It was a trip to Italy to study art that first got me thinking about language learning, getting me outside my East Coast North American bubble, eventually paving the way for this gringa to move to Saint Joseph of the Fields. The funny thing is, I wasn't one of those people who always dreamed of going to Italy. My mother grew up in a town in Rhode Island populated by Italian-American families, but other than that, and unlike a good number of folks from the Northeast, I don't descend from Italian roots.
What first got me interested in visiting Italy was flipping through my college friend's photo album--we had physical, paper photo albums back in those days--of her study abroad trip to Israel. She had taken a long weekend to visit Italy while there, and something struck me as I flipped through the pages. It was a simple snapshot of a sculpture by Baroque artist Gian Lorenzo Bernini, The Ecstasy of Saint Theresa, which I had briefly studied in my art history class. The picture certainly wasn't a great quality image, but what got me thinking was the idea that art like this wasn't only to be seen in books or slides, but that, in theory, anyone could go there and enjoy it in person and even take their own snapshot.
I was never particularly drawn in by the story of Saint Theresa's experience, and never got very deep into study of Bernini either. It was the sheer beauty of the piece itself that fascinated me--the graceful figures and flow of fabric, the dramatic lighting and dynamic poses, the strong emotions and even sensuality--all carved out of marble, yet suggesting the style of a painting or even a theatrical performance.
It was seeing that snapshot that gave me the determination to study in Italy and see the sculpture for myself, and take my own snapshot of it! Of course, I should note that I had the means to do that--something many students, more dedicated and deserving than I, don't have. My story comes with more than its fair share of privilege--something I won't hide. And yet it's my story, a significant part of who I am.
I ended up, under the recommendation of a trusted member of the art faculty, studying art in Cortona, Tuscany, for a summer. During that time, we had trips to Rome, Florence, Venice, and other places. This particular piece was not on the group's itinerary in Rome, and so, during our free time, I set out with a new friend, a classmate from Albania, on almost a pilgrimage, to find this piece. It took a little bit of meandering through the city, but we eventually made our way to the chapel of Santa Maria della Vittoria, and I sketched in awe for a little while, and took my snapshot. Neither the sketch nor the photo begin to do any justice to the piece, and I'm not sure why I didn't buy a postcard of it. As rough and unfinished as most of my sketches are, though, drawing them allowed me to take in the beauty of works of art much more than I might do nowadays with a quick look and a quality cell phone picture.
My experience in Italy was the first of two, and these experiences tuned my ear to Latin languages and first planted the thought of living overseas in my mind. The friend who accompanied me to visit this work of art spoke much better Italian than my mouthful of tourist phrases, and that's part of what made me determined to learn the language. By the end of that trip, I was much more comfortable in simple conversations, and by the end of my second trip, years later, even while being far from proficient, I was able to communicate effectively in a number of different situations. Later on, when the interest to learn Portuguese came, it was a lot easier to learn with the confidence that came from my experiences with Italian. When the choice to move to Brazil came much later, it wasn't an extremely difficult one. You could say that if it weren't for my friend's snapshot of this Bernini sculpture from her trip to Rome, I might not be living in São José dos Campos today.
Teaching past unreal or mixed conditionals is rarely my favorite lesson--If we hadn't done this, then this wouldn't have happened...If we had done it differently, we wouldn't be here now. There are many verbs for students to remember. Distinguishing between past and present (and sometimes a mixture of both) hypothetical situations can get confusing, and the sentences are often gloomy regrets. When I can, I like to invite students to speculate on people and experiences that have made a significant, positive mark on their lives, rather than focusing on sad speculations and on what might have been.
One time, while teaching a film and culture elective in Boston, I showed the classic It's a Wonderful Life while practicing past unreal conditionals. At the movie's climax, an angel shows down-and-out George Bailey what the town would have been like if he hadn't been born. Everything is different, and not for the better. We learn that what seemed like insignificant conversations and relationships that Bailey had over the years made differences that he had never imagined. If he had been taken out of the picture, his entire community would be affected greatly.
Of course, speculation like this can go both ways. We often want to think about how our lives would have been different if a certain bad experience or hurtful person hadn't been involved. But, what would happen if we stopped a moment and reflected more deeply on some of the beautiful moments--even small ones--that we got to enjoy as a result of something seemingly small and insignificant?
Years ago I was in New York City for the day, visiting some friends in town from Europe and a friend from New Jersey--friends I had met on my second trip to Italy. As we were stepping off the metro, an ad with an image of my all time favorite painting made me stop in my tracks. It was Autumnal Fantasy by Charles Burchfield, and it had greatly influenced my own body of artwork in college. I had never seen one of his paintings in person, but there was a special exhibit in town for only a few more weeks. If it hadn't been for this visit with friends, I wouldn't have known about it. And I wouldn't have dragged my Brazilian-American friend down to New York a few weeks later on another art pilgrimage to revel in these paintings. If it hadn't been for this exhibition, I wouldn't have tagged along to her favorite celebrity chef's restaurant, a place where we could only afford dessert! We wouldn't have made some special memories (and I wouldn't have made her walk 40 blocks), things we still laugh about to this day.
Most of my students are young and may not have the same extent of life experiences or inclination to speculate on them like this. That doesn't mean that their experiences or connections aren't significant, though. Learning to see them is a skill that anyone can learn, and telling our stories makes grammar lessons and life lessons more memorable and meaningful. Discovering our inter-connectivity and finding meaning in the paths we walk is essential. Isolation and depression can tragically separate us from moments of joy and purpose, and relationships that give us life.
These kinds of things are on my mind more often these days as, though separated by distance, I join a community from my past in mourning a suicide, and as I think about the influence I may have, for better or for worse, over my students and colleagues. I also think about my connections around the world from teaching in Boston, and many different communities throughout my life's journey. The car I used to drive in Boston, at one point or another has had a passenger from 6 of the 7 continents (lacking only Antarctica, but I'm sure some toy penguins have made up for that). Maybe I've had more global connections than many people, or maybe most people's connections expand well beyond their visible horizon, making differences they'll never be aware of. Sometimes it might be just the thing we need to stop and contemplate a few of them, and let them bring a new surge of meaning and joy.
In my case, it seems it all started with a low-quality snapshot of The Ecstasy of Saint Theresa.
What first got me interested in visiting Italy was flipping through my college friend's photo album--we had physical, paper photo albums back in those days--of her study abroad trip to Israel. She had taken a long weekend to visit Italy while there, and something struck me as I flipped through the pages. It was a simple snapshot of a sculpture by Baroque artist Gian Lorenzo Bernini, The Ecstasy of Saint Theresa, which I had briefly studied in my art history class. The picture certainly wasn't a great quality image, but what got me thinking was the idea that art like this wasn't only to be seen in books or slides, but that, in theory, anyone could go there and enjoy it in person and even take their own snapshot.
I was never particularly drawn in by the story of Saint Theresa's experience, and never got very deep into study of Bernini either. It was the sheer beauty of the piece itself that fascinated me--the graceful figures and flow of fabric, the dramatic lighting and dynamic poses, the strong emotions and even sensuality--all carved out of marble, yet suggesting the style of a painting or even a theatrical performance.
It was seeing that snapshot that gave me the determination to study in Italy and see the sculpture for myself, and take my own snapshot of it! Of course, I should note that I had the means to do that--something many students, more dedicated and deserving than I, don't have. My story comes with more than its fair share of privilege--something I won't hide. And yet it's my story, a significant part of who I am.
I ended up, under the recommendation of a trusted member of the art faculty, studying art in Cortona, Tuscany, for a summer. During that time, we had trips to Rome, Florence, Venice, and other places. This particular piece was not on the group's itinerary in Rome, and so, during our free time, I set out with a new friend, a classmate from Albania, on almost a pilgrimage, to find this piece. It took a little bit of meandering through the city, but we eventually made our way to the chapel of Santa Maria della Vittoria, and I sketched in awe for a little while, and took my snapshot. Neither the sketch nor the photo begin to do any justice to the piece, and I'm not sure why I didn't buy a postcard of it. As rough and unfinished as most of my sketches are, though, drawing them allowed me to take in the beauty of works of art much more than I might do nowadays with a quick look and a quality cell phone picture.
My experience in Italy was the first of two, and these experiences tuned my ear to Latin languages and first planted the thought of living overseas in my mind. The friend who accompanied me to visit this work of art spoke much better Italian than my mouthful of tourist phrases, and that's part of what made me determined to learn the language. By the end of that trip, I was much more comfortable in simple conversations, and by the end of my second trip, years later, even while being far from proficient, I was able to communicate effectively in a number of different situations. Later on, when the interest to learn Portuguese came, it was a lot easier to learn with the confidence that came from my experiences with Italian. When the choice to move to Brazil came much later, it wasn't an extremely difficult one. You could say that if it weren't for my friend's snapshot of this Bernini sculpture from her trip to Rome, I might not be living in São José dos Campos today.
Teaching past unreal or mixed conditionals is rarely my favorite lesson--If we hadn't done this, then this wouldn't have happened...If we had done it differently, we wouldn't be here now. There are many verbs for students to remember. Distinguishing between past and present (and sometimes a mixture of both) hypothetical situations can get confusing, and the sentences are often gloomy regrets. When I can, I like to invite students to speculate on people and experiences that have made a significant, positive mark on their lives, rather than focusing on sad speculations and on what might have been.
One time, while teaching a film and culture elective in Boston, I showed the classic It's a Wonderful Life while practicing past unreal conditionals. At the movie's climax, an angel shows down-and-out George Bailey what the town would have been like if he hadn't been born. Everything is different, and not for the better. We learn that what seemed like insignificant conversations and relationships that Bailey had over the years made differences that he had never imagined. If he had been taken out of the picture, his entire community would be affected greatly.
Of course, speculation like this can go both ways. We often want to think about how our lives would have been different if a certain bad experience or hurtful person hadn't been involved. But, what would happen if we stopped a moment and reflected more deeply on some of the beautiful moments--even small ones--that we got to enjoy as a result of something seemingly small and insignificant?
Years ago I was in New York City for the day, visiting some friends in town from Europe and a friend from New Jersey--friends I had met on my second trip to Italy. As we were stepping off the metro, an ad with an image of my all time favorite painting made me stop in my tracks. It was Autumnal Fantasy by Charles Burchfield, and it had greatly influenced my own body of artwork in college. I had never seen one of his paintings in person, but there was a special exhibit in town for only a few more weeks. If it hadn't been for this visit with friends, I wouldn't have known about it. And I wouldn't have dragged my Brazilian-American friend down to New York a few weeks later on another art pilgrimage to revel in these paintings. If it hadn't been for this exhibition, I wouldn't have tagged along to her favorite celebrity chef's restaurant, a place where we could only afford dessert! We wouldn't have made some special memories (and I wouldn't have made her walk 40 blocks), things we still laugh about to this day.
Most of my students are young and may not have the same extent of life experiences or inclination to speculate on them like this. That doesn't mean that their experiences or connections aren't significant, though. Learning to see them is a skill that anyone can learn, and telling our stories makes grammar lessons and life lessons more memorable and meaningful. Discovering our inter-connectivity and finding meaning in the paths we walk is essential. Isolation and depression can tragically separate us from moments of joy and purpose, and relationships that give us life.
These kinds of things are on my mind more often these days as, though separated by distance, I join a community from my past in mourning a suicide, and as I think about the influence I may have, for better or for worse, over my students and colleagues. I also think about my connections around the world from teaching in Boston, and many different communities throughout my life's journey. The car I used to drive in Boston, at one point or another has had a passenger from 6 of the 7 continents (lacking only Antarctica, but I'm sure some toy penguins have made up for that). Maybe I've had more global connections than many people, or maybe most people's connections expand well beyond their visible horizon, making differences they'll never be aware of. Sometimes it might be just the thing we need to stop and contemplate a few of them, and let them bring a new surge of meaning and joy.
In my case, it seems it all started with a low-quality snapshot of The Ecstasy of Saint Theresa.
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