty minutes per day, without expecting the impossible.
What would you do in that time?
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This site is a record of my (almost) daily creativity practice.
It's mainly silly drawings with commentary. Or silly writings, with a chance of illustrations.
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