March 12, 2014 § Leave a comment
There is a voice that doesn’t use words. Listen.
March 7, 2014 § Leave a comment
I spend a little time looking at paintings and sculptures by Degas. Ballet dancers. I draw a quick first conclusion, that photography is a more suitable medium in which to capture ballet, if it must be transposed. From movement, a static frame. Degas’s dancers strike me as amateur… Perhaps these are amateurs, painted, practising, there. They are of course — lesson takers, or, caught between scenes, with their friends. Slouching. Elbows bent unbecomingly. Untidy. These things being of course what make the paintings interesting: that this object of perfection, the ballet dancer, might be caught offside, unprepared and human, in sloth or at ease; imperfect.
The 21st century, technology-slickened perfectionist in me, maybe, responds negatively to the lack of polish. Their lines, the curves of the dancers are not curved and not beautiful enough; the stretches not great enough and then, the compositions in their entirety: overly complex … not as beautiful as their counterparts in photograph. I feel, underlying this, that there might be something sad in my initial reaction and that I must commit a sort of heresy in expressing the opinion.
As I write this and take pause to consider, as I look again at the paintings, more carefully, I grow to appreciate them more. Their gentleness and colour. Their dancers and their scenarios. The great room of the ballet rehearsal. The truth is that I gave Leutwyler’s photograph just one appraisal, admired it and copied it here. I love the photograph not for the artistry but for the dancers photographed. Her arm, reaching up with its slight bend at the elbow, so beautiful. Their hands. Their muscles. Their pose, together and the tilt of her head and neck. They are quite perfectly beautiful, and I love their image for that.
Voila la difference.
March 4, 2014 § 1 Comment
“It’s Shrove Tuesday today and here in Sweden you, one – - eats ‘semlor‘. Cakes with a lot of cream and some marzipan in the middle. I must truly be divorced from England as the pancakes in the dining hall rang not a bell with me — and then, just twenty minutes ago I read a description in my mother’s e-mail of their pancake flipping at home, and the cat, and I think of that.”
March 4, 2014 § Leave a comment
Coffee and Cigarettes (2004), Jim Jarmusch
February 28, 2014 § Leave a comment
I ran yesterday, last night, first time since December. I put on Max Richter’s recomposed Four Seasons and I ran slow and I realised: I could go on, and on. Thought checked across my head: read: What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, Murakami. I thought: the age has dawned and I could run marathons maybe now. Time has grown shorter. When I was a kid I was a sprinter. Hard and fast. Now I can draw it out.
from message to Krista
February 27, 2014 § Leave a comment