My Painting Pilgrimage to La Romita

I learned that bug spray is not optional, and that even the stray cats of Italy are chic. Mostly, though, I learned that painting in Italy is an act of joyful humility. The light is too perfect, the vistas too vast, and the silvery greens too elusive to ever feel like you’ve fully captured them. As Titian once said, “Art is not to be learned, but felt.” And in Umbria, I felt it.

"You may have the universe if I may have Italy."

Giuseppe Verdi

Confession: when I told people I was heading to Umbria, Italy for ten days to paint, I only “kind of” knew where Umbria was. Turns out, It’s that gloriously pastoral region in the middle of Italy, where the hills almost paint themselves. My destination was La Romita, a converted Capuchin monastery that now hosts artists instead of monks. The days were sunny, but not too hot, the skies clear and blue, and the evenings had a soul soothing coolness to them that felt like a dream. This was Umbria? How did I not know about this place sooner?

Arrival: The Art of Jet Lag

My travel companions were fellow members of the Washington Society of Landscape Painters…a group I still pinch myself to be a part of. We convened in Rome, some having come early to sight-see, others arriving just in time for the shuttle. Once on the road to La Romita, we got right down to the business of comparing paint brands and colors, discussing our set ups, and talking over itinerary options. By the time the dinner bell rang, we had a plan. What happened next isn’t exactly clear; I either suffered a bit of jet lag, succumbed to an allergy attack, and/or drank too much wine. In any case, on the morning of day 2, I was not well. I skipped the morning excursion, took a borrowed Zyrtec, and went back to bed. It was the best decision ever. I woke in time for a late lunch feeling exuberant. My advice to you beloved, whether at home or abroad, take a nap if you need one.

But We Came to Paint

All settled in and rested up, it was time to paint. We painted in big towns: Assisi with its lovely pink stone, and Orvieto, all geometry and drama with a Duomo so ornate it made my (only recently clear) head spin. We painted in small towns, Montefalco, “the balcony of Umbria,” Lake Bolsena, so many boats, Marmore Falls, so much water, Todi, so much gelato…you get the idea. The perfectly preserved medieval town of Stroncone was my favorite though. Perched on what can only be described as a vertical incline, it was seemingly uphill in every direction, and ruled by stray cats. The angles and perspectives were dizzying, but they had the most charming front gardens and it was impossibly picturesque. Even the laundry on clotheslines high above the cobblestones appeared to have been color coordinated by town ordinance. I was smitten. I want to live there.

Our Daily Itinerary:

Arrive in enchanting hill town
Visit the most beautiful church. Pray.
Walk cobblestone streets in the shadows of actual Saints
Find somewhere to paint
Feel both energized and woefully inadequate
Paint anyway
Eat gelato

Back at La Romita

Between excursions, we painted flowers and courtyards, amongst the butterflies and bees, chaperoned by Blondie and Carmello, the two stray dogs adopted by our Italian hosts. Meals were served family-style, which is Italian for “we will keep feeding you until you cannot breathe.” Conversations flowed from art and philosophy to current events, then back to art, and artists we love, (and some we don’t). We laughed, told tall tales, debated, and even occasionally agreed to disagree. Our dinner conversations were as nourishing as the food, and one of the best parts of the trip.

Lessons Learned

I learned that I should have done more time on the treadmill before tackling Italy’s hill towns. I learned that “un po’ di vino” means “just enough to lose your footing on the cobblestones.” I learned that bug spray is not optional, and that even the stray cats of Italy are chic. Mostly, though, I learned that painting in Italy is an act of joyful humility. The light is too perfect, the vistas too vast, and the silvery greens too elusive to ever feel like you’ve fully captured them. As Titian once said, “Art is not to be learned, but felt.” And in Umbria, I felt it.

Coming Home

When our ten days ended, I was ready to come home, but also not nearly ready to leave. We had gotten to know each other, come to love our Italian hosts, and developed a deep appreciation for the pace of Italian life. Back in Maryland, as I paint my landscapes and still lifes, I see traces of Umbria everywhere. Tiny bits of warm rose, ochre and olive-tree greens sneak into my work, unbeknownst to me, and remind me not to forget.

There is something about painting in a place with so much history. It rearranges your sense of color, time, and what is actually important. Family is important. Painting is important. Community is important.

I’ll go back; maybe not next year, but certainly I will go back.

Until then, Ciao.

Chris

Christine Rapa 4/9/23 Christine Rapa 4/9/23

Lighten Up

Whether plein air painting, or otherwise enjoying nature, getting out, and sometimes away, is good for the soul. Along with just the few true necessities, set out with an open mind and you will surely return with an improved outlook. Travel light, and bring back your memories as souvenirs, having looked and actually seen.

“He who would travel happily must travel light.”

–Antoine de Saint-Exupery

Plein air painting vacations, or “paint-cations” as I hear them called, are a real thing; you can travel the world with like minded creatives to eat, drink, and make art. Sip Bordeaux and paint a chateau, or smoke Cubans and paint Havana—there are groups leaving every ten minutes. Want to experience the stress of painting outdoors, while camping, and being stalked by actual lions? I think they are calling that trip “September on the Serengeti” and its filling up fast. In a tent, on a boat, at the north pole or below the equator—if you can dream it, you can paint it.

I love to travel, and was born to paint, so I actually love the paint-cation trend—in theory at least. Turns out, the packing is an issue. I have a friend who I am certain could head out on a three week safari with nothing more than her Luis Vuitton cross body bag and a Pashmina. But I am not that woman. I travel like a refugee. Basically, with my whole world bungy-corded to multiple, bulging at the seams mismatched bags. Well, I used to travel that way; now older, and more banged up, I am reformed.

Back in the day, I cared little that “carry-on” typically means that you are able to CARRY the bag on to the plane, and not have to drag it like a dead body. As I prepared for my recent painting excursion to Mexico, I reconsidered. I would pack neat and light, taking not one tic-tac more than I needed. Along with clothes and travel sized toiletries, I figured I needed my plein air setup, a limited palette of paint, (extra white) a few brushes, surfaces to paint on, a hat, and bug spray—lots of bug spray. I got a decent bag to carry it all, a Kelty Redwing 44 backpack, which I highly recommend. I looked like a straight up geek with the hip and chest straps fastened, but it honest-to-goodness distributes the weight and saves your back and shoulders. With my backpack, a modest roll on to check, and the sickening conviction that I would dearly miss the many supplies I left behind, I set out.

Another footbridge we used. SKETCHY! — Another footbridge we used. SKETCHY!

I chose this particular trip mainly because of Jim McVicker, the *real deal* in plein air painting, and our instructor for the week. However, I was also charmed by the online images of the rustic fishing village setting where he would teach. I glossed over the fine print which urged being fit enough to manage steep and rocky terrain. I was likewise unconcerned that access to our Casa required wading across a river or traversing a foot bridge that appeared to have been assembled with used wood crates and ordinary kitchen twine.

That said, I am not a camper, nor a hiker. I can manage a ball cap or a straw hat, but I don’t have the right kind of hair to wear a helmet, so I am not inclined to pedal or row or rappel my way to a painting location, no matter how magical it is. I applaud the “extreme” plein air painters out there (you know who you are) but nature is dirty, and there are ticks, so I compromised. The venue, Casa de Los Artistas, offered comfortable enough accommodations, lovely al fresco meals, and an awesome open air art studio. It was nice but not fancy, a good fit for the week I envisioned.

Next time I'll splurge on a nicer apron!

Our first afternoon out on location at Boca de Tomatlan proved a good measure of my packing. My extra lean kit met the test, and surprising even myself, all I really lacked were a few pesos for beer. Luckily, my fellow artists chipped in, and we quenched our thirst with ice cold cerveza, delivered to our easels on the beach. It was heaven. With each excursion through the week, I challenged myself to take even less in my kit; by day 7 my spirit and my pack were noticeably lighter, and I the better for it.

Packing light is like just about every other sensible thing in life. Simple, but not easy. A lifetime ago, I was an actual camping-and-cookie-selling Girl Scout. In the subsequent years, I have packed for every scenario in my travels. Wiser now, being “prepared” pretty much means bringing a good flashlight and more cash, not more stuff. So, with one international travel workshop under my flipbelt, I will advertise myself as an expert. My packing advice is to be ruthless. Leave behind the gun and the canolli. If you are not a Godfather fan, nevermind. A paint-cation is not the time to take all the tubes of paint with names you can’t pronounce and have never used—that manganese blue will just weigh you down. In traveling generally, you need less of everything than you think. Accept that you may leave some “nice to haves” at home, but embrace the concept of plein air painting without lower back pain. It is a fair trade off..