Wednesday, March 21, 2007
relating to Butcher of Panzano
When this was published in the saturday Age, the Editor noted that the Florentine steak used to be served with bone on. This was stopped during the Mad Cow era. So glad he told me!
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
The Butcher of Panzano
The sweet sound of La Boheme floated out on the warm spring air in old Panzano, Tuscany. As the grey stone street curved down the hill the music got louder and louder. We passed little shops that looked unchanged for an eternity; the bakers, enoteca, the vegetable shop, all closed because it was Sunday, silent and dark behind their copper-edged windows.
Rounding the corner we spotted a large blue ceramic cow with flowers in her hair standing to the left of the street, while on the right was the only shop open in the village. People were moving in and out, music was playing; it had all the hallmarks of a successful gallery opening back in Australia.
The smell of fresh blood soon disillusioned me. It was a butchers shop but like no other I had seen before. Behind the counter were a husband and wife team of great strength and character, in their forties or fifties, he with a strong Italian face and piercing eyes, she with a dramatic air and original zany glasses. He sang along with a few bars of the aria, and said, “Welcome welcome, come in and try the foods, have a glass of chianti”, and a young apprentice appeared offering drinks.
The place was an assault on the senses from all fronts: the rich smell, loud music, the sawdust beneath the feet, and impressive artwork. On the marble slab inside the shop stood a sculpture two and a half feet high of a classical female nude in graceful pose. Above it a traditional oil painting was beautifully executed, of fruit and fowl, and handsome drawings and prints were casually displayed. On the bench was laid a feast of the proprietor’s wares for us to try; cecchini (lard on bread flavoured with onion garlic and herbs) slices of tuscan bread with the peppery olive oil of the region for dipping, platters of his own salami, mortadella and meat loaf. So were all our senses enchanted by this clever butcher of Panzano. Naturally we bought his meats!
I left with a puzzle, – on the wall outside was a single red rose in a silver vase with a plaque beneath. To my limited knowledge of Italian it read, “In honour of the Florentine beefsteak – died 2002” I still wonder why.
Rounding the corner we spotted a large blue ceramic cow with flowers in her hair standing to the left of the street, while on the right was the only shop open in the village. People were moving in and out, music was playing; it had all the hallmarks of a successful gallery opening back in Australia.
The smell of fresh blood soon disillusioned me. It was a butchers shop but like no other I had seen before. Behind the counter were a husband and wife team of great strength and character, in their forties or fifties, he with a strong Italian face and piercing eyes, she with a dramatic air and original zany glasses. He sang along with a few bars of the aria, and said, “Welcome welcome, come in and try the foods, have a glass of chianti”, and a young apprentice appeared offering drinks.
The place was an assault on the senses from all fronts: the rich smell, loud music, the sawdust beneath the feet, and impressive artwork. On the marble slab inside the shop stood a sculpture two and a half feet high of a classical female nude in graceful pose. Above it a traditional oil painting was beautifully executed, of fruit and fowl, and handsome drawings and prints were casually displayed. On the bench was laid a feast of the proprietor’s wares for us to try; cecchini (lard on bread flavoured with onion garlic and herbs) slices of tuscan bread with the peppery olive oil of the region for dipping, platters of his own salami, mortadella and meat loaf. So were all our senses enchanted by this clever butcher of Panzano. Naturally we bought his meats!
I left with a puzzle, – on the wall outside was a single red rose in a silver vase with a plaque beneath. To my limited knowledge of Italian it read, “In honour of the Florentine beefsteak – died 2002” I still wonder why.
Feel good piece
I knew at first sight he wasn’t the full two bob. I felt sorry for him, standing beside the carriage door, clutching the handles of his pushbike. His head rolled and lollopped around, slack mouth abnormally red. I couldn’t see his bike, but he obviously loved it, head hanging down and peering from side to side. Absolutely fascinated.
Someone was looking after him. His dark hair was a smart pudding-basin around his forehead and ruddy ears, and his moustache was neatly trimmed. His hands, fiddling with the bike handles, constantly in motion, seemed to be all wrist bones and knuckles, protruding from the skimpy sleeves of his jacket. He pushed at his lower face, and then returned awkwardly to the bike handles, again and again, caressing, totally absorbed.
He got off at Boronia. I realized the bike wasn’t. It was a special walking aid with brake cables. He gyrated along behind it awkwardly, but his peaceful face, and the proud way he held the handlebars told the story. To him it was a bike – a shiny, chromium-plated bike. It was his ticket to freedom. He made his way down the platform, unaided, with the wind in his hair.
Someone was looking after him. His dark hair was a smart pudding-basin around his forehead and ruddy ears, and his moustache was neatly trimmed. His hands, fiddling with the bike handles, constantly in motion, seemed to be all wrist bones and knuckles, protruding from the skimpy sleeves of his jacket. He pushed at his lower face, and then returned awkwardly to the bike handles, again and again, caressing, totally absorbed.
He got off at Boronia. I realized the bike wasn’t. It was a special walking aid with brake cables. He gyrated along behind it awkwardly, but his peaceful face, and the proud way he held the handlebars told the story. To him it was a bike – a shiny, chromium-plated bike. It was his ticket to freedom. He made his way down the platform, unaided, with the wind in his hair.
Shadow
It raced along beside us, now horizontal, now vertical, as the bank receded and advanced again. Razor sharp in the crisp winter sunlight. Flickering and rippling it moulded itself, now to the grass, now the rough ground then swooping up to smear itself, serrated, along an old paling fence. So near I could have touched it – then gone again – sliding over the concrete and rusty metal and slowing to a halt, damping down the babble of graffiti which jostled for position on the station wall.
art/life theme
The negative spaces in our lives
(the space between the objects)
allow the light to shine through.
(the space between the objects)
allow the light to shine through.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Thoughts on couples
Autumn brings
Rounded love, deep and pure,
But oddly detached
Rounded love, deep and pure,
But oddly detached
.............
Play, ply me with fun
We’ll be serious soon enough,
And then we’ll be dead.
............
In warmth of afterglow
Skin on skin, interwoven
Hearts minds bodies.
In warmth of afterglow
Skin on skin, interwoven
Hearts minds bodies.
Thoughts on drawing
I draw,
Transporting energy from the living
Onto the paper.
My left hand makes a whole new world
Change brings energy.
Exploring lines
With feeling, reveal
The soul of the artist.
Bold lines, strong and dark,
show the strength,
courage is the reckless line.
Transporting energy from the living
Onto the paper.
My left hand makes a whole new world
Change brings energy.
Exploring lines
With feeling, reveal
The soul of the artist.
Bold lines, strong and dark,
show the strength,
courage is the reckless line.
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