ITALY READS AND ITALY

ITALY READS AND ITALY WRITES AT JCU

John Cabot University holds an annual Creative Writing contest to recognize excellence in Italian high school students whose primary language of instruction is not English. Italy Writes began in 2011 as the first “sister” of the 10-year Italy Reads program. Seeded by an NEA grant for The Big Read Rome in 2009, JCU has since offered this annual program of English language reading and cultural exchange that brings American university students together with Italian high school students. Each year, a work of American literature is the focus of discussions, student projects and meetings, public events, and theatrical performances by The English Theatre of Rome. The winning piece for non-fiction this year is about Walt Whitman and American Impressionism. Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass was this year’s focus of Italy Reads. Next year, the focus will be on Rachel Carson's ground breaking book for environmentalism Silent Spring. Find out more at Italy Reads and Italy Writes on the John Cabot website www.johncabot.edu.

BRUSHES AND WORDS: AMERICAN IMPRESSIONISM AND WHITMAN

Once Henri Matisse said “Impressionism is the newspaper of the soul” and, as such, it is always changing and shaping in unexpected forms. So is Whitman’s poetry, always trying to capture an impression of reality. From an ideological, conceptual and stylistic way, analogies between the American movement and the poet can be easily found. One of the most interesting of Whitman’s dilemmas is life, and the way it is connected to identity. “I meet new Walt Whitmans every day. There are a dozen of me afloat. I don’t know which Walt Whitman I am”, life is something growing and dynamic, it is the accumulation of senses. Identity, as life, is the summary of all the experiences one has gone through, it is an eternal adding process. And here is the origin of diversity: no one has experienced the same as every other person in this world has. So how can an individual be part of a society formed by strangers who have poor in common with him/her? He/she can be, and must be, part of that society because all of them have surely one thing in common: they are all human beings, and as human beings they are inevitably linked by democracy “I say democracy is [...] the highest form of interaction between men”. Democracy for Whitman is not only “...for election, for politics, and for a party name”, democracy is the “ideological blood” of human society. It should permeate every aspect of human life. In this sense he relates democracy to art: he creates the concept of democratic art, an art where no discrimination is allowed, an art where everyone is equal to the others. So how can a form of art be more unequivocal than photography? Photography has the greatest power of indiscrimination: what’s in the lens is what the public is going to see, no more alteration, modification or adjustment to the reality. The Impressionist concept of art is very similar to Whitman’s “democratic art”: their idea was to capture one single moment that’s unrepeatable. Both the French and the American Impressionists preferred portraying everyday settings rather than imposing a stricter and more classical style to their paintings. But the Americans went for a more “American setting” than their companions in France: despite their French mentors “privileged form and color over subject matter”, the American counterpart adopted the example of Renoir, on their canvas the deep depiction of the transformation of the American society prevailed. Artists like Childe Hassam in Just Off the Avenue, Fifty-third Street (1916) or John Twatchman in Winter Harmony (c. 1890/1900) are the perfect example of the

American spirit put on canvas: from a city setting with the USA flag to a winter landscape, these two portraits release a fresh American breeze. The celebration of America is also a cherished theme for Whitman, who dedicates his entire poem Leaves of grass to its glorification. It is this sense of community Whitman creates that conveys his love for his country. This sense of inclusion, of affinity, is heightened by a single yet so crucial word in “I celebrate myself”: you. It is incredible how three letters put together can express so much, the deeprooted power a word can have. I celebrate myself, and what I assume, you shall assume Who is you? Is he/she the reader? Yes, of course, but it can be all the readers who read, are reading and will read Whitman’s poetry; he can be your lover, or a stranger; she can be an American, or a foreigner; he could be poor, or rich, she could be a carpenter, or the president, it doesn’t matter, because Whitman is referring to all of them. This poem is one of the most egalitarian verses ever written in all human history, it’s a democratic you, who puts all of us on the same level. American Impressionism shared this idea: just consider William Merritt Chase or John Singer Sargent’s landscapes and portraits. Their ordinariness is key to their modernity: the characters depicted in the paintings could be anyone, if not for the title. The important feature is not the character, but the painting itself; as in “I celebrate myself” it is not important who is you, but the universal feeling that embraces us all. Another reason why “you and I are the same” is eradicated in the idea of compost, a concept very dear to Whitman. Compost is related to the idea of recycling, it is the fertilizer, it is death becoming life. Whitman asks himself how is that possible for the human race, for America, to live, to walk, on death? How is it possible not to be sickened by the contact with nature? Why should nature give us other chances? Compost derives from the Latin word com-ponere, which means put together. Things have to be broken down before others can be born. It is also this deep knowledge of the English language and its shades that enables Whitman to express so much in a few verses: it is the exact selection of the words that allows his message to be so immediate and so pure at the same time. The theme of the cycle of life and death is an intimate topic for one of the most known American Impressionists: the bridge between the Ancient and the New World, the woman who mesmerized generations of humans with her work: Mary Cassatt. Widely known for her scenes of private life, she usually portrayed images of mothers and children because she was not allowed in the same places as her male comrades. Her bond to death is sadly linked to the death of her beloved sister, Lydia: despite the fact that she pictured mother-and-child scenes even before the event, after Lydia’s death it became her main subject, Lydia was an inspiration to the painter. Usually Mary’s mothers do not look into the observer’s eyes, they are turned, sometimes seated on a chair, as if we, the onlookers, were intruders in a holy, sacred scene. Portraying these scenes of familiar lives is as if Mary could have her dearest sister back. Her extremely gentle characters, the choice of the colours not too bright, warm; the brushes so careful, the expression of the babies allowed her to be the legend she’s become. In conclusion, it is clear how many analogies exist between Whitman and the American Impressionists, from the ideas, to the concepts to the style — both have taught the world how to look at reality.

Art flows more easily when you are not thinking about what 'should' be in it or how it 'should' be done. The Impressionists taught us to look and see, not assume. Walter Darby Bannard

You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, not look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books. You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me. You shall listen to all sides and filter them from yourself. Walt Whitman

Selected bibliography

Whitman, Walt. Poetry and Prose. The Library of America, Justin Kaplan ed., New York, 1982. Whitman, Walt. Democratic Vistas. University of Iowa Press, Ed Folsom ed., Iowa City, 2010. Traubel, Horace; Sculley, Bradley. With Walt Whitman in Camden: January 21 to April 7, 1889. University of Pennsylvania Press, Philadelphia, 2016. Kummings, Donald D.; A companion to Whitman. WileyBlackwell , Hoboken, NJ, 2009. Smith, Dinitia. “A Voice Out of the Silence: Imagining the Other Cassatt”. The New York Times. March 4, 2002. American Impressionism https://www.theartstory.org/movement/americanimpressionism/#nav

“Civil War ”

The piercing and high-pitched sound of the alarm wakes me up from my troubled and haunted sleep. My eyes scan attentively the room and follow my companions’ rapid and methodical actions. We are all used to the procedures which precede a battle: as we sleep dressed up with the uniform, we just have to put on the bulletproof vest and the helmet; the weapons are all stacked one on the top of the other next to the exit-door, so that we can get them as quickly as possible before running out. The commanders bring their groups either to the assigned foxhole or to a truck and give the instructions for the mission. Today it happens to be my first undercovered attack, right in the center of the city. I get on the old and trembling truck, and I sit in the corner, right behind the driver. The figures around me start becoming blurred and the only sound I can hear is the creaking of the cobblestones under the wheels. Robert, who is sitting in front of me, gently touches my knee and I realize that I have been staring at him for too long. “I am sorry” are the words which come out of my mouth, even though his question has not been processed by my brain. He looks at me worried, and asks me again, more slowly: “Are you scared?”. These words provoke a thrill down my back, but I decide to ignore it and reply: “I am. It would be senseless not to be, don’t you think? We are facing an unknown future, and nothing depends on us: maybe we will lose everything in a few seconds, without even having the possibility to realize it, or maybe we will return to our homes sooner than we think. We can’t control our lives in this moment, therefore yes, I am scared. But I am also ready to fight until my breathing stops, because this is what I am here for and I am not going to give up without even trying to win.” The moment I finish talking, the brakes abruptly stop the motion of the vehicle. I look at the faces of my comrades and I realize my speech helped them to acquire more confidence and determination. Laura jumps out of the restricted back side of the truck, and each and every one of us follows her immediately, apparently fearless. The air is filled up with tension and adrenaline. A surreal and fearful tranquility surrounds us: the city seems to be completely uninhabited and abandoned. Suddenly the prolonged and rhythmic scream of a weeping child breaks the silence drenched with fear and terror. My heart stops for an infinite time and my mind runs to a safe and familiar place, far away from the one where I find myself: home. The soft breeze of the Scottish highlands suddenly caresses my face, my hands and ruffles my curly and rusty hair. The pungent odor of the wet grass insinuates into my nostrils, while the warmth of shy and weak rays of sun spreads from head to toes in my body. I perceive a quite heavy weight in my arms and, as soon as I look down to my chest, I see an infant feeding from my breast: she has thin and coppery hair just like mine, which tickle my skin softly. When the child realizes

I'm staring at her, she looks at me with big, chestnut eyes and a crystalline and clear laugh gladdens the atmosphere. Unfortunately, in the moment in which a huge cloud obscures the sun, the baby starts crying desperately. I close my eyes, trying to abstract myself from the sudden change of vibe. When I open my eyes, the gloomy and oppressive atmosphere has not changed but the sobbing of the child has disappeared, as the baby herself. I feel my eyes watery, as if an entire river of tears has to pour on my pale cheeks. The weight of the baby has been replaced by a heavy rifle, to which I am holding tightly as if my whole life depends on it. The poignant cry of the baby is now the one of my comrades, lying in pain on the ground. The sound which brought me back to reality was the booming of shotguns from the enemy, and the memory of my daughter had been abruptly wiped out. I tie up my hair, ready to fight this useless and aimless battle. Way too many people have already died due to this war and the rattling of the soldiers around me is suggesting me that today there will be as many victims as yesterday, if not more. Suddenly, I realize that Robert, my only friend in the army, is crawling on the ground to reach his gun, leaving behind him a trace of blood. I run towards him, a shadow hidden by the dust rising from the sand which covers the streets. As I turn his body, I notice a giant wound in his abdomen, which appears to be extremely serious and painful. “Rob, stay with me! We will get out of here, both of us, I promise. You just need to stay with me!” I shriek, feeling the tears wetting my eyes. I put my arm around his neck, trying to pull him up, but I am not strong enough and his heavy and agonizing body weighs on my minute and weak figure. After a few moments of uncertainty the heartbreaking decision of leaving him there prevails over my affection for him: he immediately grasps my indecision and tries to tell me something. As I move my ear closer to his mouth, in order to hear his last words, I feel a sudden and acute back pain. My hand reaches my spine and it finds itself covered in warm and copious blood... I close my eyes, and I can finally see my husband William again, keeping our baby safely in his arms.