I’m a painter—though I haven’t quite said that outright, have I?
Painting is my life. It’s not a hobby, not a pastime—it’s the very core of who I am.
I was fortunate in my mentors: Francesco Menzio, a disciple of Felice Casorati, and Guido Capra, a sculptor and the favored student of Casale’s great master, Leonardo Bistolfi.
My roots are divided between the south and the north—Sicilian on my father’s side, Monferrina on my mother’s, who was born and raised in Casale.
I once had a beautiful studio there, tucked away in the attic of a stately 18th-century building.
I would roam the city with a large portfolio under my arm, sketching scenes, collecting impressions, taking notes that would later become paintings.
And I didn’t go unnoticed. I was the first woman in Casale to wear trousers.
That alone caused a stir. People would stop and stare as I walked past—but I barely noticed. I was too busy seeing everything else.
«J’ai trouvé votre exposition chez Madame Motte parfaitement équilibrée, d’une haute tenue, démontrant d’une manière parfaite votre talent et votre originalité».
It was written for me by one of the greatest European art collectors, on the occasion of my exhibition in Geneva. Not bad, I must say. And I’d truly love to know what became of some of my paintings that were once part of his collection—especially one in particular, for which Marinella posed. She’s my niece, the daughter of my brother, who was an upholsterer.
I’ve always loved this photo — the grand lady with her long necklace of green glass beads. We’re standing outside our first home. A moment of peace, of summer stretching on a little longer.
Elsa posed for the painting — one of my favorite models, from Turin. Her life was never simple, never still. She appears in many of my canvases, alongside my niece Marinella. They’ve both left their trace on my work, like echoes.
I’ve decided to put Aldo on a diet. He doesn’t eat much, truly — and yet his belly has grown round like a balloon. I don’t like it. He’s not old, not yet, and in the heat he sweats too much. You can tell — the extra weight tires him out.
But I’ve never been much of a cook. Plain pasta, a cutlet, an apple, and a glass of tap water — that’s already an elaborate meal to me. The apple, though, is non-negotiable for Aldo. It soothes the gastritis that the nerves have etched into him.
That’s just how he is—he gets upset over nothing, even if it’s just a fly buzzing by, and suddenly he’s angry at everyone. Sometimes he overreacts, sometimes he’s right. But with a temper like his, he’s not doing us any favors. Who’s going to want to visit if he keeps blowing up the way he’s been doing more and more often?
And yet, the house is still full of people—friends, students, even visitors from far away. They like the atmosphere. And then there’s that story about the Saracens. Oh, that one!
They say Aldo has secret documents, that we know the exact location of the entrance to the caves. That one day we’ll vanish with the treasure!
It’s a tale worth ten books—or a few films, even, it’s so intricate. Some even say our house was built in the shape of a Mithraeum, in honor of Aldo’s research on the cult of the god Mithras in this region.
Sometimes I get this heavy ache in my chest when I look at him—bent over his papers and history books, studying, correcting, and re-reading with no rest. He’s better known abroad than in Italy—his work is more appreciated in France and Spain. Here, they’ve blacklisted him. That’s why Aldo lost his job—because of his ideas, because of that brilliant mind of his, because he makes others envious. The other historians don’t have his spark.
What he writes reads like a novel—but it’s the true history of his beloved Monferrato. And meanwhile, we struggle to make it to the end of the month. The bills don’t wait—if you don’t pay them, how do you eat, how do you stay warm? You die here, alone in the middle of the Monferrato countryside.
Thank goodness I still have the dogs to keep me company. Behind us, the large fresco I painted—The Marriage of Teodoro Paleologo and Argentina Spinola. But enough of these dark thoughts. I have my art. Paintings to finish. New projects—nudes in the open countryside.
And then there are the still lifes—funny how they call them that, when they’re more alive than anything else.
But not today. Today I just can’t.
Even holding a paintbrush would make me feel sick.
Enough. It’s over. That’s it. No more talk about children.
I can’t have them—and anyway, I’m not young anymore.
Aldo is devastated. Who will inherit his life’s work? His noble title, his research, our home, our ideas, his entire historical archive?
Sure, we have friends—we could look around, maybe adopt someone? But it’s not the same, not even close. And to be honest, the whole idea doesn’t sit right with me. Friends are friends. That’s it.
There’s no child? So be it. That’s how it went. It’s not the end of the world.
But Aldo—he’s not eating, he’s not sleeping. He’ll come around eventually. He’s already preparing more books, more essays.
As for me, I refuse to accept the role of a failed mother. Here I am, behind my house at the Romito, on a beautiful October day.
Life must go on—with or without a child.
Even if, deep down, the ache is overwhelming.
For me, yes—but even more so for Aldo.
I wake up with a start, and it takes me a moment to understand where I am— what portion of space and time I’m in. I’m sitting up in bed, in Casale, in my parents’ house. These nightmares aren’t rare. I’ve had others; some leave me with a deep sense of anguish—not all, but this one, yes. Although, they’re not really nightmares—they’re premonitions! I’m drenched in sweat. My heart is pounding in my temples and in my stomach. Atrocious! I’m still shaken!
Here’s what happened in the dream:
I’m in a square in Casale Monferrato, in the town center. I see a silhouette. It vanishes.
I think I recognized it, but I’m not sure. I notice people staring at me. What do they want? They turn to look as I walk by. Strange! What’s wrong with me? Do I have the plague?! I feel uneasy. I start walking quickly, then running—I feel pursued! I have the sense that the silhouette is after me—it’s a man, my old sculpture teacher, someone I cared for deeply, with whom I used to have wild, intense conversations. I haven’t seen him in a long time.
There’s no one behind me. Then suddenly, I see him in front of me at a crossroads.
“–You almost scared me,” I say.
“–I came to say goodbye,” he says.
“–Why, are you leaving?”
“–I have nothing left to do here. I’m done. There’s nothing holding me back. I just wanted to say goodbye.”
As he says this, he raises one arm as if shielding himself from the light—and in that moment, I see him, and I feel faint:
his face is gaunt, pale, full of suffering. But what strikes me most is that as he lifts his coat, shifting it slightly—I can see through his body!
There’s nothing there. Nothing! My sculpture teacher, Guido Capra, beloved student of master Leonardo Bistolfi, no longer has a body—he has begun to dissolve.
A week later, I learn of his death.
He had come to say goodbye, just as he said he would.
In his studio, under his guidance, I created a sculpture—a woman’s bust—The Venus of Monferrato, as he himself had named it.