M. Pia De Girolamo

Flowing brustrokes 

 2008

My parents loved art and in our house we had original art on the walls. There was nothing by anyone famous (no undiscovered Vermeers), just work they fell in love with in their travels or by artists they had met. 

Among my favorite pieces was a pair of vertical paintings on paper in a loose brushy style they bought from a Japanese artist in Rome.  The figures appeared to be engaged in a secret courtship, but I couldn’t be sure.  Another favorite was an oil painting by an artist we met while on vacation in Formia, at the seaside south of Rome.  The artist, whose first or last name (I don’t remember) was Attilio, was there vacationing with his family. My sisters and I became friendly with his daughters during our stay.

Signor’ Attilio painted our painting while we were on vacation. It showed the beach where we stayed and a little green and white rowboat pulled up on the sand that belonged to a boy who lived there. One day my father asked the boy to row us around the bay in that boat. The boy had dark hair and dark eyes; I had a crush on him and so of course, we never spoke. When I see that painting now, I also see the artist and his lively family, the mysterious boy, and my childhood.  What became of all of them?

When I picture my childhood home I can see where each painting hung and remember some of the questions they evoked.  Who painted them? What did they depict and were the scenes “real” or taken from the artist’s imagination?  There was always an element of mystery there and it occurs to me that mystery is the feeling I have when I paint my work. A painting is not an answer so much as the embodiment of questions.