In the fall of 1993, I jumped on a last minute courier flight to Rome for a week, where I stayed with another classmate from RISD, Scott Stowell. Scott was a creative director for the late designer Tibor Kalman who had relocated his studio, M & Co. from NYC to Rome to start Colors Magazine for Benetton. Tibor was known for being a difficult rebel in the design industry. A subversive intellect, he believed most of his successful contemporaries to be lazy in their inability to provoke ideas and motivate change.
In their temporary loft in the middle of the active city with two kids, his wife Maira was a study in Zen. Tibor, spouting obscenities, however, was a study in restlessness and impatience. His urgency to establish a working design studio within the confines of Roman work ethics was driving him nuts. (Take one New York minute and multiply by 3 weeks)
Extending out from Scott's top-floor apartment, which he shared with another M& Co. employee, Charles, was a rooftop terrace. Charles took me out there the first day to show me how to feed "Atalanta". Atalanta was a 70-year old tortoise who had lived on the terrace all of her beautifully squat life. Anyone who had lived in the apartment over the decades inherited the obligation to care for Atalanta. She had lived through Mussolini, World War II, and about 6 Popes . However since she could not see above the 3 foot wall that wrapped the terrace, concerns for Fascist dictatorships took a back seat to the daily dose of lettuce leaves.
One of the best parts of Rome was dinnertime. Scott and Charles usually took me with friends to local neighborhood trattorias, where the menu was set and you sat at group tables out front on the sidewalk. I have never since had better pasta.
Often for lunch I would stop in at the local pizza joint downstairs from Scott's place, "Il Buchetto". They didn't speak English, but Scott taught me how to order a Roman slice: "Una margherita, chiuso, porto via." -One slice margherita, closed (folded over, Roman style) to go.
This was my mantra for awhile.
Charles also told me to watch out for bands of gypsy kids in the more touristed areas, who would pounce on you as a distraction while one tried to pick your pocket. This reeked of an urban myth so I didn't give it too much regard until it actually happened on Via Condotti (a designer boutique zone). Several gypsy kids suddenly converged on me, begging and patting my chest while a third reached into my coat.
I pushed them away and yelled what Charles had taught me:" Che cazzo?!!" (- What the fuck?).
The pickpocket pulled his arm out of my jacket with a Berlitz English-Italian translation book in his hand.
I tsked smugly and asked "You want it?"
He studied it for a beat, shrugged, and nonchalantly tossed it aside before joining his commrades who were already assaulting another couple.
I remember when I was sketching the Coliseum above, a middle aged American lady in white sneakers and fanny pack came up to admire. When she realized I was American she wondered, amused, if my mother wasn't concerned that I was so far from home.
