i wish i were a better photographer because this photo feels so hollow somehow, like it doesn’t capture the soul of what i love so much about this place, but my god—i lived in rome for four days & still this kitchen is more home than any other room i’ve ever stepped foot inside. awash with an analogue clock & ripe bananas & an old jazz-spitting radio, deeply unassuming yet entirely remarkable. a sanctuary i will always come back to, physically or not.
when i say rome i mean one of those rooms that is so much more than a room. i mean a faded tablecloth, a flickering lightbulb. i mean so many sober conversations in the late morning over dark coffee, tipsy conversations in the late night over red wine, about cinema (once a friend said to me—the americans make a good film. you italians? you can make a good spaghetti—& i never forgave him) & about love (you want to feel alone? just get married) & about politics (i think trump is a reflection of the ugliest underbelly of our whole world, not just the portion he has control over) & about culture (horror films show us who we are by showing us what we are afraid of). a very old, very smelly dog snoozing on the floor. morning or midnight ribboning into the sky outside, rose-pink or smoky blue, but either way this single room full of light. only light.
i don’t really know where i’m going with any of this except to say that i’m here, & i’m alive, & i’m happy. i think a lot these days about what it means to document, the moments we notice & the stories we pass on to the ones we love. the things we name worthy of remembering. i am leaving rome today but i think part of me will always remain here, in this kitchen, with an exquisitely half-eaten slice of pizza or a bar of dark chocolate, trading jabs (you americans, you italians) across the table. some jazz song crooning from the radio whose lyrics i cannot pronounce or understand but that i could recognise in a second if i ever heard it again. moments like these, carved out of memory, make me glad i didn’t die when i was sixteen. a heady sunsinging tenderness, a fixture of twilit warmth.