Brushed by Tuscany: An Artist’s Diary Column

The Art of Letting Go

Friends, Florence, and Fine Art: A day in the life of an anxious artist

“Sometimes, as I’m painting like this,” Amelie begins, scraping her abstract with a borrowed palette knife, “I wonder why I wasn’t always painting like this.”

I smile. Someday, I’ll let myself be abstract, too.

Tuesday, 16 January, 2024 9:20am — Pistoia Station, Pistoia

Huffing, puffing, panting, I’m now sat on a double-seater with my backpack in the treno regionale to Florence, massaging shin splints. I live about an hour away and I’d already bought my ticket. Wouldn’t be another train for an hour. Shin pain will have to do.

I always buy my tickets in advance — either online or at the kiosk. I carry a book, and a smaller book — just in case the first one is boring — along with a bottle of water wherever I go. I need both cash and my cards when I go out, or I get anxious.

Right now, I’m almost too anxious to read my book. I look out the window, willing my breath to slow into an even pace.

Back in Florence, somewhere between REM and the edge of waking lays my new acquaintance, Amelie. Although she grew up in China her French roots never let her inherit the local culture of being forever busy. She languidly stretches.

She didn’t pack her bag the night before. She won’t be bringing one. I mean, she lives just ten minutes away.

She’ll just show up in all black.

A true European.

The only place I’m this certain of myself is in my job. And then in my writing. But never in life.

I’ve already bought my tram tickets before I even left the house, so I’m now going through the videos my partner sent me on Tiktok. I’m willing myself to not look up reference pictures. I’m almost always virtually unable to paint without a reference.

Tuesday, 16 January, 2024 10:20am — Art with Love, Florence

I arrive at the Art With Love Foundation. I’m early so I start setting up matching easels and chairs at a corner desk. Since I’m fidgety, I’m also setting up my paints and brushes.

Acrylics, always acrylics.

I do know how to use oils, but my anxiety just won’t let me squeeze somebody else’s tubes. I am, instead, perfectly fine with using the acrylics that have pumps.

I know they’re for kids. I’m okay with that.

This is my second visit, the first I did with some more girls on the weekend. On my first visit I arrived with sea shells, canvases, an array of brushes, a water jar, a towel, a palette, and my Himi gouache set. That one was a present from a dear friend.

This time, I’ve trusted the process a little more, leaving my paints and palette, and towel home. I still didn’t trust it enough to leave my brushes or water jar at home.

Baby steps.

Tuesday, 16 January, 2024 10:45am — Art With Love, Florence

Amelie has just walked in. We hug. We’ve both had a great Sunday since we last met, and I’m glad she made it. For the next two and a half hours we’re just going to talk about life, art, and trauma.

I’ve seen two paintings — one is a rendition of the Starry Night by Van Gogh, the other seems to be the study of a cafeteria corner with red chairs and a table. I’ve decided to merge them into a single painting, at a larger scale.

Meanwhile, Amelie has taken some oil paints and what I assume is linseed oil. She’s mixing pinks, peaches, and whites and using a palette knife to make an abstract piece.

She’s completely at peace, contrasted by me saying “shit” in my head each time I mess up a brush stroke.

“Sometimes, as I’m painting like this,” Amelie says, scraping her abstract with a borrowed palette knife, “I wonder why I wasn’t always painting like this.”

I smile. Someday, I’ll let myself be abstract, too.

Today is sort of that day. As the end of our session draws nearer, I start going her route, too. Swirling blue, orange, and brown together to make a dark, dark green, I begin finger-painting Starry Night’s tree. Orange-Yellow-White — the moon and stars.

Before we are done, a woman behind us hangs her painting, and turns to her.

“What do you think?” She asks in Italian.

“It’s beautiful,” Amelie replies, almost fluently. “It’s like looking out a window.”

“Moving across continents, all alone, not even knowing the language when you started? That’s brave,” he said, “You’re invincible.”

People frequently approach Amelie. It’s refreshing. She’s had others talk to her, too. Nothing to do with her art, people just want to know what she thinks.

And she’s always kind.

“You’re doing amazing!” She says to me, “It looks really close to the reference.”

Her energy is approachable. And it’s radiant. I like that. I tell her how I enjoy the way she is. That she’s so free. No plan, but she’s so sure of who she is, she goes ahead, anyway.

The only place I’m this certain of myself is in my job. And then in my writing. But never in life.

In a bid to put my faith in life, I leave my painting behind. To be completed when I return next week. I’ve never left unfinished anything, anywhere. But here we are.

Like I said, baby steps.

Tuesday, 16 January, 2024 2:45pm — Oblate Library, Florence

After a hug and a promise to meet again, I left Amelie for some solo ramen at the little Asian restaurant near the San Lorenzo square. Then, I headed to the Oblate library to catch up with work.

The Oblate is beautiful. And shockingly full.

Children running amok, college students cramming for their exams, tutors checking notes, and remote workers trying to get through their day.

The darling little café has some darling little servers and, against my usually demure nature, I joke and laugh with them. They give me my coffee and a little sweetie, on the house.

I like the way you can do that here. You can just talk to anybody.

All you have to do is let go of your inhibitions a little. And begin.

In the past few months, I had given up my full-time job at a hostile work environment that gave me job security and nothing else. Today, I work at place when I have the luxury of going to an art studio for a morning painting session. And I make 4x as much as I used to at my ‘stable job’.

My colleague at my old job once commended me on living as I was.

“Moving across continents, all alone, not even knowing the language when you started? That’s brave,” he said, “You’re invincible.”

And I wished I was.

It was easy to leave jobs. It was easy to move. It was easy to make new friends and lose them. It was a little less easy to learn yet another language, and it was harder still to deal with the bureaucracy.

The hardest thing of all was to allow myself to trust the process. And that often meant to just trust myself.

And that’s how I ended up at Oblate. For once, I allowed myself to be led to the library instead of using maps as I usually do.

Then the text came — my friend, Matteo, was getting off uni. Well, time for some apricena!

Tuesday, 16 January, 2024 2:45pm — Santa Croce, Florence

Matteo speaks three languages fluently, currently learning Arabic. His major is in linguistics and philosophy, so he translates ancient texts for university. So here we are, talking about accents.

“The further North you go the harsher the a’s and o’s tend to get,” He tells me, between bites of prosciutto and brie. “It’s a bit jarring.”

I know Matteo through a friend we once used to have. Before he hurt him, and lost all my respect. And now, years later, we still have each other.

We’re drinking prosecco and wine on a bench where Matteo’s had many firsts.

I did, too.

This was the bench my boyfriend and I had broken our wine glasses to commemorate our first month living together. It wasn’t on purpose, but it was satisfying.

I looked around, wondering if anybody would notice I had returned yet again with wine and someone I deeply cared for.

We’re discussing the way dialects work in Italy. Much like Arabic — a language I’ve known longer — each Italian region has its own dialect to a language that doesn’t exist in the way other languages tend to.

But there was something utterly beautiful in the way every region had found a way to hold on to its history — however convoluted — through something as powerful as language.

And I had found a way to hold on to my favorite local friend.

When I moved to Italy, I wanted to know more cultures. And every single person I meet here teaches me more than I can say.

Some, that it’s important to let go.

Some, that it’s important to hold on.

And then, there’s me. With every passing day I am learning to trust the process a little more than I did yesterday.

I’ll catch you next week Wednesday for the next installment from Tuscany!

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