Ambassador - National Italian American Foundation

For the past three years, I have
led photography workshops in
Umbria with my wife and professional
partner Judith Goodman.
Our goal each year is to “Experience
Umbria”—the name of the
workshop—through weeks of
daily photography and touring,
getting to know winemakers,
cheesemakers, artisans of glass,
fabric, ceramic and wood, and
chefs of astounding skill. All the
while, we’re reveling in the
beauty of Umbria’s glorious hill
towns and ancient cities.
For six years before that, Judy
and I took up residence in
Venice, two to four weeks at a
time, as we put together what has
become our bestselling book of
photographs and essays, “Serenissima:
Venice in Winter.” It’s a
study of the world’s most beautiful
city when most of the tourists
have left and Venice becomes, if
only briefly, a living, breathing
community, not a carnivalmasked
theme park.
To a documentarian, nothing
can match the total immersion of
living in a place you love, of
observing the different pace of
Above: Sagrantino
vineyard and Cyprus
trees in Umbria
Left: Bevagna
Right: Ancient arches
in Perugia
daily life there and, in our case,
of recording that life in photographs
and words. For me, the
experience has deepened my
appreciation and love for Italy
(while also acquainting me with
its foibles and faults). And, it has
provided me with the impetus—
finally—to parlare Italiano.
My mother, the former
Carmella Casullo, was born in
New York City in 1907. But just
barely. All of her brothers and
sisters were born in Monteleone
di Puglia, a small hill town
between Naples and Bari. Once in
the United States, like so many
immigrants of the time, they were
determined to speak only English.
Eventually, inevitably, my
mother lost her Italian and, for
years after her generation died, no
one in our family spoke the
language. It was only when Judy
and I began working on our
Venice book—renting an apartment
near San Stae for our
extended stays—that I began
studying at Casa Italiana Language
School in Washington. If for no
other reason, I wanted to be able
to buy vegetables and fish at La
Photos by Frank Van Riper
Pescaria, Venice’s colorful open-air
market on the Grand Canal.
Of course, speaking even a
little Italian was a boon to a
photographer seeking to photograph
people going about their
daily lives. Combined with a
smile, Che bella bambina (cane,
ragazzo—you name it) would
inevitably result in the subject
either standing still for a picture
or, better, forgetting we were
there and letting us shoot.
How friendly are Italians? It
borders on the cliché to say they
still love gli Americani, but even
today, it brings a lump to my
throat to think back to how many
Venetians came up to us unbidden
to offer heartfelt condolences
after 9/11 as we photographed in
Italy just weeks after the attacks.
At Casa Italiana, I met scores
of fellow Italian Americans, most
of them much younger than I
am, who eagerly followed their
heritage—some even looking into
dual citizenship. That ongoing,
molto simpatico, experience—I
still take conversation classes
there—deepened my appreciation
of Italian culture. And, if
W W W . N I A F . O R G
Ambassador 19