Organizing Concerts in Ticino

I’ve always had big feet. Even when I was small. My feet were always a few steps ahead of me, which gave me a rather curious appearance.

Even in fourth grade, I could fill a school desk all by myself with my size 41 shoes, which of course greatly amused my classmates, especially since the rest of me was rather thin and lanky. My feet brought me a lot of mockery, not to mention unforgettable scenes during the 50-meter sprint, when I kept getting tangled up in the starting blocks. On the other hand, during the 1000-meter run, my big feet simply carried me away. That’s just how I am. A rushed start is not my thing.

Over the course of my life, my feet have even grown wider. I’m now approaching size 42, and I’ve passed them on. I have one son with size 48.5 and another with 47.5. Their shoes usually form a massive obstacle right behind the front door that you have to climb over to get into the living room. A shoe cabinet is useless at those dimensions, by the way. You can maybe store the shoelaces in it.

But now the entrance inside the house is clear. The problem is outside the door. It’s 6:30 a.m. and bitterly cold. My size 42 shoes are sitting there alone. Sizes 47.5 and 48.5 are nowhere to be seen, and I’m ranting while searching for my moon boots. This is not a day to set foot outside. One should simply go back to bed and wait until it gets warm. Overnight I’ve been completely snowed in. But I can’t afford that. I have to get out. This afternoon, Frequenze Libere is taking place. So much for a quick start.

Yesterday was still a beautiful, spring-like March day. In my garden at 1,000 meters altitude, primroses, crocuses, and daffodils were blooming. But this morning, when I open the shutters, I’m hit by a white I haven’t seen even at Christmas for years, over 80 cm. And it’s suspiciously quiet.

Well, not entirely.A neighbor is swearing as he shovels his way through the snow. Branches crack and break off the trees. The snow is heavy, far too heavy for a long-handled snow shovel. In my desperation, I grab a dustpan and start shoveling and swearing, just like my neighbor, digging my way through my little garden toward the firewood and the gate. It’s actually not far, but here in the fog and thick white it feels like an expedition, and it’s truly exhausting.

Elfride meows and wants to help. Bravely, she jumps into the snow and disappears. I can only hear her pitiful cries. So I leave my path and dig the cat out as well. She complains about her cold paws and wants to be comforted. Ah, the cat and I… this is going too far, because this is supposed to be a story about my work as a organizer Only I doubt that will happen this Sunday morning, because the road isn’t cleared. And it won’t be. Too many trees have fallen during the night’s snowstorm; half the village has no electricity. So this is how a Swiss curator can get stuck on a mountain in March. Boots can be as big as they like.

In my car there’s a subwoofer for Paula Sanchez and a double bass for John Edwards who should play with Caroline Kraabel. But there’s also 50 cm of snow on the road.

Hmm. I need a coffee and call Paula. She’s stuck in the snow too. From Geneva she has to go via Domodossola and the Centovalli line isn’t running. She has to wait for replacement buses and will arrive an hour later. Okay, I have to confess that I might not get off the mountain today. Paula is surprisingly cool: “Ok, let’s talk later.”

Then I hear the snowplow. I rush outside: the road is now cleared, but my car has disappeared behind a 1.5-meter-high glacier. I stare helplessly at the ice surrounding it. Then the sun comes out, the sky turns blue, and I’m standing here with a dustpan in front of snow that is now becoming lead-heavy.

Another neighbor, a very nice one, comes along with a huge shovel and explains that a dustpan is not suitable equipment for a serious situation. True enough, but it suits me. And it was there for me. A nice shovel, and it did get me to the road. I’m a bit sensitive when people point out my shortcomings. But he really shovels excellently. I stay quiet and sigh, and little by little my car reappears.

I clean the windshield and look inside. Yes, there lies the double bass, sleeping peacefully, unaware that its big performance is in danger. Ah, to be a double bass. Completely unbothered. But I’m a curator, and I haven’t yet dared to call the London bass player and explain that I’m stuck in the snow with his instrument. But maybe it will still work out.

While I’m shoveling, someone photographs me. A reporter has made it up here and is enthusiastically snapping pictures of the snowy landscape for the newspaper. And apparently I make a particularly good subject. The nerve of that guy.

I start the car. It works. Great car. Looks like a Fiat, but its heart is an indestructible Suzuki engine.

I move the car to a snow-free spot, and there stands my very nice neighbor from the end of the street, also searching for her car under the snow, saying: “They always do this a bit awkwardly, don’t they?” A bit awkward… that’s really too kind, I think, and I reply with a few less polite words.

While we’re digging, the neighbor with the professional shovel returns, and also her little Peugeot becomes visible again. We did well. I even manage a joke.

Although I’m quite hungry by now. So I eat. Then I remember I still have to cook for the musicians. So I cook. Then I remember the professional shovel and bake a cake for the neighbor. I call Paula: I’m coming. I call John: I’m coming, just a bit later.

I get changed. And thanks to my great four-wheel drive, I make it to Locarno. Of course, Locarno knows nothing about the snow. It stands there with its camellias and magnolias, delighting German-Swiss Sunday tourists with sunshine and palm trees. Ah, how beautiful it is here again.

And then I feel it clearly: this is going to be a great evening. Sometimes you just know. You can’t explain it: an unshakable certainty comes over you. And I don’t get nervous, don’t wonder whether people will come, whether everything is right, whether it makes sense. None of that. I know: it will run like clockwork. And it does. Carovana throws another one of its memorable Sunday afternoons. Frequenze Libere at its finest. Everyone is happy. Me too. Even if, I admit, I’m a bit exhausted. I don’t fall asleep in my chair, the music is too beautiful for that. But my movements are heavy, every muscle making itself known.

I don’t know what curators in big cities go through. I sit here in my hut, among camellias, communicating with God and the world, trying not to fail because of life’s adversities. But at the first notes of a concert, I’m always reconciled with everything: the paperwork, the running around, the time pressure. It’s all okay.

But why I am always seized by such enthusiasm again and again… I don’t know. I truly don’t know.