Where does the end of the sea start? The precise limit where we stop being fishes and start being humans?
The sea. The first thing that crosses my mind when I think about this period of the year – something that if it’s not there I don’t really believe Summer is on. So I float back to this sense of well being – the “iced lemonade, burnt nose and sand everywhere” type – and I get ready for the long summer break, the one before which you say good bye to friends knowing you will hug them again in September, sun tanned and with the belly filled with sea, full and happy, for real.
Once I used to pass two months in Sicily, one with my grand parents and one with mum and dad. Now places, faces, sometimes languages may change – but the sea stays. And because it’s fair to celebrate who stays no matter what, I want to do it with one of my favourite ways, a list: random suggestions, just like those lucky finds you stumble upon while strolling on the beach, sassi belli i call them (beautiful pebbles) that you hunt for when you are a kid, pieces of glass, tiles, white stones or perfectly rounded ones, tiny twigs. A sea of memories that smells like salt and sea weeds.
Just like in the ode of Pablo Neruda, the sea cradles you and says yes and then no and then no and then yes again / it’s a song from Caloncho, in repeat while you overhear the chit-chats of your beach umbrella’s neighbours / it’s the blue of the femme assise of Matisse that hugs you with her rounded embrace / the sea doesn’t teach, the sea has its own ways, tells us Erri de Luca / it soothes you like a picture from Jacques Henri Lartigue / or excites like this scene from the movie Kings of summer / it fills you, unexpectedly, like the words of Fernando Pessoa / it enchants you like the patterns David Hockney used to paint in his pools / it turns itself into music, just like magic, through the pipes of Zadar’s sea organ / it frames the marine nudity of Carlota Guerrero’s pictures / you can loose yourself in it like in the words of Baricco‘s Oceano mare / and find yourself back like in Alvaro Siza’s pools in Leça da Palmeira.