Florence

N 12O19’52” E

Today is my last day in Venice, and tomorrow morning, I fly to Majorca, Spain to work on a vulture sanctuary, so stay tuned for that post. Today will be all about Florence, Italy. We arrived in Italy later in the night, so we caught a taxi—one, because there is very little other public transportation in the city, and two, because we did not want to wander around a city that we did not know well at night. Little did we know we were going to be putting ourselves in an even more dangerous situation by taking the taxi. Let me explain. Why do you think there are so many great Italian race car drivers? Because they get the most practice. They don't have to go to the race track to practice; they just have to drive to school, or work, or lunch. As we were driven to the apartment, we were pressed into our seats by the sheer speed of the driver tearing down the even-skinnier-than-Paris streets of Florence. It was a completely inhabited area with apartments, shops, and two-foot-wide sidewalks, but the speed limits were still around 50 miles an hour. Luckily, our Formula-1 cab driver was well versed in the ways of navigating near vehicular manslaughter, so we made it through with only a few Italian curses flung through our window and the blatant traffic offenders.

After a day of unwinding, it was finally time to meet my first teacher abroad. In this case, the teacher’s name was Renato Olivesteri, who is a master wood-inlay craftsman. We were given an address, and so against the desire of my teenagerly kind, I braved the wee hours of the morning to start the first day of wood inlay classes. Renato's shop was exactly how you would imagine it (insert picture): it smelled of rich exotic woods, old iron, and faintly of horse hooves. I was immediately enchanted by the smell of a truly used and loved shop, but even more so by the almost diminutive figure of Renato. His face is set with thick black eyebrows and dark brown eyes and a short salt and pepper beard. He is in his sixties and has been inlaying wood for the last thirty-ish years. He is working in the shop that his teacher used for his whole life, and his teacher’s teacher, and so on. The space is diffused with a weathered look. The workbenches are covered in a thick lacquer only use and time can provide, and the walls are hung with beautiful inlaid works, ancient tools, and some recognitions of Renato’s work. We hired a translator to be there for the first lesson because Renato said he only spoke Italian, but after a half hour, the translator said that we did not need her because Renato spoke enough English words, which he mixed with hand gestures, to get by. So, over the next 6 days we miticuly followed this process:

We took very thin sheets of wood-clad veneer and sandwiched them between two boards with the stencil of some winding flowers on top. Renato then brought out a tin full of very small nails which he had had a very hard time getting his hands on for, as with most dying arts, his specialty tools are becoming more and more difficult to find. I nailed the sandwich together in multiple places, and then the jigging began. I used a jigsaw to cut out each piece until the flower was an unsolved puzzle. I then took apart the sandwich and rearranged each piece until I had three flower designs, each with an alternating background: petal, collar, and stem. After securing the designs with scotch tape, we then painted the backs of them with an ancient glue made from cow skin, tendon, and bone. The next day, I removed the newspaper through sanding, and then I took more of the tendon glue (this time a more potent batch) and adhered the design to a block of wood. After yet more waiting for the glue to dry came the final step: lacquering. Renato said that on some projects, this step took him 50 hours. We did an abridged version of the process, but after four-ish hours of applying lacquer and Renato talking and saying that ‘for the time we had, it will do,’ and that was the greatest praise I will receive in my life.

I loved my time spent in Florence with Renato, but I also loved Italy. Maybe it was because of the hundreds of Renaissance art galleries along the crooked brick streets. Or maybe it was because of the hundreds of reliably delicious cafes, restaurants, and pizzerias. Or maybe it was because of the fact that one night, on our walk home, we heard opera coming from an old wooden door, and when we stepped inside, we were greeted with a beautiful, free opera concert in an old church. I truly cannot say, but I love Florence deeply and can't wait to return.

In other news I am posting along with this a whole ton of photos and videos so check them out under the Photos & Videos and Artwork Tabs