At age ten I was studying sonnets and spending hours in museums staring at works of Matisse, Monet, Renoir, Degas, Waterhouse, Alma Tadema, Diego Rivera, Reuter, Rembrandt, Rodin, Jean-Baptiste Pater, Molenaer, Toulouse-Lautrec, Manet, Luca Giordano, Rubens. I would bring a pad of paper and take notes from a cushioned bench, or standing a foot away from the work, examining its texture. I tried to remember every detail with my eyes, capturing its essence with my heart. Later, I made poetic attempts to capture the essence of a Matisse odalisque in words.
My mom had a cherry wood bookshelf that belonged to her grandparents. It had glass doors that lifted like the doors of a Ferrari. It was a special bookshelf because it had fallen out of a pickup truck my parents borrowed on their first move together. They didn't have rope to tie the thing down. I guess they were pretty eager to get where they were going. It was the kind of story they would tell together, finishing each others sentences. The kind you ask them to tell over and over because you want to see if a new detail will emerge, that you can savor. And you like the way they rub each others backs or grab each others hands as they recount their old tale in fits of laughter. In actuality, their story may have only been ten years old, but it seems like another life, because it was a time before you existed, and because their eyes don't always twinkle and they don't always giggle in the middle of the day.
My dad had put the bookcase back together after it had hit the pavement on a busy boulevard, but the hinges were tricky. I always admired my mother for her fragile strength and the way she magically put everything back together in one piece, including me. And she still does every now and then. I was so proud of the way she slid those glass doors open and closed. Out. Up. In. There. And she'd smile and hold my gaze, knowing that I too could learn to do it seamlessly. But I just wanted to watch her graceful hands. I was so proud of the way she took such great care with everything she touched. I loved to hear her stories over and over again. I was in awe of her reverent touch as she relished her treasured bookcase and its contents.
Inside, were her art books, Kay Nielson, Maxfield Parish, Salvador Dali, Boticelli...She was particularly fond of her Georgia O'Keefe books, with large pages of cow skulls and Jimsonweed flowers. I loved to ask her questions, entreating her, "Why do you like these skulls?" She would wax poetic about her art books, caressing the spines and torn jackets on their covers tenderly, like they were the works of her dear friends or ancestors. She would get teary eyed, as if she was 'winding grooves in her Joni Mitchell album' to quote an old teacher pen-pal of mine Greg Kahn. She would often play music and weep. And I would say, "don't be sad". "This song makes me happy." Why does happiness look so sad, I thought. Now, I know, or don't know, but I am the one crying on the floor in tadasana, with my hands tucked between my knees.
This was one of those songs... ***
My show with Linda Sandhu on Profile went great! It will stream on http://mysaccestv.com by Friday night!
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