Sant'Angelo
Sant'Angelo
BY CIRO CENATIEMPO
I want to tell you three things. The first. Antonio Macrì, an artist from Ischia who died recently, would always put on his cover his works. I did it: there is a 1971 piece of it, ink and watercolor. He portrays his son Pino painting in Sant’Angelo. It’s a game of creative mirrors. In these pages there is another flash of freshness made in the same days on the marina. It is the sublimation of elegant radiance, exclusive grumpiness, summer rarefactions among the dreams of the middle age, the Seventies. Antonio’s brushstrokes, which were exalted in the open air to idealize the beloved island, suggest - as the great ones can do - a world and a way, the vital and progressive moment already completed in the landscape.
We were inspired a little by him, as in a sketch, in this issue of the newspaper. It would have taken many more pages. Even if, in any case, the air of Sant’Angelo is not enough to read it, music it, listen to it, look at it, paint it: you have to stay there. No hurry. “Elena Wassermann” owned by the painter Francesco Miranda, declared by the Archival and Bibliographic Superintendency of Campania “of particularly important historical interest”. It is a container of images that make me mad with joy: these are the poses of models that Elena, a beautiful and cultured German, chose to present the collections for sale in the mythical boutique she opened in the small square in 1952. Meanwhile Cornelio Minderop, linked character / artist to the founding myth of Sant’Angelo for a thousand reasons, he had painted the first door at the entrance ... Among Elena’s girls there was a spectacular Elsa Martinelli and all the others exploded with non-replicable fascination. They never paraded. They were simply standing with their feet on the sand under the Tower while Regina Relang took pictures: they toured Europe. The third. Back in time for a further twenty years. Linda Hélène Penzel was a German and a woman (a crucial combination!) who, since 1932, has created the most extraordinary imaginary bridge there is: founded on pillars of love, passion, vision, acceptance, internationality without frontier or prejudice. If she hadn’t been there, with her pension and then the hotel, the Santangiolese narrative would be different. Absolutely. Let him tell you his story. Beautiful. I lived it late, a bit of reflection. His daughter Margherita married Ferdinando Calise, more volcanic than boiling water. If I think of the evenings he organized for the election of Miss Aphrodite, by the pool, I risk the amarcord, citing the chats with Fred; the fee for transparent blinking; blue linen silhouette appearances on the cliff at sunset; water balloon on night and salty tables waiting for an unlikely appearance; the swims from Cavascura to Miramare, and vice versa. They would be crumbs, for the poem of Sant’Angelo.
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