 All the time. So fucking boring. *** I went to Venice at 30. First trip to Europe. On scholarship. In a water taxi. Speeding along the Canal Grande. From the Santa Lucia train station to the Peggy Guggenheim museum. A glorious April day. Powder blue sky. Woolly clouds. 'How did I get here?' *** Straight to the American Abstract Expressionists. The paintings and sculptures. That period in New York cultural history. Left my bag at the coat check. Had so many firsts. Seeing a Calder. Amorphous puddles of colour hung like lures on fishing rod wisps of silver. The shadow-cast play on white walls. Jackson Pollock. Willem de Kooning. Do you know the feeling? Having an out-of-body experience. Standing in front of an original. Something you've seen in books. Or in an art history lecture — dark room, slides shuffling in the carousel. *** I cried at the Musée d’ Orsay. In a state of rapture. Le Déjeuner sur l'herbe. Édouard Manet. Spanish teenagers on a high school trip squeezing in on me. *** Food is good. So is painting. And pottery...music…poetry…photography…movies…theatre…family…friends…bike rides…ice cream…clouds…beaches...trees…bird song... Where does the list end? *** Spent a Venetian night in a convent. I always thought my grandmother, Theo, made a snug bed. The nuns made getting between the sheets a form of penance. Like putting on skinny jeans right out of the shower. I went to markets and restaurants. But the first few hours. I still carry in my heart. *** Two new-to-me songs from this week. 20222016Comments are closed.
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