Nonna Giada

Everyone is outside, by the pool. Except the youngest granddaughter, finding out what summer siestas really mean with her first love. As every generation has, at some point.

Second floor. Third room to the left. Pool view from the inside. Bang bang.
A family home in summertime. A game of the visible and the invisible.

Lunch is over. A family who only dines with a collector’s set of Dalí plates. Imagine them… Never who they seem to be. Or maybe they are, only much more than they seem. And when you marry one of them, you, too, become a little more complex.

Someone’s cigarette still smokes in the garden. Someone’s perfume still lingers in the hallway. A playlist from a long-lost boyfriend plays, semi-hard. This family home in summertime… full of traces left behind.

Nonna Giada wasn’t there anymore, but she lingered everywhere.
You can’t call a diva a ghost. When she died, they all pretended she just left.

Nonna Giada is still on every doorstep, in every painting hanging on the walls.
She was the queen of cocktail hour.
She had a life of her own. And everyone felt they had to emulate her. And so they did. She was the nonna and the mamma of them all. She set the tone for the family and this home. She hosted it all.

Born Giada Maria Corsini, she never changed her name when she married. He changed his ways into hers. Like everyone around her.

There was something about her that changed people’s lives in a short time. The time people attended the parties she hosted. Oh, those parties... A whole world.

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