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."
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!
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