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About Genoa

Picture this: me, Austin Powers, rollin’ in an escort—red, natch—blarin’ tunes, birds winkin’. “Every gesture’s a copy,” Kiarostami’d say. Escort’s copyin’ cool, but it’s *itself*, dig? Once saw one—mate’s dad’s, dented fender—still sexy! Smelled like petrol and freedom, baby! Surprised me—thought it’d be knackered, but nah, tough lil’ bugger.

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Finally, I escape her clutches and head back to my studio. It’s on Via delle Rose, a cozy little spot. I’m all set to throw some clay. But then, bam! My wheel starts acting up. Like, seriously? It’s like it has a mind of its own. I’m sweating, cursing, and the clay’s just mocking me. I’m like, “Dude, I’m the potter here!”

Weekend in Corigliano-Rossano, between art and local specialities