Priscilla is leaning against the white wall, both admiring and contemplating a sculpture. Around her are a few clay versions of the same marble bodice. It’s a quiet evening in the summer of 1971 inside her studio with its many windows that provides a stunning view of Lake Lugano.
Giacomo, a young man of around twenty, brings Priscilla a cup of coffee. The coffee is accompanied by cream in a small pitcher, and two letters on a polished silver tray.
“The mail came late today.”
“Anything of value?” she asks, not taking her gaze from her work.
Giacomo holds out the two letters to Priscilla. “Just these.” Priscilla takes them and tucks them into her desk drawer. Giacomo stands waiting to be told what to do.
“Can I help with anything, Priscilla?”
“Thank you, Giacomo. I just need to marinat
