The Tuesday Workshop
Five years ago, a group of women and disabled young people began gathering in this room—or in a less polished, less organized space before it—to work with their hands. They sewed. They knitted. They built things.
Using salvaged fabric or generous donations from friendly upholsterers, occasionally splurging on cloth suited to a particular project, they made—and still make—colorful bags of every size and purpose: shoe holders, laundry bags, storage pouches. Eco-friendly shopping bags. Dish towels and aprons. Special padded cushions that make ironing easier. Pillows. Small placemats and doilies of every kind.
Each young person joins the production cycle at their own level: unpicking seams, basting, removing bastings, threading elastic, stitching by hand.
Their Piece of the Work
As the workshop deepened, the projects grew more ambitious: patchwork blankets, multicolored backpacks, fabric slippers. The women took the lead on these finer pieces, but there was always a moment where each young person could contribute—even if it meant working more slowly. And slowness matters. For them, that work is a long journey: learning to focus, developing fine motor skills, coordinating their movements. When the finished product is beautiful and can be sold, the young person who made it—alongside their guide—feels genuinely satisfied, genuinely valued, genuinely ready to work again. They learn new abilities by working, by creating something that matters, not by drilling hollow exercises. This, we believe, is the secret that makes our small workshop thrive. Eventually, though, we noticed something: some of our young people were more restless, less skilled at the detailed work. They grew anxious and discouraged. They disrupted the flow of the others.
The Thursday Workshop
So we started the Thursday group. Three young people at first, walking a different path. We began simply: coloring, miming, listening to music, playing games that helped them learn to sit still. Then came the first projects: decorated cardboard and tiles, small works in clay, and finally—marionettes. We shaped them around simple iron frames that the young people, guided one-to-one, could actually build. The bodies were crude at first, made of clay or modeling compound, with round heads and long spindly limbs. Not much to look at. But Mara and Nunziata possessed real artistry. They dressed them, adorned them, gave them hair made from every material you could imagine, and suddenly these homely puppets came alive—recalling a gentler time. (These marionettes, which once delighted our childhood, have vanished from shops now. Nostalgic adults snap them up for their children and grandchildren!)
See also: Stories of Work and Friendship
Ceramics and Grain Soup
The Thursday workshop's next chapter began when Ida joined us—a gifted amateur ceramicist who became teacher to the whole group. The work suited them. Their hands moved naturally with clay. But ceramics demanded planning. We learned to focus on simple, clean pieces: small vessels, modest decorations, objects with humble purpose.
We made tiny pots for dried flowers, small trays for onions, rustic candlesticks, pencil holders, bottle coasters, food warmers. These pieces sold at our exhibitions. And the joy of making them together—ragazzi and friends working side by side on the same pot, collaborating equally, discovering that the fired result exceeded what they'd imagined—that joy was real.
Then came the "seven-grain soup kit." The Tuesday group packaged colored sachets filled with seven different cereals, measured and ready for a rich soup. The recipe came with each bag. Simple. Brilliant. Even the newer, more fidgety young people thrived on it. Some began coming both Tuesday and Thursday, working through all the activities, building momentum.
What's Next
Our workshop acquired a proper kitchen: a gas stove and a massive electric oven. Suddenly everyone's imagination ignited. Why not bake? Why not make cookies and biscuits, jams in jars, ready to sell? Why not try old recipes for preserving fruit and vegetables? Why not prepare full breakfasts for Sunday mornings or invite other groups to celebrate together?
Why not? There's no reason not to. We can try anything and see where it leads.
What matters is not giving up. Keep imagining. Accept that things grow and change, that one idea sparks another, that our small workshop might one day become—who knows?—a magic carpet, traveling with all our friends aboard: the old ones, the new ones, and everyone else who wants to climb aboard.
- Maria Teresa Mazzarotto, 1993