MY NONNA

 

It's the weekend, and I've been sent to my Nonno and Nonna's house in town. Their home is a distinctive white brick two-story with concrete lions on the front gate and a water fountain adorned with mythical figures and cherubic angels. The veranda is tiled in blue and white geometric and floral patterns.

Inside, I'm greeted by a brown, black, and gold paisley carpet that sets the scene amidst a plethora of religious and Italian iconography. The living room, adorned with wallpaper of repetitive designs, features chandeliers with faux crystals. It's here that I'd spend hours, captivated by the surroundings, often trying to sketch every detail.

I vividly recall one night catching "The Exorcist" on TV and being thoroughly spooked.  I would occasionally sneak a chair to grab one the " crystals" off the chandeliers to draw when my Nonni were out.

Then, there was the sewing room—a treasure trove of markers, needles, threads, fabrics, and the giant black scissors. The old manual Singer sewing machine not only served as a place for sewing but also housed treats in one drawer and loose change in another.

Growing up and spending countless hours at my Nonni's house allowed me to explore and express myself. While my Nonno spoke a bit of English, my Nonna didn't speak a word, often requiring me to translate phone conversations. I fondly remember my Nonna teaching me how to draw flowers, a skill that would shape my artistic journey.

As I grew more aware, I began to see Picasso, Matisse, and Warhol's works and couldn't help but think, "Hey, they copied my Nonna!" She had immigrated from Italy shortly after the war, finding work as a dressmaker in Melbourne while my Nonno had settled in Mildura earlier. They spent much of their lives working the land, imparting sincerity and honesty into everything they did.

Looking back, I now appreciate my Nonna's artwork without needing to translate or understand the technicalities; it speaks to me in my own artistic language. Her pieces have become teaching aids in my own practice, offering me comfort in my mistakes and teaching me to embrace and be proud of them—there's no need to conceal imperfections.