It had been a long time since I’d done laundry. My time in Rome had come to an end.
Leaving felt like the end of camp, though I was never good at camp. My one attempt, a two-week Girl Scout camp when I was ten, was a disaster. I spent every meal hiding under the dining room table, crying. I was too homesick. But most kids love camp and are sad to leave; that was the feeling I had leaving the Academy.
Living in a palazzo, spending my days hiking up and down the streets of Rome, looking at art, meeting unbelievably smart and artistic people, all while being served fabulous food and wine – what’s not to love?
The palazzo was like a dorm, if dorms came with history, elegance, and weekly fresh linens. I had my own bathroom and my suite had soaring ceilings and beautiful windows with electric shades that could turn my bedroom into a cave. It was heaven.
Despite my questionable start and confusion as to why no one spoke to me, I loved being at the Academy. I buckled down, found my daily rhythm and discovered the speaking participants. My friend group grew daily. During my last week, I met perhaps one of the coolest people I have ever encountered, (Trent Crimm among them.) This man was the Academy’s superstar - he won the mega Rome Prize which is basically the Super Bowl of art. Wildly impressive. And he spoke to me. And I mostly understood what he was working on. A win all around.
And I got to see more of the super NYC couple. They opened their studio to everyone, and were excellent sources of restaurant recommendations and stair climbing workout locations. Their partnership and respect for each other’s art was inspiring.
There was also the fabulous staff who recognized that my group had an appreciation for red wine and graciously let us linger after dinners.
Reverse packing and leaving were hard. I delayed as long as possible, secretly hoping blizzard #1 slamming New England would strand me in London for a few days. No such luck. And no smooth sailing. A twenty-hour journey dumped me in the thick of blizzard #2 in Boston; if it were not for a tenacious Lyft driver, I would have spent the night propping up the wall at the Alewife Duncan Donuts. When I finally made it to my mom’s I was physically battered and stressed. I was also stunned by the sheer amount of snow on the ground which only cemented my committed to life in Southern Cal.
My mom keeps asking me, “Was it worth it?”
It is hard to explain why being there mattered so much – the solitude, the unbroken hours for my art, the freedom to wander and be moved, the friendships. All of it woven together.
But if I had to sum it up, to name the magic, the thing that stays with me, it was this – being involved in a respectful space among people who, like me, have given their lives to the arts.
I am not alone.
Priceless.
Leaving felt like the end of camp, though I was never good at camp. My one attempt, a two-week Girl Scout camp when I was ten, was a disaster. I spent every meal hiding under the dining room table, crying. I was too homesick. But most kids love camp and are sad to leave; that was the feeling I had leaving the Academy.
Living in a palazzo, spending my days hiking up and down the streets of Rome, looking at art, meeting unbelievably smart and artistic people, all while being served fabulous food and wine – what’s not to love?
The palazzo was like a dorm, if dorms came with history, elegance, and weekly fresh linens. I had my own bathroom and my suite had soaring ceilings and beautiful windows with electric shades that could turn my bedroom into a cave. It was heaven.
Despite my questionable start and confusion as to why no one spoke to me, I loved being at the Academy. I buckled down, found my daily rhythm and discovered the speaking participants. My friend group grew daily. During my last week, I met perhaps one of the coolest people I have ever encountered, (Trent Crimm among them.) This man was the Academy’s superstar - he won the mega Rome Prize which is basically the Super Bowl of art. Wildly impressive. And he spoke to me. And I mostly understood what he was working on. A win all around.
And I got to see more of the super NYC couple. They opened their studio to everyone, and were excellent sources of restaurant recommendations and stair climbing workout locations. Their partnership and respect for each other’s art was inspiring.
There was also the fabulous staff who recognized that my group had an appreciation for red wine and graciously let us linger after dinners.
Reverse packing and leaving were hard. I delayed as long as possible, secretly hoping blizzard #1 slamming New England would strand me in London for a few days. No such luck. And no smooth sailing. A twenty-hour journey dumped me in the thick of blizzard #2 in Boston; if it were not for a tenacious Lyft driver, I would have spent the night propping up the wall at the Alewife Duncan Donuts. When I finally made it to my mom’s I was physically battered and stressed. I was also stunned by the sheer amount of snow on the ground which only cemented my committed to life in Southern Cal.
My mom keeps asking me, “Was it worth it?”
It is hard to explain why being there mattered so much – the solitude, the unbroken hours for my art, the freedom to wander and be moved, the friendships. All of it woven together.
But if I had to sum it up, to name the magic, the thing that stays with me, it was this – being involved in a respectful space among people who, like me, have given their lives to the arts.
I am not alone.
Priceless.
