The convergence of elements on this rainy morning. Perhaps today’s cool wetness reminded me of my time in Venice a few years ago. Venice has been on my mind again. I was there in the late fall and I walked alone much of the time, but you never feel alone in Venice. It’s delightfully claustrophobic. I remembered the old man met on the street, that had invited us to his home, and how we almost couldn’t find the address in the maze of tiny streets. His old books and beautiful antique chandeliers and his vintage Hasselblad and his walls filled with art. He had lived next door to Ezra Pound. He served us—total strangers—tea and cake.
Waking up to a selection of mails in my inbox: one snippy, short and sarcastic. One hopeful and missing me. One loving. How much do you think about it: the extent to which others will share themselves with you? That’s always on my mind because I am perpetually aware to what extent people will take down their defenses around me. Taking lots of portraits of people does that to you. I try to remain respectful and grateful but I expect something in return.
Dancing tango again for the first time in a long time and remembering exactly why I wanted to learn it in the first place, and what happened to my awareness of others when I went to dance in Buenos Aires. The connection, the connection. That’s all we talked about in classes, in tiny dance studios off crumbled sidewalks, and then tried to put it into practice in late-night milongas. Although my best memories were with the old men, in the late afternoon. The milongueros, who had been dancing for 60 years. The connection was part of their entire beings because they lived it for so long.
Looking at an image a friend had posted accompanied by a poem of Andre Breton (this is the first time I’d read his work) and being completely lost in a poem I finally could understand:
Marveling in Man Ray and longing to take the lid off and create images as immediately bracing as his. How does one become that level of artist?
I am sad to think that vision is something you’re born with and that I don’t have that gift.
***
Circling back, I don’t want the recycled worries and whiny affectations and the common rant that spreads like electronic plague. Being exposed to it kills the ability to discern what is real.
I want depth and breadth and wonder. I am not content with less.
7 Comments
Depth, breadth, and wonder are so important in life to grow and become who we are. Thanks for your beautiful comments.
what a lucky stumble this was. your work is beautiful. your mind is complicated in the best of ways. your heart is an open book. i like you
i’ll be back!
reading you is having a conversation, your words move about as if we are in the same room, you stop for a second to fill a glass, light a cigarette, a few more sentences, an inhale, a pause to see if i will respond, you continue.
Beautiful, thoughtful post. You are right to want these vital things: depth, breadth, wonder – and truth. & don’t be too sad not to be Man Ray – your vision is just as precious.
Thanks to all of you for your comments here. Some days, everything looks like a vignette. Erin, I just stopped by your blog… will send an email soon.
Julie, I wanted you to know I am still following your writing after the move. I don’t normally comment, but I do read. This post is the reason why.
Oh, Julie. I am so glad to visit you here today. I’ve missed you. This is why I love you: I want depth and breadth and wonder. I am not content with less. And, oh, I am glad that you are dancing again.