If there were a profession called “Pumpkin Carver” I’d be planning a whiz of an old age in Lucca, the sere, beautiful, crabby hometown of my husband’s Tuscan ancestors. Edinburgh in Italy — the perfect family ethnic blending. But there isn’t, so my husband’s once a year meditation on sculpture with squash won’t ensure us anything but an old age in my daughter’s basement eating cat food.
He starts with a terrific drawing: Daumier, Goya, Matisse. The he thinks a lot. Then he looks at the October issue of “Martha Stewart Living” Then he hollows out the pumpkin, sketches his idea on it, and morphs from a nice guy to an artistic monster, throwing down my lino scraping tools in exasperation, beating his breast, tearing his hair, yelling and cursing.
He works with the lights inside the pumpkin so that he can monitor the subtle shadings of the thick and thin layers. He throws pumpkin scraps all over the floor without apology. He annoys me.
Here’s this year’s version, after a drawing by Correggio. He got to use a drill to punch in the holes around the face, and that cheered him up — so easy. He calmed down a bit when it was completed, and I’d refrained from yelling at his excited , crazy self. Anyway here it is, and it might be the best punkin in the ‘Ville this year.