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May 2025

- Mario's Vespa -

Paintings that I do plein-air almost always have a story behind them. The story of Mario's Vespa began at the Trittau mill market, where my husband Klaus and I offered our magnetic bookmarks for sale. A man, perhaps in his mid-fifties, rummaged attentively through our treasure chests until he looked up and asked directly: "Is there a Vespa among your motifs by any chance?" I said no. "If I sent you a photo, would you paint it and make me a magnetic bookmark from it?" – "I don't paint from photos" I replied. "The Vespa would have to be in front of me." He didn't hesitate for a second: "Then I'll just get it. Agreed?" I nodded – and thought, why not? Klaus is in his element on the stand for sure.

Shortly afterwards, Mario came back with his bright red Vespa. He pushed it behind our stand and parked it a few metres away with a smile. I already had my watercolours to hand and immediately started drawing with the brush, concentrating on the curved lines and proportions – and on the play of light and shadow that shone on the Vespa's paintwork and chrome. My hand remained on the painting, but my thoughts were suddenly far away. I felt the wind in my face again, heard the steady hum of the engine, felt the gentle bounce of the seat. I was sixteen, in Paris, travelling with my new pen pal Brigitte, whom I was visiting alone during the summer holidays. Two teenagers: she on her white Vespa, me on her older sister's light blue one. Every morning, we travelled from the suburbs where she lived to the heart of the city. We zoomed along wide boulevards, through the Arc de Triomphe, past the Eiffel Tower and into the playful alleyways of Montmartre. Sometimes we strolled through the venerable halls of Notre Dame, sometimes we took a fascinating look at the Mona Lisa in the Louvre – a touch of Parisian high culture, but that was usually all we could manage. In the early afternoon, Brigitte's set met up at a friend's house who had the day off. Some brought snacks, others the music – and then we danced, usually an improvised cha-cha-cha, full of verve and lightness. In between, we hung out on the sofa, by the window or in the kitchen, told stories, chatted, laughed, giggled and dreamed. It was this wonderfully carefree mixture of music, movement and friendship – in short: we enjoyed life. On the way home, Brigitte and I drove our Vespas through the hectic evening traffic with that ease that only a happy day leaves behind. And at home, her parents triumphated delighted at how much the daily ‘cultural programme’ had inspired us again.

Back in Germany, it never occurred to me to buy a Vespa myself – perhaps because nobody around me rode a scooter. What Mario had brought with him that day was more than just a motif, because the memories of the time with Brigitte had long since been dusty. But his Vespa suddenly brought the Parisian summer days of 1973 back to life – so much so, that for a moment, whilst I was painting, I thought I was reliving them. Mario was very pleased with the resulting picture and was already looking forward to the magnetic bookmarks. I thanked him warmly. "My red Vespa is sure to be a sales hit," he surmised as we said goodbye. Maybe – but it wasn't that, which made me so happy, it was the feeling of being alive that was suddenly back: this sense of new beginnings, lightness and the future that was still full of promise back then. And it was precisely this sentiment that carried me through the rest of the day on the stall.

> order magnetic bookmark motif  'Mario's Vespa'

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