A telephone conversation between Natalia and Tea
Natalia: How could I forget her? When I arrived at Ombre e Luci, she had already been there for several years. She and Mariangela had founded the magazine together. I saw her as an older sister who would guide me. I remember something she said once while we were bundling stacks of magazines with twine and brown paper: "You know, I love this newspaper work so much precisely because it's always so varied, always different. One day you're packing boxes or stamping envelopes, the next day you're at a conference, or visiting a center, or meeting with parents, or writing an article." I never forgot those words because they capture what the work at Ombre e Luci was really like—and what Nicole was like.
Tea: Exactly. She did everything, even the simplest task, with incredible care. She couldn't tolerate sloppy work—a stamp placed crooked, a knot coming undone. But I'll never forget the passion and attention she brought when talking about the disabled young people she met through her work at the magazine and other activities. She hated empty rhetoric and fuss—or as she used to say, pointless blah, blah, blah. But when she spoke about those young people, she came alive. She remembered details. She laughed. Sometimes she cried.
Natalia: And I was so happy listening to her. I remember when she'd tell us about the young people—volunteers and those with disabilities—whom she'd gather for a few days each early summer at Mary Mount College for a short vacation. I wanted so badly to meet those young people one by one. Now when I look out my window at Mary Mount College, which sits almost directly across from my house, I always think of her and those years.
Tea: But we shouldn't be sad remembering her. I think of her up there, enjoying the greatest reward for all she was able to do, for all the help she gave to so many—alongside her friends from Fede e Luce who came before and after her.
Natalia and Tea, 2007
Her son Martin also recalls Nicole's commitment to the magazine
Can you tell us what Ombre e Luci meant to her?
My mother didn't talk much about Ombre e Luci—it was her passion, her desire to be useful—something she didn't want to push on us, believing each person must find their own appetite for helping. But whenever a new issue came out, she couldn't hide her surprise and pride in what she and her friends had created. What amazed her was that a magazine conceived in humility—meant first and foremost to be useful and a source of hope for readers—turned out to be something beautiful she could genuinely be proud of.
Did she ever tell you a favorite memory from working in the editorial office?
What she loved most was that something started with friends kept going and kept going. I don't remember specific episodes, but rather how gradually the editorial meetings—three times a week—shifted from something experimental into what seemed like the most beautiful work in the world. And for me, what was beautiful was seeing how all the ingredients of any great enterprise, however small, came together in this work.
- Martin Schulthes, 2007