Arriving in Florence was serendipitous; being the heart of Tuscany. It embraced me during lockdowns, through periods of introspection, and in moments of discovery. I forged connections—not just with the people, but with the very places around me.
One early summer day last year, I was introduced to Villa la Posta in Monteriggioni. That visit felt like a suspended moment in time. My friend, the host, guided us through the villa and its lush gardens, weaving tales from its storied past. Among the enchanting anecdotes, he recounted a particularly controvertial visit from Mussolini in 1923, invited by the villa's nobleman at the time.
The stories were shared almost in whispers, as if the walls themselves held secrets. They added layers of depth to the villa, transforming it from just a beautiful place into a living history, a testament to the complex and political narratives of this region. In the serenity of the grounds of the villa, I found the stories coming to life and reinforcing the bond I was forming with Tuscany.
The table, set for Mussolini’s welcome, remains a silent witness in the garden, elegantly positioned near the Etruscan stone trough. Surrounding it are round stone tables, thoughtfully arranged to allow his entourage to observe, yet remain just distant enough to keep their conversations private. The simplicity of the table’s design is striking, a contrast to the weight of the history it carries.
As I stood there, I couldn’t help but imagine the hushed discussions that must have filled the air, the tension of the era lingering in the garden’s tranquility. It felt like a snapshot of time—beauty and history intertwined, inviting contemplation and reflection. This is how the place is lived even now, built upon the stories of the past yet it invites you to tell your own stories too. So there is space there the past not heavy, it is just present, each interaction has its place.
Many other stories were told that day. I had mentioned that I was hoping to find a space for my studio, a place to create and teach. With this in mind, I was shown The Embassy, which housed a grand tall fireplace and an aedicule from the 16th century. This space was very impressive and beautiful but the humble idea that I walked around with for my space was more simple, somewhere to grow upon quietly. The dream which had been discussed over quiet dinners in London over the previous winters, were talks of Lemons and terracotta, of crickets and the quiet Tuscan stone. I was invited to view each space and in each I saw something new and wonderful but not the space I had imagined for my studio. As we were getting ready to finish our tour the host said, 'wait there is one more space I would like to show you' as though it was an afterthought. He took us through to the back part of the house, beyond the smaller dining room, with the deep sunken fireplace, and through a little door passed the big kitchen. We walked on honeycomb tiles in a darkened passageway, around a corner and stepped down into a dark space with a dirt floor. Our host said 'wait' and he walked forward into the darkness ahead to open large doors, as he did this, light spilled inside the space and his words came directly inside my heart "This is the Lemon House" he said.
I took a quick breath in at those words and stopped, the vast space in front of me now filled with light. High ceilings were coated with dust, old magazines piled up on the ground, and the original wooden cart, used to bring the lemon trees inside during the winter months, sat quietly to the side. This was where the lemon trees had stood in silence and stillness over the winters, protected from the cold. As I stood there, I couldn’t help but think of how it resembled Picasso's studio in Paris. In that moment, the only words that came to me—unspoken and precious—were, "This is my studio."
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