Ferrara and Elsewhere

Thu, 14 Feb 2008 21:11:22 +0000
Num. 22

A brief lyrical and visual journey through words and images of Woman.
Etching and drypoint as practiced by Marisa Carolina Occari readily illustrate and accompany the lyric poetry of women writers of our region, in Italian and in dialects, translated into another equally rich and precise language such as English.
The lyrical and visual journey starts with Al Po, by Liana Medici Pagnanelli, twinned with Villa Camerini, a 1981 etching by Occari, featuring a magnificent house on the Po, and intimating that in front of its more intimate facade, trees and greenery intertwine, forming a single whole - even if this is not apparent - with the river Po itself which has dominated the peoples of the valley since the beginning.

Individual domestic memory follows, with My sisters sewing, a vernacular etching that neatly illustrates Rusìna by Vanna Cavallina, a tender and nostalgic ballad about a mother's work..

If possible, Carolina Occari's images are more stylised and more symbolically meaningful: thus La rosa - poesia Bemporad is a magnificent drypoint dating from 1980, more still-alive than still life.

The visual and poetic journey concludes with the exaltation of a symbol that makes a transfiguration: a 1983 drypoint by Occari depicting the face of a young woman, Laura with earrings, which, in the eternal feminine which it represents, appears to relate, accompanied by the poetry of Antonietta Massari Scabbia, the Aurora of the world, but also the perennial rebirth of an ideal Madòna Frara arising continuously from the ashes of the City of the Este, woman/mother/daughter, primitive nature, the fecundity of the Artist: Woman, naturally.
AL PO
by Liana Medici Pagnanelli

Ech 'l al mié Po, un nàstar d'aqua ciàra
ch'al ss'intrézza e 'l cór tra 'na gran scaviàra
ad siév, ad piòp, ad sàlas e rubìn
chi 'gh créss e i ss'agh multìplica d'avsìn.
Mo cum ch'l'è bèl, lì, chiét int al ssò lèt,
(quand ch'a n'agh prìla 'd fàrass un qualch dzzpèt)
che sól alóra a par ch'al dvénta brut,
ssciumànd al ruz e a par ch'al spàca tut.
Passà la ràbia, la pìna e l'aluvión,
èco ch'al torna a scórar quiét e bón,
purtànd in mar con l'aqua i ssò segrèt
ch'la sunà su par strada in tant dialèt.
Mi, che dal Po a són inamurà
e in pèt a lu am sént cum'è incantà,
am piasrév tant, 'na vòlta, par pruàr,
d'èssar 'na gózza 'd cl'aqua
e...andàr...andàr...andàr...

Here it is my river Po, a clear water ribbon
that interlaces and the heart mingles
with hedges, poplars, willows and acacias
nearly growing, getting lots.
But how lovely it is and quiet in its bed
(when it forgets to spite us),
because only in that moment it seems to make ugly
and foaming it roars, breaking every thing.
After the angry, the flood and the stream,
here it becomes easy and quiet,
leading unto the sea, with its water its secrets,
picked up on the way together all the dialects.
I, so gripped and enchanted by my river Po,
would like, only to try, to be a water drop
and...go...away...away...away...

RUSÌNA
by vanna cavallina

Quant punciàr, in cla camarìna,
da la matìna prèst a la lus dla lampadìna:
vastì, paltò, vestàli, e camisét ad séda,
stanèl lunghi par la sìra e vastì da spósa,
con póch aiut e tanta tribulazzión
at fasévi bèla figura in tuti gl'ucasión.
Iéra àltar témp, an gh'iéra brìsa la confezzión,
il pronto moda sól par qualcdùn;
at cumpràvi sól grinbialùn e vastì da lavór,
póch quèi e tut dal stéss culór,
ma 'na stanèla fàta su misùra
ta t'la duvévi far fàr con tanta cura.
Al paréva un mastierìn tant mudèst,
ma at iéri brava, al capìss adèss:
quand at vastìvi la pòvra zént,
t'at fasévì pagàr póch e niént
i 't pagàva un puchìn tut i més
e 'l paltò t'al vultàvi slés.
Par cliént, anch l'alta società:
dònn pìni 'd caprìzzi, sénzza pietà,
i pensava sémpàr sól a spianàr
e la tò ricumpénsa i t'la faséva penàr
e méntar lór il géva: Passerà mio marito...,
ti t'antizipàvi il spés per il cucito...
Però che bèi vastì, che bèli stòff,
stanèl lunghi, mànagh a sbùff,
curpìn ricamà, pìn ad brilantìn,
séda, vlud, orgànza, tull e satén,
coi mudié dla Rosany
ch'la gnéva da Firenze sól par ti.
A la màchina da cùsar
quant pedalàr?
a cuntàral la par 'na fòla,
ma int un sgónd at fasévi la spòla,
pò la stòfa sóta a cal pidìn
ed èco fat un bèl vastidìn.
Al paréva tant fàzzil,
quasi un zuglìn,
ma sól quand a i ò pruvà
a i ò capi ch' a t'iéri brava,
brava purassà
e che tròp prèst t'a m'à lassà.

How much sewing, in that little room,
since early in the morning to night:
dresses, coats, gowns and silk shirts,
long night petticoats and wedding dresses,
with a little help and so much work
you distinguished yourself in any case.
It was olden time, there wasn' t manufacture,
the up-to-date fashion only for someone;
they only bought aprons and worksuits,
few things, just of the same tint,
but a made to measure cloth
you had to get by a lot of care.
It seemed a very modest job,
but you were clever, now I understand:
when you dressed poor people
no much money you required,
only a little, every month
and the coat you remade worn out.
Among your customers also the wealthy life:
women full of fancies, with no pity,
only thinking of showing themselves,
your reward was never enough
and while they said: My husband will solve...
you advanced the sewing costs..
Although what a fine kind of dress, wonderful cloth,
long petticoat, panting sleeve,
embroidered and shining waistcoat,
silk, velvet, organze, tulle and satin
and then Rosany models,
coming from Florence only for you.
What a hard work
at the sewing machine...
It seems a fairy tale,
but in a second you could make a shuttle,
then with your foot and a little cloth
you quickly made a garment brand new.
It looked easy,
something like a fun,
but only when I tried,
I understood you were so good,
good indeed
and so early left me alone.

ALTRA ROSA
by Giovanna Bemporad

China sul margine del tuo segreto,
o rosa in veste diafana, mollezza
di corpo ignudo, incrollabile tempio
che in vigilanza mi tieni,
non so di che rilievi si componga
la tua bellezza. E all'onda dei profumi
che col ritmo di un alito tu esali
misuro il tuo pallore e il mio languore.
Mi tenta ogni tuo petalo concluso
nel giro di una linea sensitiva,
mollemente incurvato e pieno d'ombra.

Bended on the threshold of your secret,
oh, dressed rose, softness
of a naked body, undestructible shrine
that keeps me in a love slavery,
nothing I know about what kind of relief
regards your beauty. And on your scented wave,
that by the rhythm of a breath you exhale,
I measure your paleness and languishing pose.
Any your closed petal tests me
in the round of a sensitive line,
softly curved and full of shadow.

AURORA
by Antonietta Massari Scabbia

Una rosea aurora
dipinge a chiazze l'albero di magnolia
bagnato di rugiada,
colora l'aria di tenue tinte,
aleggia sopra gli alberi,
creando un'atmosfera di favola.
È maggio: le piante del terrazzo
si beano della dolce linfa,
aprendosi al tepore del nuovo sole
che sta per affacciarsi.
Fra le fronde degli alberi
gli usignoli si svegliano,
fra un trillar festoso
raccontano sogni
che devon essere molto belli:
lo denota l'allegro frastuono
del loro gorgheggiare.
Le lucertole si rincorrono
sulle pareti e sul selciato
alla ricerca di insetti per cibo.
Un nuovo fiore
apre la sua corolla
a ricordare un nuovo giorno,
la gioia della natura,
la vita che continua.
A pink sunrise
paints marking the magnolia tree
dew wet,
dyes the air with light colours,
hovers about the other trees,
creating a fairy atmosphere.
It's May now: the terrace plants
revel in sweet sap,
opening to the new facing heat sun.
Among the trees foliage
nightingales wake up
with a merry warbling,
true tellers of beautiful dreams:
you can guess it by
their joyful trilling noise.
The lizards run after each other
on the walls and on the path,
looking for bugs as food.
A brand new little flower
opens its corolla
to remember a new day,
the joy of nature,
the life which goes on.