Deciding a change in scenery would be good for me; I rented an apartment away
from the heart of Rome and the nightclub, and began painting on canvas. By pure luck, I
was accepted as a renter of the small apartment directly over that of my landlord’s. The
family lived and worked in the same building, which was not uncommon in Italy. Maria
was a hardworking mother of an adorable son Genereno, who became the model for one
of my next lithographs, which I again took to Il Ticolatore. The whole young family
treated me like a member of theirs.
This was no small decision on their part. By now, I knew that Italians take their time
getting to know strangers, regardless of where they were from. They never invite you into
their home for even coffee, until they come to know you. They will invite you to have
coffee or lunch or dinner in a café or restaurant first. Then, when you are trusted, you are
accepted with open arms.
Despite the warmth of their friendship and hospitality, I grew increasingly anxious
about my future as an artist and, finally, homesick. I decided to give up waiting for an
answer from Associated American Artists and go home... “I’m going to leave Italy in a
couple weeks, Maria,” I told her one morning in early July. “I’ve been mulling over this
decision for some time now and find myself eager to see family and friends again.”
Two days before my departure, she gave me a going-away party. Because her family
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