The Strand painter
by Janice Nigro
Francesca hoisted her laundry bag onto her back, slipped into her flip-flops and crossed the street to stroll along the beach on her way to 2nd Street. She paused before stepping into the mélange of life making up the traffic on The Strand. The team of French bulldogs pulling a skateboarder, the bark of a sea lion, the smell of weed.
Oh, and the man she dubbed The Painter.
Tall and sun-kissed, dark wavy hair pulled back in a headband, a Tahitian-style tattoo covering his shoulder, it was always a good day when she saw The Painter on The Strand. The plein air painter, portraying the local scenery in colorful, loose strokes with a sense of the past. He had the best marketing strategy of any small business owner she knew of. A finished painting hung on one side of his easel, while he worked on a fresh canvas on the other side.
No overhead, lots of foot traffic. And his business was portable. Sometimes she passed him in Hermosa Beach. Sometimes in Manhattan Beach. Sometimes in Redondo Beach. So many opportunities to meet him and yet, she had never acknowledged the man with even the slightest of gestures.
Not today, I have this giant bag of laundry, she thought, while repositioning the strap of her bikini top, as she approached the artist near the Sea Sprite.
Maybe I should have put on some lipstick. Her last rumination on her dilemma before slipping on a puddle of water, dripping from a wetsuit hung over the wall, that sent her sliding right into his arms. Bam! Francesca took the easel down with her. Paint flew up, like a glitter bomb, splattering her and a pink-dyed dog in a stroller whose owner picked the wrong moment to come in for a closer look at his work. The two paintings clattered to the pavement, triggering an outpouring of words that sounded a lot like the ones her Italian father used when he didn’t want to curse in English.
“Um, hello?” she said as he righted her, straightening out her sunglasses that had gone askew.
“Bene? Scusa, are you OK?” he said, in a leading man kind of voice, assessing where the paint had hit, offering her a rag from his back pocket to clean up. “It is easier to ask me if the painting is for sale.”
Francesca offered only a smile, a delayed response to cover for the fortuitous glimpse into his light green eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “Funny how flip-flops, the footwear of choice around here, are so hazardous on The Strand.”
She set down her bag.
“I’ve ruined your painting,” she said as together they lifted the work-in-progress that had landed upside down on The Strand.
“It doesn’t look too bad?” She watched as he reorganized his small business setup and began sculpting the smears back into identifiable sites with his palette knife.
“No, it is fine. Sometimes I mix sand in the paint on the canvas anyway,” he said. “It is the little dog, the little dog I worry about, and his new spots.”
“Maybe getting splattered with paint is luck, even for a dog,” she said. “Um, so where are you from? If you don’t mind if I ask.”
“Ah, you hear my accent? Or recognize the language?” he said. “Sì, I am from Italy.”
Italian and a painter. She raised an eyebrow.
“How long have you been in the USA? Or here?”
“In Hermosa Beach? A couple of years.”
“Where are you from in Italy?”
“Roma.”
“Roma? You left Roma?”
“Why not?” he said.
“Well, because Roma is Roma.”
“Sì, yes, well, you do not live there. The city is expensive. I cannot afford to live in the city center, and it is hard to get around with the traffic.”
“I see, and you solved those problems by moving to LA.”
He chuckled.
“I live in, what do you say, the Bubble? Look around you. The ocean, sun, sand and,” he paused, looked into her eyes, while crossing his arms, “beautiful people.”
“Paradiso,” she said, looking away from him.
“Ah, you speak Italian?”
“A little. My father is Italian. My name is even Francesca.”
And there, she’d done it, introduced herself without having to calculate the moment.
“Giacomo, I am Giacomo,” he said, reaching out to shake her hand.
“You are always carrying a big backpack,” he said, switching to Italian.
So he’s noticed me before.
“Vado alla lavatrice (la-va-tree-chay). I am going to the washing machine,” she said, somehow standing on her tippy toes helped to get the words out.
“You say lavatrice like it is your favorite word.”
“I feel like I’m singing when I say it. And well, you have to admit, it makes the chore sound more glamorous than what it is.”
“I see and then you make a little exercise for yourself,” he said, pointing to her backpack.
“Exactly! And your painting, how did you learn?”
“I did go to university for art, but I have painted since I was a boy. I learned more from my nonno (grandpa). I followed him around with my own set of paints and easel, and we painted together local spots around Roma. Portraits though, he loved painting people.”
“And you?”
“It is nothing for me to paint the beach cities. But portraits, I can tell a story with them,” he said. “Are you in a hurry to make your laundry?”
“No? No, I’m not in a hurry to make my laundry,” she said grinning.
“Ah, I made a mistake with my English, no?”
“Maybe, but I like it. More poetic the way you say it.”
Giacomo moved her bag, motioned for her to sit down and adjusted the angle of her face, with a gentle tap of her chin. He brought out a piece of paper and began to work.
“No, no, no, you stay,” he said, when she moved to peek at the work. After time seemed to extend into eternity with each passing onlooker, Giacomo handed her the finished portrait — signed with his mobile number.
“Nice signature,” Francesca said, a smile spreading across her face. “You left the splatter on my cheek?”
“It could happen only once in this life. Andiamo? Let’s go,” Giacomo said, picked up her bag and walked her the rest of the way to the laundromat.
