Uncinetto and the Unskilled Hands

 Meet Teresa. You can't see her face clearly here. She's beautiful. I couldn't upload the photo of us standing together in the square outside my house. Not skilled. Very fitting. Teresa taught me quite a lesson in skill and patience.
Teresa is one of the first people I met in Castiglione. She is 80-something and was a tenant in my house for the first few months I owned it. As I toured it for the first time, she sidled up to me and said "If you need someone to clean it, hire me. I'm good." It was less a request than an order, said with such aplomb I'd have agreed on the spot if I could have overcome the guilt of putting what felt like my own grandmother into servitude.
Teresa doesn't hear well, but her shining steely eyes miss nothing. Her voice is an unmistakable trumpet (albeit one played by Louis Armstrong) that heralds her presence everywhere. Like other older women of the town, she walks uphill to church every day and wears a photo of her dead husband on a delicate gold chain around her neck. Right from the start we delighted in the fact that our names are the same and our families are both from further south -- mine from Campania; hers from Calabria. I fell instantly in love with her.

Like many people of Castiglione MR, she invited me to visit. I took her up on it. Several times. Once, while sitting in front of the TV, a healthy fire she had made herself warming the sitting room, she railed against Berlusconi's image. I noticed it made her fingers fly faster through the work she was doing. She was making a coverlet for  a new baby.

The work is called "uncinetto" she told me: tiny, delicate crochet stitches  that add up to doilies, blankets, hats, baby shoes, even an intricate rosary. I watched her needle dart in and out of nearly imperceptible holes, combining to magically weave flower or bird designs into the work. I knew I had to learn this craft.
So, on my next visit, I bounced through Teresa's door with a bag containing two balls of thin white thread and a crochet hook whose end I could barely see.
"Will you teach me?" I asked.
Teresa instantly stopped, looked at me as though I'd just proposed going to the moon, then threw her head back into her signature laugh that is both cackle and girlish giggle. Then the lesson began.
Teresa made a chain. Wrap and pull. Wrap and pull. When it was about 4 inches long, she handed it to me.
"Come back when you have this much." Her hands were spread to about a foot apart - another 8 inches for me to create.

At home, I tried to replicate her moves and rhythm. Wrap and pull. Wrap and pull. Easy. I remembered this from my crochet and macrame' hippie days. The problem was the tension. My chain wasn't lacy and consistent like hers. Some rows were big, loose, loops, and others tight knots. 

Italians have a saying "Fare e disfare e' l'arte d'imparare" (To do and undo is the art of learning.) Ho fatto io quest' arte tantissimo! I did a lot of the art of doing and undoing. Moreso than I was able to DO the actual art of uncinetto.
After two days, I had my chain. Ran down the hill to Teresa's house, pleased as punch to know I'd be initiated into phase two of "fare".
Slogged back up to my house two hours later. Phase two consisted of inserting the hook through holes invisible to my eye, wrapping the thread several times around it, and pulling the enlarged mass back through several microscopic openings.

 I fumbled. Lost the thread. Got the hook stuck halfway through the holes. Dropped everything on the floor several times. My hand position was wrong, fingers ill positioned. Teresa took them and bent them into place, putting the work into the proper position relative to hands and fingers. OW! I felt like I was being tutored by a master prestidigitator: one finger here, another several awkward inches away, knuckles up, knuckles down, one digit moving in opposition to another, wrists tilted at a strange angle. After 45 minutes of contorting my hands, Teresa took the uncinetto into her own, 80-ish, arthritic ones.
"Faccio io. E poi, lo provi. Guarda!"
[I'll do it and then you try. Watch!]
Then her fingers were off to the races. Even my brain couldn't keep up. Did she do two stitches or five before inserting the needle? How did she make the little chain that links the rows at even intervals to form the lovely windowpane pattern characteristic of uncinetto? But most of all, how the hell did she see??? Row after row formed in a flash, then woosh, she handed the work to me.
"Prova!" she said, grinning. [Try]

I did. Marveling at my clumsiness as Teresa side-coached.
"Stringi!" [Pull!]
"Troppo lento!" [Too loose.]
"Troppo stretto!" [Too tight!]
"Giri. Tiri.  Metti in bucca." [Turn. Pull. Put in the hole.]
Every three attempts, she would shoo my hands aside and pull out the stitches. Disfare. [Undo] Nooooooo!
Fare. [Do]
Giro. Tiro. Metto in bucca. [I turn. I pull. I put in the hole.]
Fare.
Disfare.
Fare.
Disfare.
Over an hour later I heaved a huge sigh. The work hadn't progressed one iota!
Teresa eyed me with a mix of curiosity, incredulity, and concern.
"Sei stanca? she asked. [Are you tired?]
Body, no, I explained. Brain, yes.
"Allora. Fai una pausa. Lo provi alla casa tranquilamente. E poi torni domani o doppodomani. Vedro' il tuo lavoro e continuiamo. Cafe?" [Allora (my favorite Italian word, which has no literal translation, but begins just about every Italian's sentence. Something like "Okay, then..."). Take a break. Try it at home. I'll look at your work and then we'll continue. Coffee?]
I accepted it gratefully. Along with biscotti and fruit.
For three days now I've been struggling to duplicate Teresa's handiwork. My hands have gone numb. My wrists ache. The slender thread is so kinked from repeatedly "disfar- ing" that the work sproings all over when I try to add to it and keeps jerking out of my hands every 5 seconds. I've been near to tears several times.
"What the heck!" I think. "This is little old lady stuff! How hard can it be?"
But it is. My hands do not want to stay in position, the needle gets stuck in the tiny holes or slips out just as I've gotten it through after 30 attempts, my sweaty hands are turning the pristine white thread gray, and my eyes are so squinted up they've nearly disappeared into my head. I set aside the needle, ball of thread, and tiny patch of work. This is stupid. I'm not cut cut out for this. How presumptuous! This is a tradition learned over decades. Teresa said she began when her 40+ year old sons were babies (oh, yeah, how do you have time to focus on this stuff with BABIES!). Clearly I am made of lesser cloth. I'm kidding myself, a wanna-be Abruzzese Nonna in training. I put the work back in the bag.
Two days later, I pick it up. I saw the owner of the local stationary store sitting outside the shop door needling away. When I remarked how difficult the craft is, she smiled and shook her head.
"No, no! E' facile. Ma ci vuole tempo. Piano, piano." [No- it's easy. But it takes time. Slowly, slowly]
Piano, piano. Those are words I've heard repeatedly here. In response to everything from work I said I wanted to do on the house to having my family come visit, to being served continuous waves of food. Piano, piano. I'm not a piano, piano kind of gal. More like a get-it-done-Mario-Andretti-style type. This will be a good lesson for me. I resume the work. Piano, piano. Even though I forget how many stitiches Teresa told me to chain each time. Piano, piano. Even thought the rows' lengths are all uneven. Piano, piano. Even though my window panes are large, loose, loopy arcs compared to Teresa's tight rectangles.
Three days later, I've done enough fare e disfare to show her. She studies the piece.
"Non e' male", she says. [Not bad] I grin.
Then she pulls everything -- EVERYTHING -- out! I have to restrain a little bleat of pain.
But now Teresa really gets to work.

She orders me to sit right up next to her. Watch. Count. Pass the needle. Loosen. Tighten. A row forms in a flash. turn In. Out. 2X. Loop. Through 3 loops. Thread over index finger, work beneath. Stretch the completed part in your right hand between the middle finger and thumb.
"Guarda! Guarda! Cosi'!" [Watch! Watch! Like this!]
Then it's my turn. Uncross your legs, she barks. You need room! Stringi! Pull! No-no! Troppo! Too much! Ecco. There. Uno. Due. E passa. One, two, and pass through. We do and undo. I work piano, piano. After an hour, out of about 30 window panes, I have successfully completed 5. She points to each one. She smiles. "Brava!" she says. I float home.
Over the next few days I work piano piano on several rows. They're still not as neat as Teresa's, but they are becoming more similar. I take her a large piece of completed work. She nods approval. Work until this is easy, she says. Then I'll show you how to make designs. I tell her I can't wait! I'm leaving soon. I'll have 9 whole months of fare and disfare.
I stopped by Teresa's house this morning for an "arrivederci" before departing for the US. "Alla prossima", I say [Until next time]
"E l'uncinetto?", she asks.
"I'm working on it piano piano", I reply. "Maybe when I return I'll be as good as you!"
She laughs her girlish cackle as we hug. As we step apart, I realize both sets of eyes are glistening.

Teresa's work

Teresa's work

My work!

No foto!

Alas, gentle reader. there are no photos available for this post. You will have to turn inward and use your imaginations to see images of this extraordinary house in Penne, a town just 25 minutes from Casa da Carmine.
There could have been photos. One of my current guests is a photographer. She teaches is at Penn Manor High School. She has a fancy-scmanzy camera and has taken at least 700 outstanding photos since her arrival in Abruzzo on July 18. Her camera was slung around her shoulder when we entered the home. But Ken, one of the owners said, "We wanted a monastery. I couldn't find one, so this will have to do."  As monitors inside many of Italy's chief religious halls, such as the Sistine Chapel, caution, out of deference to this hallowed space, there was No Foto! So reader, you will have to, for the most part, make your own pictures.
Picture this:
Seven people gather at the outdoor dining area of  Giumpy's, a restaurant in Penne accessed via a steep, cobblestoned incline. The view over the city is, of course, breathtaking. The sun is beginning to set and in the midst of houses silhouetted by shadows cast in its wake, one bright, yellow structure is illuminated. It is as if something holy is being highlighted. We seven turn to comment on this sight, when, from behind us, spirited voices adorned with refined British accents capture our attention. I turn. Entering into our midst is a stately man resembling a thinner and fitter Winston Churchill, and his partner, Ken. Our own Winston Churchill, John, is fascinating enough, his gentle yet stern voice admonishing the Cairn Terrier he has on a leash to leave off trying to attack a cat. But Ken...Ken is riveting.
Picture this:
He is dressed all in white: linen suit, silk shirt open to reveal a perfectly tanned chest discreetly adorned with a gold cross on a chain, a triangle of white handkerchief poking out of his jacket pocket, shoulder-length grey-white hair, and ice-blue eyes that nonetheless sparkle with warmth and life. He claps those eyes on you, and you cannot turn away. He is a ringer for Peter O'Toole in "The Ruling Class". As he launches into a lively explanation of the origin of the name of the Cairn Terrier breed, I am suddenly at Westminster with an urgent need for this information. When we finally are seated for dinner, not surprisingly, he is at the head of one end of the table; John is at the other.
Ken is an artist. John an engineer.  They are friends of Gerry and Shirley, two friends from Penne who invited me and my houseguests to dinner. John and Ken are from London. They have lived and adventured together for nearly 50 years, two of them in their house in Penne. Ken is a mural painter. He gained notoriety years ago when he was sought out  to decorate Harrod's department store in London. He has been an honored guest on the QE2, where he was forced to exit the ship through the galley to avoid hoards of admirers and reporters who would not have let him pass without waylaying him to seek his attention.
Dinner is peppered with wine, accounts of their travels, their move from their house in the south of France to Italy, and lots of laughter in which Ken's blue eyes ignite and infect us all. Afterwards, we are invited to their house for digestivi.
Picture this:
The entrance door is a high wooden arch, at least 30 feet in length and broad as a cathedral door. It opens into a courtyard, exposed to the night sky, in which a fountain gurgles a gentle welcome.
I'd ordered a pizza for dinner, which I only half consumed. It is clutched to my chest in an indecorous cardboard box. Ken invites me to leave it on the white iron table sitting next to the fountain. It seems sacreligious to do so, so I freeze in place. Ken gently takes the box from me and casually plunks it on the table.
"Come in", he says, sweeping a thin arm in the direction of an open arch beyond the table. "I'm somewhat of a Jesus freak, you see. I wanted a monastery, so I'm making one." And there's the sparkling laugh that again lights up the eyes. So I move in the direction of the line of his arm.
Picture this:
The room extends upward to a vaulted ceiling which could easily be the nave of a church. The first sketch that catches one's eye is a floor-to-tip of vault rendering of the holy ghost with an olive branch. Next to it stands a full-color replication of one-third of a triptich of the Virgin Mary, replete with blue robe trimmed in gold. "This one was ordered by the King of Malta, you see", Ken says completely devoid of braggadoccio. "It's my own style, but it follows the rules of what the icon must have. You see - the three folds on her right shoulder? Without those, it would not be a true icon." And he proceeds to explain the other details needed in order to capture true icon status. "We can do them in our own style, you see. But they must contain the requisites." I'm awed and fixated.
Picture this:
On the far wall of this room, there is scaffolding set up, Michelangelo style, for Ken's current work: Another huge mural that covers the surface wall-to-wall and floor-to-ceiling. It is the Sacred Heart of Jesus. His eyes are drawn so that no matter where you move, they follow you. You are held in the holy time and space of that gaze no matter where you go. Studies and sketches for this mural are strewn throughout the room. Paintings of more icons rest against every surface. He brushes them aside when asked about them. "Just some small things." He is more interested in throwing open the shuttered doors that lead out to the balcony. John steps in. "Oh, these clouds! If it were clear we could see the Gran Sasso. And on pristine days, you can see almost to Rome. 150 miles." "Miles?" I think. But then Ken is beside me independently corroborating the fact.
Picture this:
We are now invited into the sitting room. Above one long, suede couch is a giant mirror in a gold frame. Giant as in, Harrod's probably has store windows smaller than this. "That's an interesting frame", says Gerry. "Tell us about it."
"Oh", John says, "It looks carved, but it's not you know. It's hand-molded plaster painted with gold leaf. It's the only one in existence, really. We brought it from the house in France." He laughs. "If we get into a bind in our old age, we could sell it. It might keep us going a bit."
Ken enters the room. "Is this all your work?" Kim, my photographer guest, asks. "Yes", he replies, and smiles a childish, self-pleased grin, as if we have just pointed out drawings tacked with a magnet to a refrigerator door.
Picture this:
As I am gawking at the mirror and the chandelier above it, my eyes alight on a painting on a small wall next to the door leading out of the sitting room. It is tucked almost in a corner. It does not look like Ken's work, but the style is familiar. "Who is the artist?" I venture to inquire. John's voice is like a clap of thunder:
"Caravaggio."

                                                Not the Caravaggio in Ken and John's house, but close

Kim and I freeze, not daring to make eye contact or ask the obvious: "An ORIGINAL Caravaggio????"
But it becomes clear that this is exactly what it is. John recounts the story of contacting an art expert, an American, about the fact that he has this painting, a boy eating fruit against a very, very dark background. It seems this "expert" had not known of the existence of this painting and neglected to include it in his definitive book on Caravaggio. John's email to him, informing him of its existence was met with a reply the equivalent of "If you say so." Again John laughs. "If it's not authenticated it could be worth a half million pounds. If it is..." He shrugs. "Several million. Oh, but I'd sell the mirror before I would part with that, even if we're way too old and dottering to take care of ourselves."
Picture this:
Kim and I transfixed, eyes darting from Caravaggio, to mirror, to ivory carving in yet another gilt frame, to a five-foot high sculpture of a horse's head that looks like it was taken from Picasso's "Guernica", back to the Caravaggio. We are so silent it's like we're at a solemn mass. Ken's monastery. It's here.
Kim's camera hangs limp at her side. She cannot bring herself to use it. No foto!