Me mori

Memory.... me mori. In spanish, the latter means I died. I saw the text on a shirt in a photo and was struck by its resemblance to the word memory. Memory as a death of some sort, as the acceptance that what you hold with you has died- you won't ever get it back in that exact way.... I heard a ton of passionate things spoken about this week .... one of the things that stuck the most was on how we remember people. For me the image always changes. That is, when I think of my family, for instance, I don't have one recurring image. Instead, there are a plethora to choose from, and just because a certain one doesn't come to mind, doesn't mean it has been catalogued somewhere in the recesses of a memory photo album. They just bounce around in an expanse too amazing to disect right now. For Zoe, my roommate, on the other hand, the same image of certain people always pops up when she thinks of them. Somehow, it's like the image of the Virgin Mary. She forever seems to be presenting her baby Jesus to us, beaming with joy in a subtle way. She is never depicted scrubbing clothes or cooking polenta or making the bed, and yet, many find that home is in her presence. We kneel at her feet and pray... she gives us this sense of belonging. Could she be considered the ultimate hostess, having passed on this talent to Jesus... the host.... Ultimately, home is just a place where you feel at ease and invited and warm, be it alone or in the presence of strangers or statues. This week I found home at the beach town of Viareggio, in my ink and pen drawings of fairytales, in simple chores carried out around my homestay,and in the doilies or white linen shawls/table runners found at the market in Piazza dei Ciompi. I photographed some of these "homey" feelings, but most I just felt and mused upon. Buon appetito.
`Nicole
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