Bellucci

by Christos Polydorou

In London I am often confused for an Italian. This delights me. At the same time, I understand that I must have generated this aura, by drinking Lavazza coffee daily, and preparing pasta and pizza dishes from scratch frequently, and proud if I perfect them. But my connection to Italy goes beyond that. This is because in the fourteenth century I was an obscure Italian painter who lived in Calabria, near where now stands the Museo Nazionale di Reggio Calabria. I painted for my supper, I painted for the roof over my head, and I painted because of the love in my heart. I don’t see why any of it would have been changed, no matter what has happened to us, and the passages of time, et cetera. However, if you ask me if I believe in reincarnation, I would reply, Bello, bella, it is much more complex, than that. These things, like the oboe, or the piano, they are universal. Romance is far from dead, but it is choosy, and it is a fine thing, that deserves fine hands, and care. Beauty is far from over.

Monica Bellucci is still incredibly beautiful

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