In Quest of Culture

Way back in the olden days of right around 1980, one of my neighborhood friends returned from a summer trip to Italy. We were 14 and living an insulated suburban life waaay inland in Southern California. Ingrained in my memory is her bounding out her front door to greet us with short cropped hair (à la Gina Lollobrigida), hooped earrings, an off the shoulder cotton blouse, and a colorful and long flouncy skirt. I’m sure she had a kerchief around her hair. I’m sure of it. We were gobsmacked. How could such a transformation have taken place in such a short amount of time? I’m sure she had picked up an Italian accent as well. Her confidence kept her from feeling out of place, and because someone needed to feel out of place, we did. The reunion was awkward because she’d changed, we hadn’t. I remember thinking, “Wow. How lucky Italians are to have culture; we don’t have any.” Imagine having that thought as a teen at the end of the 70’s, heading into the 80’s when American culture was heady. I remember thinking that everyone in the world was lucky to have culture because Americans had lots of things, but culture wasn’t one of them. I suppose the disco era had slipped my mind. Along with the hippies, and the burgeoning era of greed and the drugs that would grip the 80’s.

This memory came flooding back to me last weekend as I was enjoying the Mexican countryside of San Miguel de Allende. The reds. The oranges. The turquoise. Not even really turquoise. An almost turquoise. A different kind of blue. The yellows. The food. The food. The food. The music. The culture! There really is nothing like getting out of your insular life and exploring the world even if it’s only the next city or county or country over. Perspective is the word that comes to mind and seeing all those colors and color combinations was so inspiring. And the combinations were harmonic, because that’s how they made you ‘feel’—in harmony.

Quilt Blocks by Belle Peche

My daughter-in-law bought a hand-tooled yellow leather purse. Yellow. But, not really yellow. Because it’s the yellow of the petals at the ends of sunflowers. The color of muted marigolds. The yellow of a dizzy fading honeybee. The yellow of a Mexican sun setting gently beyond crooked cobblestoned streets. It’s not an American yellow. Not at all. It’s not French’s mustard. It’s not a number 2 pencil. It’s not Land O’ Lakes butter. Or is it? Staring at that purse, smelling that purse—because I’m weird, but also because the smell of real leather is intoxicating, I was reminded of how much of American culture is borrowed, incorporated, ingrained. And this reminder is so important when you’re doing art. When you’re selecting fabrics, and colors, and trying to harmonize, and visiting other cultures, getting outside of your life and out of your own way encourages you to do so boldly. Harmonize boldly.

And that yellow purse was such a lovely prelude to an old childhood memory where my friend was so infused with Italian culture that it carried her all the way to the cold cement front porch of her suburban house. Where she stood tall, smiling and bare-footed to greet her stunned-into-silence high school friends. She was so bold. As bold as a stamped-leather yellow purse, as bold as a lime colored orange on a cotton purple background, as bold as an orange octopus swimming through a sunny yellow ocean. As bold as art can be, and as confident as art needs to be.

Cheers from the bright side.

Tracey