Harika in the Octopus's Garden Laurie Fox Pessemier Acrylic/canvas
Laurie at Lerici Blair Pessemier Acrylic/linen 14 x 19.5" 35 x 50cm
Red Poppy Laurie Fox Pessemier Acrylic/canvas 12 x 12" 30 x 30cm
Woods near the Field Blair Pessemier Acrylic/canvas 11.5 x 15.5 inches 29x 39cm
I'd like to be under
the sea
In an octopus's garden in the shade
By Ringo
Starr
One of my earliest memories of Harika, our dog, was of her
playing with an octopus on beach in La Marsa, Tunisia. The octopus would throw an arm at her and
she’d scamper away.
We went to the beach on Tuesday this week – Lerici, on the
Mediterranean between Spezia and Pisa. When I go to the ocean, I feel as though I am
a fish back in the water. I feel the
tight spot around my heart unfurl, and my lungs fill with sea air. I am almost brought to tears, as I feel
myself close to the supreme force. Ecstasy.
The sun was broiling hot, and the sea was turquoise, like
the water on the Italian Riviera is supposed to be. It was fabulous, but too much for Harika who
sought relief in the “sewie pipe”, the outfall hole, on the beach. She sat in her “octopus’s garden”, snatching
back her paws as the sun advanced. Blair
and I persisted, both tried to go swimming but the sea was too strong and too
cold. So we sat in the sun and
thought: this is GREAT.
Lerici is a wonderful location, where Lord Byron spent time
and ultimately, eternity, as he slipped from a boat and died in these
waters. We are always looking for our
winter hideout for next year, and this could be it… there was plenty to paint, a few restaurants,
and decadently decayed fancy hotels and villas. It was our second trip here, the last in
October 2015.
We ate lunch at an outdoor café, near a man and a woman with
remarkably similar hair. Blair pointed out, “it’s like Donald Trump”. It was uncannily so, bleached blond, with
some golden streaks, combed in ways hair would never normally fall. “They must be hairdressers,” I said. I
wonder if Trump hair will catch on, in the way people started wearing afghani
style hats, or droopy pants.
We got into the car and drove on, seeking other
beaches. We had to take the autoroute to
go south, and just outside of Lerici I noticed white mountains. I realized this could not be snow, sweating
as I was (the air conditioning in our car is gentle). In fact, this was white
Carrara marble. Glistening white patches
covered the lower regions of jagged mountains.
And on either side of the road, chunks of marble as large as my Paris
kitchen sat ready to be shipped out or cut.
We eventually reached Viareggio, which is a more standard
Italian beach. That is, there are
entrances to the shore, through gates with names like “Amore”, “California” –
and one pays for a spot with a chair and for slightly extra, an umbrella. This is not our scene.
We took the long and winding road
through the mountains toward home. We
rode with the windows wide open, until it started to get dark, when the cool
mountain air blew us back to Rocca Malatina.
