get-up-late scenario, but my body clock just doesn’t work like that, and never has done. I was always one of the real girly swots who actually made it to nine o’clock lectures instead of languishing in bed for another two hours, and not because I’d set an alarm clock the size of Big Ben for some unearthly hour to wake me up, but just because I seem to be made that way. And come the evening, when the bell for last orders rang that was pretty much me done too. Nights later than that tend to send me into a downward spiral of tiredness and absent-mindedness.
Still, I haven’t got to go in until my tutorial with Vincenzo at twelve today, so maybe I could try going back to bed and see if I can catch up on a couple of hours…. Worth a try, but somehow I doubt I will be able to. I like to sleep at sensible, grown-up hours, when it’s dark outside mainly, although given my recent propensity for dropping off in the museum, maybe all that is about to change, and it could be argued that I take my rest anywhere and everywhere. Perhaps I should avoid the gallery for a while; those dreams and my attempts at interpreting them are starting to give me the creeps.
Time to resort to headache pills , I think, as I pull myself out of bed and head to the kitchen in search of water.
‘ Ah, la bella Signorina Earveenay, come stai ?’ Vincenzo greets me as I enter his office for the first of my formal tutorials, shaking my hand fervently with both of his. Which I suppose is better than him coming at me with that double-cheek-kissing thing like everyone seems to do here. I say ‘formal tutorial’ as he’d texted me earlier to see if I’d rather meet him in a café or bar, instead of at the faculty building, to which I’d promptly replied that I’d rather come to him this time, as I wouldn’t mind seeing some of the books on his shelf. So we find ourselves in the confines of his pretty palatial office, and my excuse for meeting him on neutral territory seems to have been accepted without too much fuss. I don’t for one minute think he was hoping to ply me with alcohol and seduce me into being his next model, but given all I’ve heard about him in such a short space of time, I think I would rather be here.
Our tutorials are supposed to be formal, anyway, so I don’t feel too bad about shunning his plans for something a little more relaxed. I am under strict instruction from Newcastle to document all my tutorials and lectures as part of my coursework, which will then count as a very miniscule part of my pass mark for this year. I think it’s just their way of feeling that the cost of me being out here for a year is justified, and also it gives them some proof that I am actually turning up to things and learning from it all. Fair enough, I suppose.
There’s definitely something about being in the right environment to learn, and even if Vincenzo and I had the most in-depth conversation in a bar, somehow it just wouldn’t feel quite as academic as spending our allotted hour here, amidst all his great tomes and academic material. Less temptation to make small-talk, and more focus on the work. I wonder how long it will be before he thrusts one of his own volumes in my face, for me to take away and digest?
But instead of foisting his books on me, towards the end of the tutorial, Vincenzo hands me a stiff, white envelope from a pile on the corner of his desk and says excitedly, ‘Open it now.’ By the look on his face I suspect it is an invitation to his exhibition, which the girls were talking about yesterday. He sits in silent anticipation, hands folded in his lap like a small child who has presented a lovingly home-made Christmas present to its mother and is waiting for her face to light up with delight. He is clearly feeling very pleased with himself at the prospect of a showing at one of the finer art institutions in the city, and rightly so, really.
‘ You’re having an exhibition!’ I exclaim, feigning surprise.
Still, I haven’t got to go in until my tutorial with Vincenzo at twelve today, so maybe I could try going back to bed and see if I can catch up on a couple of hours…. Worth a try, but somehow I doubt I will be able to. I like to sleep at sensible, grown-up hours, when it’s dark outside mainly, although given my recent propensity for dropping off in the museum, maybe all that is about to change, and it could be argued that I take my rest anywhere and everywhere. Perhaps I should avoid the gallery for a while; those dreams and my attempts at interpreting them are starting to give me the creeps.
Time to resort to headache pills , I think, as I pull myself out of bed and head to the kitchen in search of water.
‘ Ah, la bella Signorina Earveenay, come stai ?’ Vincenzo greets me as I enter his office for the first of my formal tutorials, shaking my hand fervently with both of his. Which I suppose is better than him coming at me with that double-cheek-kissing thing like everyone seems to do here. I say ‘formal tutorial’ as he’d texted me earlier to see if I’d rather meet him in a café or bar, instead of at the faculty building, to which I’d promptly replied that I’d rather come to him this time, as I wouldn’t mind seeing some of the books on his shelf. So we find ourselves in the confines of his pretty palatial office, and my excuse for meeting him on neutral territory seems to have been accepted without too much fuss. I don’t for one minute think he was hoping to ply me with alcohol and seduce me into being his next model, but given all I’ve heard about him in such a short space of time, I think I would rather be here.
Our tutorials are supposed to be formal, anyway, so I don’t feel too bad about shunning his plans for something a little more relaxed. I am under strict instruction from Newcastle to document all my tutorials and lectures as part of my coursework, which will then count as a very miniscule part of my pass mark for this year. I think it’s just their way of feeling that the cost of me being out here for a year is justified, and also it gives them some proof that I am actually turning up to things and learning from it all. Fair enough, I suppose.
There’s definitely something about being in the right environment to learn, and even if Vincenzo and I had the most in-depth conversation in a bar, somehow it just wouldn’t feel quite as academic as spending our allotted hour here, amidst all his great tomes and academic material. Less temptation to make small-talk, and more focus on the work. I wonder how long it will be before he thrusts one of his own volumes in my face, for me to take away and digest?
But instead of foisting his books on me, towards the end of the tutorial, Vincenzo hands me a stiff, white envelope from a pile on the corner of his desk and says excitedly, ‘Open it now.’ By the look on his face I suspect it is an invitation to his exhibition, which the girls were talking about yesterday. He sits in silent anticipation, hands folded in his lap like a small child who has presented a lovingly home-made Christmas present to its mother and is waiting for her face to light up with delight. He is clearly feeling very pleased with himself at the prospect of a showing at one of the finer art institutions in the city, and rightly so, really.
‘ You’re having an exhibition!’ I exclaim, feigning surprise.
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