The river and me

A love project

It was a bundle of bitter feelings towards the publishing world that asked me to turn to what I loved the most. Like looking around in a moment of distress, I was scanning my inner landscape for a friendly face.

Hidden in a dusty corner, one big love had silently grown like an unnoticed weed, and now it was ready to take over.

I never thought of drawing the river: water is hard to render, that ugly factory ruins the view, power cables and the smell of untreated wastewater discharges at times made it a place I always avoided.

But then.

Since I started to row there, I HAD to look (or else I would bang my blade on swans with rows of tiny cygnets behind! ). I HAD to notice the oaks stroking the tides, the blazing foliage contrasting the blue waters in clear autumn days, the morning light illuminating the oyster catchers’ beak, rowing crews disappearing like magic in the light when passing through the glitter path, the curious seals peeping through the weeds at times, and all the life in between..

Paying attention made me come home every time from water training as if I had been in a wonderland. Almost like power cables and factories didn’t exist anymore.

Or maybe, I started to accept the uglies inside my inner landscape. These features were reminders that acceptance comes with paying attention and stop judging, to embrace and listen instead. All those inner critical voices, they were all part of my inner biodiversity too.

Every year I regret not to take advantage of the long days, so this summer I started heading out after dinner to draw by the river as a way to come back to self. It filled me with peace and wonder. Going to bed with the sounds and sights of nature in my eyes made me sleep again. I didn’t want this to become another duty so, when I was tired or busy, I just didn’t go. The river would be there again tomorrow.

Sitting by the shore, it felt like having a date with a loved one and using the drawing to record our time together. The intense look required by observation made everything look like the loved one’s eyes. The river would show me new things every time, and he unravelled my heart with the patience that only water has.

For some years I did sail in the Mediterranean seas, I took the nautical licence and was part of a classic boat crew. One time, at the start of a long journey, the weather turned bad. The waves were tall and short as the sea narrowed in the south of the Adriatic Sea. I was stirring this 14 mt boat and suddenly I felt the unspeakable force of nature on me and thought: I was too little and powerless if this would carry on. Long story short, I had a panic attack but couldn’t leave my position as we were on shifts, and since that day I suffer badly from sea sickness. Any travel sickness. I rarely swim in the sea on the island where I live now, and when I do, I sense his presence and strength with reverence.

Still, water is my favourite element (even in the mountains). When rowing, some days are rough and waves can easily make the lightweight boats capsize (as it happened), and I have to do a lot of inner work to train my confidence.

But sitting by the river feels different. The tide of the mind sometimes goes out and the “flow” state meanders through, a suspension of time and self. When I feel overwhelmed by the view, I start by making mistakes on purpose. By wanting to fix them, I have a way in.

By the river in the evenings, hardly anyone is around. The only sounds: a city of birds, the bubbles of the tide (this river is actually partly estuary and partly freshwater stream) and the wind.

I let my mind wonder and buried thoughts appear like treasures in the low tide: perhaps life is not made of linear storytelling. However as humans we seem to come back to it in our everyday talk, things in life overlap, intertwine, more beginnings flow into each other and infinite swamps don’t seem to solve. How much damage linear storytelling can do to our lives when things don’t pan out as we set them to. By listening to preschool children inventing stories, you can hear different structures. I feel hope in them.

One day, sitting under an oak tree while sketching from my little boat, I felt that sense of deep fulfilment I always thought success would bring…“Being, not doing”, the river said.

Other times, the tide played tricks on me as I went to the river finding only infinite stretches of weeds. So, I HAD to notice incredible tiny worlds around me, not less majestic than the jurassic cliffs few miles away.

“It is not what you actually see [..],

but what you remember to have seen,

that gives it its beauty”.

Richard Jefferies, Nature Near London

One day I wanted to sketch from my little origami boat, but the neap tide cut short my time and I decided for a walk instead, to find myself in front of a swan on her nest. Watching her at a distance, after 10 minutes she stood up and..ta da!

My photos near a Mary Newcombe's painting, "Swans on their nests"

It was too special sight, I had to record it somehow! Just few days before I found a noodle press in a charity shop and when I saw it, I dreamt of making home made prints of my river memories… but it felt too ambitious of a dream. Nevertheless, the swan kept calling inside, so I tried etching it on tetrapak, with very little expectation. It was magic.

When a lived experience turns with such immediacy and freshness into an object you can hold with the hands who made it, I feel the power of art at its strongest. That’s why art exists, to reveal ourselves to ourselves.

Garden zines!

If you need a garden this summer, but have little space... I got you sorted! In my new collection of sketches from Isle of Wight gardens, you can find all the beauty without even opening the tap, which saves you money and time. You can even keep the flowers forever (ish) and nothing will rot. How about that? For the scent, you might want to add a bit of imagination, which is what I used for you all in this colourful splash of inspiration!