He was born surrounded by umbrellas into a large family, an umbrella-making dynasty. Eighty-four years later, those umbrellas are still his livelihood, in the atelier where his hand-made creations spring to life. Mario Talarico Senior is today flanked by Mario Jr, his brother’s son, and now the fourth generation to master the family trade.
“We used to sleep in the drawers of an enormous chest from the 1800s that we had in the shop; our mother made us cloth mattresses,” the eighty-four year-old Mario tells me, as he crafts notches into a beechwood handle. The day of my visit is, as fate would have it, rainy, the type of weather that is not exactly detested by an umbrella seller whose shop is emblazoned with signs like “Give yourself the gift of an umbrella! If it’s not raining now… it soon will”. Kindly and courteous, the Talaricos welcome me into their shop/laboratory at the southern end of the renowned “Quartieri” district, the Spanish part, close to via Toledo, the very road the aristocrats’ carriages paraded down during the era of the Bourbons. They show me artefacts of lemon wood from Sorrento, ones in beechwood, elm, chestnut, bamboo and even silver ones, like the umbrella that the master craftsman made for Lucio Dalla, with the shaft handcrafted like a sculpture. “As a sign of his gratitude, Lucio gave me this,” Mario tells me, proudly displaying a wrist bearing a Swiss-made chronograph.
Mario Sr explains that two characteristics make his umbrellas – which range in price from 79-20,000 euros – unique: the shafts are not chiselled, leaving the wood intact the entire length of the umbrella. A more complex procedure, because this requires different sized rings for the differing diameters of the wood, while other manufacturers, to save time, cut the parts to the same diameter. Finally, the ferrule is made of bone rather than metal. The tip of the shaft is carved, taking great care not to damage it, and a pivot is inserted, ensuring it does not budge thanks to the use of glue and cement. “The ribs of the umbrella, in jargon, are known as balene (whales), because the ancient Etruscans used their bones to make umbrellas,” he assures me, nodding to a book on the subject which confirms the story.
In the meantime, a client wanders in. Mario throws me an amused glance and whispers: “Good morning, excuse me, but my umbrella is broken, could you fix it for me?”, guessing the precise words that the man at the shop’s threshold is about to utter. I too am amused. And totally entranced by the wholly Neapolitan atmosphere the shop is engulfed in, from the customers to the drawers that are “two centuries old”, as Mario claims.
I have read a lot about this man. His name resonates the world over, as witnessed by the articles plastered to the walls: from daily newspapers, to British, American and French magazines, not to mention videos in Korean which are played on a loop on a TV set, telling the history of the atelier to the lucky visitors from the Far East. As a Neapolitan, it was high time I set foot in this place, partly because I flatter myself in believing that I would be able to capture nuances incomprehensible to a non-native. And I’m not only referring to local dialect. I mean the tone of the voice, mannerisms, silences and gestures which say far more than the fanciful words that may come out of anyone’s mouth. Only one word of protest: alongside their handmade creations, the Talaricos also have €5, €15 and €25 brollies not made in Italy. “They are just for passing trade,” explains Mario Jr, who, to my relief does not approve of their selling this kind of product, done on uncle Mario’s insistence. “They’re from another generation,” we concede.
Bespoke hugs,
Fabio
