Spend just a short time wandering the cities and towns of Italy, and you will gain an appreciation for the seamless weaving together of art and public space. Spend three months intensively studying this commingling and producing art and your appreciation will remain intact, but you might be ready for a break. Such was the situation my four friends and I found ourselves in on a peerless Friday in November. Having just finished a course and anticipating our last, we took advantage of the lull in work to explore Cinque Terre (a network of five town and national park territory on the Italian coast). A rocky beach and gentle waves seemed the perfect setting for a weekend of refreshment. (Garrett Ames-Ledbetter and Anna Taylor participated in the Fall 2009 Orvieto semester; Anna writes this account of a simple but rewarding adventure.) 
We’d scarcely set foot on the beach, when we noticed that someone, taking advantage of the abundance of natural materials, had carefully positioned some ovular rocks, so that they balanced effortlessly on a huge boulder. They stood silently, a strange combination of wild impossibility and seeming naturalness. Being somewhat nerdily artistic our immediate response was to gleefully assume that Andy Goldsworthy had visited this very spot and graced it with one of his ephemeral creations.
Pleased, we settled down to enjoy the beach. But Garrett was restless. After examining the monuments he returned to the group with a proposition: “We should build something.” Not satisfied with a mere stacking of stones, he suggested something more daring—an arch. I accepted the challenge, and the two of us immediately began combing the beach for disk-like rocks and a suitable capstone. Spurred on by the knowledge that we were in the homeland of arch construction, we worked at assembling a framework to support the stones and at carefully positioning and securing the rocks forming the sides.
Stone by stone an arch emerged until at last we placed the keystone. Theoretically, we knew the arch should hold, but sitting there and contemplating removing the inner support structure, it seemed precariously feeble. With trepidation and considerable anticipation we began to remove the stones. The arch held! What wondrous satisfaction— the marvel of creation and the thrill of completion. 
Our efforts were not unnoticed. As we had been working a fellow American had been watching from afar. Inspired by our success he began to look afresh at the rocks around him, came and talked to us about art, and before leaving erected a modest column. This was marvelous, a clear example of the direct way in which art inspires more art. We were delighted. We stayed and watched the sun set through the arch and returned to our hostel.
The next evening, after a day spent hiking and exploring, we returned to the beach to find the arch still standing. More astonishing, however, was the proliferation of small rock sculptures that had appeared on the beach. As we sat and watched, an interesting phenomenon emerged. People strolling onto the beach would inevitably notice the arch. Intrigued they examined it. Glancing around they noticed the original balancing rocks that had inspired us, and their faces lit up, their gestures became more emphatic, as they made the connection between the works. Then as they settled down on the beach they would begin to play with the rocks around them, eager to play and create.
Our arch is fallen. Before we left that day an excited toddler gave it a running embrace and it toppled, a bit overcome by the exuberance. We had delighted in an afternoon of dabbling, but the lesson we learned endures.
Art that successfully inhabits space, be it through materials, placement, or subject, is not wasted. Its presence invokes response; it invites participation and experimentation. It links us together in a joyful cycle of appreciation, collaboration, and creation.
GARRETT & ANNA'S ARCH Cinque Terre November 2009
