La Dolce Vita

Wanda began drawing when she was a young girl. When her family lived in Sweden, her father would take her on walks along the Strömkajen, where the ferries departed for the Stockholm archipelago, the chain of islands that connected the city to the Baltic Sea. 

Wanda had a drawing pad and she sketched the ships, seagulls, and fluffy white clouds that drifted overhead. A sympathetic art teacher gave her some extra pointers about detailing and shading and soon Wanda’s simple drawings improved dramatically.

When the family moved to Rome, she was the first to discover the Saturday market near their home behind the Borghese Gardens. While her mother and the cook shopped for fresh vegetables and fish, Wanda explored the entire market with its army of vendors.

Tucked away next to the leather goods stand, was a caricaturist. Wanda had never seen this form of art and she was intrigued by the greatly exaggerated features that the artist drew on his large sketch pad. He was an older man with curly, grey hair and he wore tight-fitting jeans and a shabby tweed coat. He could have been an unemployed college professor. In his top pocket were three colored pencils.

He worked incredibly fast, with his hands flying across the paper.  A woman was sitting for him, holding her shopping in her lap. On the easel, the woman’s face was somewhat obscured by the oversized basket in which huge melons, carrots, and artichokes seemed to leap out. The woman’s bulging eyes had a slight look of terror as though the menacing vegetables were alive and looking for revenge. Wanda was fascinated and she returned almost every week to watch him at work.

On a Saturday in late autumn, when the weather was turning, she walked by the artist again. The seat in front of him was empty and no one was standing around watching. He beckoned Wanda to sit. “I see you every week,” he said in passable English. “Where is your sketchpad today?”. Wanda shook her head and held up her shopping bag, full with loaves of bread. “Let me do a quick study, you might get some inspiration to see yourself as I see you.”

A few minutes later he tore off the sheet and presented it to Wanda. At first glance, she was hardly recognizable. There was a tall, skinny girl, wearing a scarf with the Canadian flag design – the maple leaf appeared to be melting onto her shoulders. She was holding a sketch pad, on which appeared a miniature Roman arch. Her facial features were scrunched together but her two large dimples stood out and she was smiling demurely.

Wanda was surprised that someone had noticed her dimples but even more shocked that the caricaturist had captured her essence. She was young, she was tall, she was a Canadian, she owned a sketchpad and she lived in Rome. It was perfect.

She had no idea what he normally charged so she gave him one of the sticks of fresh bread from her bag. He laughed and said, “Now it’s your turn to be an artist. Think like a magician and it will work. Bring me a picture in a few months.”

One warm weekend, before Easter, Wanda and her friend Robyn, whose father was also a diplomat, took a taxi out to the Appian Way, the old Roman road surrounded by tombs, catacombs, ancient villas, and ruined baths.

Wanda’s art teacher at the international school said that the classical sites along the Appian Way provided endless subjects for artists of all mediums. Wanda wanted some ideas so she and Robyn brought a knapsack full of sandwiches and drinks and some reading material.

Robyn was doing a paper for English class on John Keats, the Romantic poet who had lived and died in Rome at age 25. The class had just completed a field trip to the cemetery to see the grave and headstone of the famous poet. Robyn was also looking for some inspiration to help her get past Keats’ poems which she found dated and a little dull.

The girls walked along the Appian Way for a short distance. So well-constructed was the path that the old pavers in the road bed had hardly moved over the centuries. The road was adorned with cypress and pine trees and there were random herds of sheep and goats nibbling at the new growth along the way. The scene was timeless.

Wanda found a path that led to a meadow and a tall and crumbling Roman arch. It stood alone in the field surrounded by a copse of shade trees. There was something eerie about the place.

Wanda and Robyn spread their blanket near the dilapidated stonework.

Soon, in the spring sunshine, Robyn dozed off, falling asleep using her textbook as a pillow.

Wanda kept thinking of the advice that her art teacher had given her. Imagine the scene. Frame the subject. Visualize the topic. She closed her eyes thinking of the various classical images that she had seen in her art and history books.

There was Caesar and Cicero, Antony and Augustus, and Tacitus and Tiberius. The names ran together. She had visited all the important sites: the Forum, the Colosseum, the Pantheon, and the Trevi Fountain. Ah, Rome, she thought. The Eternal City. Romulus and Remus. Ancient Evenings. La Dolce Vita.

Wanda grew sleepy trying to make sense of it all. And, like history, time passed.

Later, Robyn nudged Wanda awake with her toe. “Time for lunch. I have some fresh prosciutto and mozzarella sandwiches. And there’s some cannoli, too, for later.”

Wanda sat up trying to clear her mind from her deep sleep.

“And when did you do that amazing sketch?” asked Robyn.

“I think I started it when you fell asleep,” said Wanda. “There was a tinkling of bells from the goat herder and a gust of wind came up. I saw some water flowing under the arch and I could smell the fragrance of the flowers on the linden trees. But I don’t remember completing the sketch. I intended to draw the scene in front of us.

The girls looked carefully at Wanda’s sketchpad. In the background were market stalls and people milling about. In the foreground was the caricaturist working on a portrait of someone who looked exactly like Robyn.

“That’s the artist I know at the market near the Borghese Gardens,” said Wanda. “He does these crazy pictures of people with exaggerated features. But he gets the essence of his subjects. Is that you?” asked Wanda pointing at the drawing.

“I think so,” said Robyn. “But how you captured all that exact detail is amazing.”

“I’m not sure I did,” answered Wanda. “The caricaturist told me to think like a magician and that was my last thought before I fell asleep.”

“Is it possible that your friend just appeared out of nowhere and finished the drawing for you,” asked Robyn.

“Unlikely. It’s Saturday and it’s the busiest day in the market. I expect he makes lots of money on weekends,” replied Wanda.

“I guess I meant his spirit. This is kind of a creepy place with those catacombs and old tombs,” said Robyn.

Wanda continued, “I have no idea. I just know that I feel completely rested. I was hungry but the sandwiches hit the spot. I’m happy with this sketch, although I’m unsure how I finished it. Everything is very weird.”

“Why don’t you show him next weekend and see how he responds,” suggested Robyn. “And let’s not forget the cannoli before we leave for home.”

Wanda headed for the market on Saturday with her sketch tucked away in the shopping bag.

The caricaturist looked up when he saw her and said, “Well, here’s my Canadian maple leaf arriving with the first blush of spring. Come stai? I hope you are well?”

“Have a coffee with me,” as he poured a cup from his thermos. On his sketchpad was a remarkably real picture of a loaf of bread. “And here, this is fresh and we can share a slice or two.” 

The artist reached into the sketchpad and drew out the bread. “Careful, the bread is hot. It’s a focaccia topped with herbs. Very tasty,” he said. 

Wanda sipped her drink. “Where did you learn about magic?”

“I was a professor of art history in Florence and I got tired of lecturing undergraduates on Caravaggio,” he said. “I was also a muralist and a portraitist so this line of work came naturally to me. One night I had a dream that I was a magician. I learned that you can’t buy or borrow magic. It comes in the darkness of sleep and shows itself in the light of day. I learned that my art could come alive if I believed in myself.”

He continued, “To draw caricatures you need to understand the five shapes of the human face. Then you need to be able to exaggerate features like the nose or chin or, in your case, dimples. You also need a sense of humor to bring it all together. Then the magic might seep in.”

“But I sense that you sketched me last week. Is that correct?” he asked.

“Yes, I did. I napped in the afternoon, in a field by the catacombs and when I awoke this sketch was completed,” replied Wanda. She then took her drawing out of the bag and showed it to the caricaturist.

He clapped his hands with joy. “Tis me and your friend, I believe. I didn’t realize that my coat was so tatty and old. And my hair looks so unkempt. But well done! You are very young to have the magic so be careful. It comes and goes, you know. I felt a pang of hunger this morning and a simple drawing turned into a loaf of bread. Once, though, I drew a lovely bouquet and a lizard jumped out. Be careful what you wish for and control your desires.”

Wanda thanked him and walked back through the market stopping to buy some fresh vegetables.

At home, she set up her sketchpad. She wasn’t in the mood to do a caricature as that took concentration, imagination, and a cooperative subject.  But her mind went back to the previous weekend when she and Robyn visited the Via Appia. Suddenly, she was inspired to draw the ancient arch in the meadow. She framed the subject in her mind and quickly drew the main features and then shaded in the details. 

She couldn’t remember if there was an actual stream running under the arch but she included one to balance the perspective and to give the picture some depth.   Looking at the sketchpad, Wanda felt that she had the image exactly as she had witnessed it with her friend.

Wanda went to bed late that night. As she drifted into sleep, she was certain that she heard the gurgling water magically surging under the arch and into her consciousness.