People hang their laundry between windows, as is done in many places. Unlike many places, however, I'm taking pictures and posting them on the internet.
Hi L.I. -- I found you through gurglingcod blogger. I responded to the name of your blog. I am a photo nut, artist and traveler. Retired now, mostly to pursue more pictures; Glad to make your acquaintance.
This letter to you and your blog is nothing more than a reinforcement of what you are doing with the photgraphs. Keep it up!
My wife is from Foggia, Italy. We go there every two years or so. We have loads of "kin" who accept me as the fat Texan. I asked last time, just past summer '07, "what do you my nephews and brothers in laws, etc call the italian laundry?" My nephew said: "Standi panni." please visit -- moopigwisdom.blogspot.com ,or, italianwomanintexas.blogspot.com for travel notes, and some photos. I think you will not judge them harshly, as I see the sincereity in your work, that I am eye witness to.
Foggian
We men here, while here, Foggians do not butt heads very often. Why? Because greeting each other and salutation egress are initiated with cheek to cheek kisses. Such non-homophobic gestures require humility and genuflect. I think it is a smoother lifestyle, and small barrier to cross to be amongst in-laws.
Foggian homes with walls thick and natural circulation a must, have clothes hung outside the windows, no matter what one's status. Standi Panni is the name for the garments bearding the window sills every afternoon all over town. It is all California wants to be: Roman, cultured, prejudiced, and beautiful in mindful manners, and hard talk, and weather.
But Foggian is the real thing. What you see is what you get, unless you learn the cheek to cheek. Once you are accepted, you are allowed to sit with the women in their houses, and laces of Foggian cultural ambiguity are revealed to the stranger. My children would have had a better toddler stage had I known their southern Adriatic valley origins, and genetic coding thanks to Foggian natural selection.
Oh, yes, Foggian is also a dialect of southern Italy. I cannot understand a word of it. It is spoken in telling jokes around the grappa near midnight. But it is so distinct it is recognized as the "redneck agriculture" speech and loathed by the hoity-toity wannabes. So I can relate to the prejudice of a regional twang, or oohh in this case.
Today one lives in a sort of two block square compound as if in a single family dwelling. We stayed part way in this compound domicile and part-time in a highrise. Most apartments are stacked in block housing array, originating from Brutalism Architecture; you know, like le Courbusier, back when? Just google Brutalism.
As the evening breezes filter through the garden of the compound, gates are locked, security systems are turned on, and the lock down is akin to, well, you know, clang-clang. But real fear of burglary warrants the night time incarceration. However, as the time difference caused me to awake at 2:30 AM my first morning, I found myself pacing the floor. Outside wild dogs howled, and the half-moon cast dreamy light on the terrace garden below, now unavailable to me.
Bedtime became the darndest event at the compound, as strict mindful Foggian culture sought safety in bedrooms; each evening collapsed inward to beds made in pearl dust and cotton; pillows covered with slips that hung and drip-dried in Foggian afternoons all that day.
Busty women hang their day's wash on wires stretched just outside window sills. The sills are monolith stones, white washed and continually peeling. They show worn because women rub their torsos on them as they stretch and pin garments. Everything is made of stone, brick and mortar. The city is devoid of dry-rotting wood. Their apartment is like a geode. When you slice open the rough round exterior, inside is a diamond cache surrounded by thick stone.
The standi panni dances in the breeze outside to tell all others that the house is in daily order. Holy Ghosts might dance in the day on the stone sill, gleefully around the fringe separating from the old towels, and conspicuous undergarments; Standards waving ciao and auguri to saints and sinners passing underneath; last goodbye to husbands going to work first of two shifts.
Someone sprayed "DayGo" on the bulkhead wall last night, in the alley. Others have spent hours painting a tribute to technology; shows a monster eating cell phones and CPU's. Huh?
And the beggars at intersections look pretty well-dressed. "Niente per tu," I learn to say to Gypsy's outstretched hand.
Word Jazz Foggian style starts when we are in our nephews' Fiat, Fiesta, or Opel. Only Foggian's drive here, and breathe Foggian epithets at Chinese and Moroccan drivers. Only Foggians are the masters of drift, pause and nose prerequisites of intersections-- where red lights are ignored, along with stop signs and flashing yellows. Smart Cars zip in and out almost as easily as Vespas, but there is obviously no room for Impala, GTO or T-birds. These US icons would be stuck at intersections, clipped by Peugeot, Alfa and Fiat.
In all locations of Foggia where I find myself, I meditate a lot. Even as my nephews drive I am in an alter state of conscience. Much thought is centered on colors, shapes and horizons. Each new panorama begins with a backdrop of yonder reckoned hues, not unknown to subconscious thought. Could I be more abstruse?
I painted while I was there. A nephew drove me to an art store, I found reasonably priced stretched linens and excellent acrylics, to make some storybook impressions for my in-laws. They loved it. Little ones sat beside me and watched and became enamored. What a joy to be able to share this triumph. On the flight home I still saw brush strokes and palettes in my head when I closed my eyes. How others cannot see the pattern and colors of Foggia-ville, well it is not for me to speak, but to paint and photograph. >pd
2 comments:
pretty
Hi L.I. -- I found you through gurglingcod blogger. I responded to the name of your blog. I am a photo nut, artist and traveler. Retired now, mostly to pursue more pictures; Glad to make your acquaintance.
This letter to you and your blog is nothing more than a reinforcement of what you are doing with the photgraphs. Keep it up!
My wife is from Foggia, Italy. We go there every two years or so. We have loads of "kin" who accept me as the fat Texan. I asked last time, just past summer '07, "what do you my nephews and brothers in laws, etc call the italian laundry?"
My nephew said: "Standi panni."
please visit -- moopigwisdom.blogspot.com ,or,
italianwomanintexas.blogspot.com for travel notes, and some photos. I think you will not judge them harshly, as I see the sincereity in your work, that I am eye witness to.
Foggian
We men here, while here, Foggians do not butt heads very often. Why? Because greeting each other and salutation egress are initiated with cheek to cheek kisses. Such non-homophobic gestures require humility and genuflect. I think it is a smoother lifestyle, and small barrier to cross to be amongst in-laws.
Foggian homes with walls thick and natural circulation a must, have clothes hung outside the windows, no matter what one's status. Standi Panni is the name for the garments bearding the window sills every afternoon all over town. It is all California wants to be: Roman, cultured, prejudiced, and beautiful in mindful manners, and hard talk, and weather.
But Foggian is the real thing. What you see is what you get, unless you learn the cheek to cheek. Once you are accepted, you are allowed to sit with the women in their houses, and laces of Foggian cultural ambiguity are revealed to the stranger. My children would have had a better toddler stage had I known their southern Adriatic valley origins, and genetic coding thanks to Foggian natural selection.
Oh, yes, Foggian is also a dialect of southern Italy. I cannot understand a word of it. It is spoken in telling jokes around the grappa near midnight. But it is so distinct it is recognized as the "redneck agriculture" speech and loathed by the hoity-toity wannabes. So I can relate to the prejudice of a regional twang, or oohh in this case.
Today one lives in a sort of two block square compound as if in a single family dwelling. We stayed part way in this compound domicile and part-time in a highrise. Most apartments are stacked in block housing array, originating from Brutalism Architecture; you know, like le Courbusier, back when? Just google Brutalism.
As the evening breezes filter through the garden of the compound, gates are locked, security systems are turned on, and the lock down is akin to, well, you know, clang-clang. But real fear of burglary warrants the night time incarceration. However, as the time difference caused me to awake at 2:30 AM my first morning, I found myself pacing the floor. Outside wild dogs howled, and the half-moon cast dreamy light on the terrace garden below, now unavailable to me.
Bedtime became the darndest event at the compound, as strict mindful Foggian culture sought safety in bedrooms; each evening collapsed inward to beds made in pearl dust and cotton; pillows covered with slips that hung and drip-dried in Foggian afternoons all that day.
Busty women hang their day's wash on wires stretched just outside window sills. The sills are monolith stones, white washed and continually peeling. They show worn because women rub their torsos on them as they stretch and pin garments. Everything is made of stone, brick and mortar. The city is devoid of dry-rotting wood. Their apartment is like a geode. When you slice open the rough round exterior, inside is a diamond cache surrounded by thick stone.
The standi panni dances in the breeze outside to tell all others that the house is in daily order. Holy Ghosts might dance in the day on the stone sill, gleefully around the fringe separating from the old towels, and conspicuous undergarments; Standards waving ciao and auguri to saints and sinners passing underneath; last goodbye to husbands going to work first of two shifts.
Someone sprayed "DayGo" on the bulkhead wall last night, in the alley. Others have spent hours painting a tribute to technology; shows a monster eating cell phones and CPU's. Huh?
And the beggars at intersections look pretty well-dressed. "Niente per tu," I learn to say to Gypsy's outstretched hand.
Word Jazz Foggian style starts when we are in our nephews' Fiat, Fiesta, or Opel. Only Foggian's drive here, and breathe Foggian epithets at Chinese and Moroccan drivers. Only Foggians are the masters of drift, pause and nose prerequisites of intersections-- where red lights are ignored, along with stop signs and flashing yellows. Smart Cars zip in and out almost as easily as Vespas, but there is obviously no room for Impala, GTO or T-birds. These US icons would be stuck at intersections, clipped by Peugeot, Alfa and Fiat.
In all locations of Foggia where I find myself, I meditate a lot. Even as my nephews drive I am in an alter state of conscience. Much thought is centered on colors, shapes and horizons. Each new panorama begins with a backdrop of yonder reckoned hues, not unknown to subconscious thought. Could I be more abstruse?
I painted while I was there. A nephew drove me to an art store, I found reasonably priced stretched linens and excellent acrylics, to make some storybook impressions for my in-laws. They loved it. Little ones sat beside me and watched and became enamored. What a joy to be able to share this triumph. On the flight home I still saw brush strokes and palettes in my head when I closed my eyes. How others cannot see the pattern and colors of Foggia-ville, well it is not for me to speak, but to paint and photograph.
>pd
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