I regularly invite Álvaro Siza to dinner at my house. There is always a pretext and above all there are always some foreigners, friends, clients, who justify the dinner and the invitations. But not only foreigners are the reason for dinner, there is also the reason for dinner, for dinner. But there are also dinners with Nuno Higino, a friend, for being responsible for the idea of commissioning the project for the Church of Santa Maria in Marco de Canaveses, for carrying it out and for being a friend. Dinners, as there have been some, always have a theme. Once there was the need to illustrate a book of poems, by Nuno Higino, for children. He asked me what my opinion was on inviting Siza to illustrate the poems and I thought it best to think about a little dinner. It is worth talking to Clara, companion and producer of the dinners, with an Italian touch. I handle the liquids. The invitation was accepted, as usual, a date was set and arrangements were made for those who are transporting Siza and how to get there, as it is not easy, fortunately. Dinner always starts in the kitchen, with a few things with a transalpine flavor and national liquids, from there it goes to the table and while having dinner there is talk of everything, nothing and almost everything. At the end, passing through the café, Clara meticulously but also absently asks: Siza, would you like a grappa or a whiskey? And the answer is always the same: Ohh! A grappa and then the whiskey! With the grappa, we move on to the main theme of the dinner; the poems about horses for the book that would come to be called: All horses and seven more. Nuno Higino had prepared the twenty poems on A4 sheets, with the texts in the upper left corner, short, almost all of them, some in a column leaving a lot of free space. Well, let’s go see those poems, asks Siza. Read the first, definition, and the reaction is immediate, take advantage of the free space and come out with the drawing. The second follows; reads and exits drawing; the third, the fourth, the fifth, we silently receiving the reception, astonished despite being used to it. The intention was to hand him the poems so that Siza, with time, could make the illustrations, and there he was, in his time, poem by poem, glass by glass, sketch by sketch, putting his soul on paper almost like a improvised singer, to the challenge. It should be noted that the subject appeals to him: horses and stories around horses, despite the fact that he has only ever ridden in self-portraits armed with a condotieri. We reached the last one, he, us, us and him, the twentieth, but the cape and other jokes are still missing. It turns out to be twenty-four. The night became dawn, in addition to the drawing there was conversation, dinner was pleasant and profitable. We have to go home because tomorrow is work day, as usual. At the last dinner with Álvaro and Nuno, the theme or reason was different; talk about his doctoral thesis in aesthetic philosophy. A conversation with the character and reason for the thesis would really come in handy and for this type of conversation, nothing better than a dinner, one more within the same molds that make routine something pleasant Dinner followed and after coffee, grappa and whiskey, we came to the conclusion that after so many years of contact and so many sketches, Siza had never drawn Nuno’s portrait. It’s for now! but the paper is missing! Clara runs through the paper and comes back with a beautiful book with black covers and good paper. In these things, with Siza close at hand, paper and pencil should never be lacking. It’s just that it’s necessary. In this case, providentially, there was even a book, with black covers and good paper. Nuno poses, Siza opens the book, passes the first page, which he leaves blank (why is it that people tend to leave the first page blank?) and begins, in a conversational tone, dipping his beak in the glass of whiskey with a stone, portrait. He’s quickly done with it, but we can see he’s not satisfied. The conversation continues, smokes a cigarette, one more among many, picks up the pencil, with a soft lead, to make a scribble, to better explain the topic of conversation. He starts again with another portrait of Nuno, followed by another drawing. He calls Clara, Riccardo and Sara, and another beautiful drawing of the three comes out. The conversation ensues; I have some sketches by Siza, even done with my eyes closed, I’m going to get it, framed; It’s very beautiful, a woman, beautiful, in profile, with a mischievous look, a single line, but I don’t have one with my left hand. It’s for now! A drawing of a man’s torso comes out, with date and signature, all on the left. Another portrait and another, this time of myself. Another portrait, this time auto. As the night progresses, the smoke, the conversation, the liquids, the themes vary. Women, men, torsos, women and a single woman, horses, horses with riders, Amazons with horses, Amazons without horses, bodies mutilated with beauty, with beauty, various positions, human, animalistic, sometimes almost erotic, superhuman . It feels like magic, which goes into the book. Close it to open it, draw it and close it again. The pace is slow but mind-blowing. By the way, there is little left, the book must be finished. Not even the cardboard on the cover is safe. Close it. He considers the task finished, it can be seen that he enjoyed it. One more sip, one more cigarette. The conversation is already long, dawn is already another day. As in any work, the doubt factor is always present and he returns to the book to evaluate, more coldly, the result. There is a blank page, the one on the first sheet. He doesn’t waste time and a horse and his rider occupy it. Pencils are still there … but not paper. It’s late, the kids are sleeping on the couch. He made sixty-two drawings in the book with black covers and good paper. It’s a pity to spoil this book by taking out a few pages. Nuno will have to wait for another occasion to have a portrait made by Siza. There will certainly be other dinners, another project and paper and pencil and …. Siza is just like that, a world of drawing, drawing training, almost or even obsession, which leads, so often, to perfection, yours, that of a book with black covers and good paper with sixty-two sketches, made talking about serious things, some jokes, a lot of smoke, some alcohol and a lot, a lot of talent, after dinner. One last discussion, between friends: who will have to take the car? It’s just that leaving my house is harder than getting there. Nice, November 9, 2006