An unlikely logbook from the Beach of Timpi Russi in Sciacca

Hey, hear this. Today I came by some sort of “The scream” painting by Munch.
Adriaaannnnnn, you all might tell me!.
Nah.
The face is as desperate and disgusted as that Rocky Balboa scene, but it’s more towards a young girl’s foxy smile straight out of the most popular and folkloristic neighborhoods of Rome. Like a classy, fur scarf wearing, selfie taking and self help phrases at hands reach.
"tttttthe ffffffucksss this transgressiooooonnnn... suuurpriiiseeee meeee guuuyyyys...if ya’ll manage!", she yells while imploring random passerbys.
I’m touched. All the while thinking that this young lady could be my daughter! (warts and all...), but anyway, guys it looks like she needs a helping hand: Don’t exactly know what to do, maybe a few words of encouragement.
So I immediately chose the fatherly approach.
I thought that maybe...it was worth a try, and that We could be surprised from what We can achieve,I mean it in the sense from US alone... oh dammit! I... wanted to say surprise heeeer, so to speak...I mean surprise her about US. Well nevermind.
"Surprise me, youuuu moroooonnnnsssss!!.Transgressionnnn! She insists. That’s the end of that.

I go to the beach.
At the end of the beach from the waves emerges this beautiful wooden easel. And just next to it, Him!; the Artist.
Small, stocky and a great beard that frames his magnificent Sicilian face.
Shoulders and canvas looking out to the sea, dressed from head to toe, the Artist looks around him, and paints and paints and paints.
Then he revels in the beach’s atmosphere. He observes those brush strokes, those colours that plaster his colour palette..
No one dares to get close to that sea easel with its little legs fully submerged in the wet sand of the wonderful Timpi Russi beach.
So to speak, “the artist doesn’t help much”.
From the reef where he’s sitting, you can feel the air of someone who doesn’t want to mingle. He’s not a portrait painter after all! He looks ecstaticly at the sea!: the white buoys just out to sea and two old boats left there to rot.
The places where he’s sitting is more or less inaccessible because of the rocks that block you and other “scostumati” and obnoxious people from having their bath. The curious ones just stare at him.
The landscape artist meanwhile, aspires and gets inspired; he smells the salty air that surrounds him and puts it on his canvas again, and again and again.
“I can’t take it” I tell myself. That’s it! I’m going up to him, I tell myself.
I climb on that slippery rock, the only one with such privilege, and I observe the canvas. Amazing! I’m starstruck.
The “Islander” doesn’t say a word. He looks at me as calm as an angel and winks at me. After that, a group of curious people stops me in my slow descent from the rocks where the Isolano was peacefully painting. I stay silent. I sign to them that I can’t say what I saw...as I promised it to that man “on the rocks”...
I’m not THAT dumb!
I’m not going to tell them that from all this god given beach, of all this still nature, he was painting pine cones, chestnuts on a nicely crafted chair, sitting in front of a masterfully painted mountain scene of snowy peaks, pine trees and I think also a lonely chamois.
Damn, guuuuuurl!.