In words of Maggie Thacher."Just days after I was elected photographer I came to Scotland and I shall never forget the warmth of that reception. " The theme of the photography was the a wedding of a beautiful Roman girl and a Scottish gentleman who had a painting of mine and believed I would know to catch the fairytale they where about to realise.
Alas the journey to Scotland commenced in London, after a several days of partying at the Frieze art fair, yet on the morning travel was to begin, I discovered that the camera I was to use, simply vanished. We had stayed in S. Kensington with the family I was nanny to during the last months of university, in exchange for paintings of the boys, to our luck. For when the boy's father saw my shedding a tear of desperation at being photographer whiteout a camera, the dear old gentleman, came to the rescue, offering to lend me his black stallion, the family analog camera, along with several lenses and a bag of film. On the horse we where.
An Italian lawyer picked us up with a car and a mission to deliver the artist-curator package on time, to a castle near Edibrough following an order form the bride herself who feared we would have otherwise remained in London for just another party too long. The journey lasted treacherous hours, hundreds of miles of traffic jams, during which the improper lawyer recited volumes of nauseating seduction lines, which Raffaella enjoyed as a spectator for the first few hours, eventually bored ,teamed up with me to insult him to the core, by which time it was deep night and we drove up the estate of the most delightful castle.
The bride surrounded by her roman crew, sat on the veranda in slacks, smoking cigarettes and drinking whiskey.
In fact making the groom smoke cigarettes too, had been, probably among the last of the trials and tribulations the bride had to undergo before this wedding was on the road. It had taken patience to teach her husband to be, to smoke and persuade him to allow decades of short army hair, to grow into locks, and was evidence that, a, she was able to change him, b, he knew it was for his own good, c, he had began to learn to live a more relaxed life, or as the Italians say live the Vita Bella. This made her confident, relaxed and ready for tomorw.
Whilst Paris contrary to the conotation had never been much romantic for me, Scotland turned out to be wild and full of comico-romantic situations almost as if it had been directed from the clouds by Fellini.
Bride had placed a bunch of her friends in rooms at a bed and breakfast, where we where among the few girls, amongst hungry for a holiday Romance Italian men. And everyone knows what those are like. No werewolf howling at the moon can beat an Italian romantic howling for a female.
It just happened that a bold, fat, DJ, who looked like Uncle Fester of the Adams family, had for his mate fancied me, whilst a more decent fellow set about realising the curator girls's fancies, inappropriately, in the very room she and I shared. I swear it was night of full moon. For whilst Uncle Fester pestered incessantly, riveting from trying to be funny, to crying out of that potato shaped owersized body, the chauffeur lawyer every so often materialised in a white dressing-gown, flapping it outraged like a misshapen Dracula wanting to be invited to join the party. When I tired of appreciating the funny side of the situation, I slapped Uncle Fester across his gummy face and shouted at Raffaella, found antoher another room in which I eventually fell asleep whiteout having been bitten by any of the horror film wackos.
The wedding begun during the earley afternoon at the most perfect setting. The castle was situated at the end of a long drive trough trees, upon a wast green lawn nestled on a sunny day with a few perfect clouds passing just ot be pretty. I crept into the brides room and photographed her the whole duration of the metamorphosis form the tears of excitement, to stockings and suspenders, and into the fully blossomed and enchanting bride. Guests began arriving. Champagne was served to all. And than a purr of a 1930's engine belonging to a beautiful Roles Royce brought the groom on to the scene. They where where elegant and beautiful. The guests hopped about with their colored bonnets excited for the couple, gobbling strawberries ,making acquaintances and downing champagne.
A train of automobiles lead to the local gray stone traditional church, beyond the hills.Raffaella reminded me that I was not simply a guest, so as the service closed into the point of the " Do you take her to be your wedded wife tough sickness and health".I tiptoed as silently as I could with with my yellow stilettos up to the alter, and stood behind the priest be able to shoot the crucial photograph of the putting on the rings. Just as the groom was saying " I do" I lost my balance rocked for a monent and than pushed over and iron-and flower installation, which magnificently launched it self at the groom, sending flowers a' flying. There was total silence in the church. Every body's eyes instantly zoomed to attention at the shameful slip. However the best man, trained soldier, caught the missile mid air and returned it in to place. I managed to catch the mounting of the rings onto fingers and the ceremony went ahead as if noting had happened.
Outside of the church plenty of kissing, congratulating went on, smiles where stuck to all the faces whilst a field next door two orange painted sheep estaticley humped away. Photographs of this blessing of fertility for the newly weds was obligatory. The wedding parade returned to the castle and proceeded to be one of the prettiest and loveliest weddings I had ever attended. A string quartet played from the balcony and Uncle Fester played dance music the rest of the evening. Everyone ate, danced, mounted chairs played some sort of Scottish clapping game. Influenced by the unification of love of this was celebration too, various characters who in Rome where just friends started romantic escapades beneath tables and all ower the place . The next day we where fed tea, and jam sandwiches, than sent to occupy an entire plane, and sober up on the way to Rome.
Photographs captured the Scottish romance and where projected couple weeks later at the cool Roman version of the wedding in a palace I belived once belonged to Bonito Mussolini.
Ilustration: Melissa Brown 2 die 4
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