There’s a place on the left side of your chest cavity that remembers.  It’s just below you heart, pulsing.

For weeks to come, you will feel it.  As you walk up a flight of stairs, you will breathe into that space and recall that daunting walk up the Montmartre hill.  You will remember the way you laughed about how difficult it was to stomp up those steps.  You will remember that incident with the lady, her son, and that camera.  You will sigh and that place will burn.

And it will hurt when you think of how it felt to pay 20 euros for drawing by street artist that in the end looked nothing like you.  You will remember how that felt.  You were devastated.

But isn’t that life sometimes?  The inharmonious colliding, trying to make sense of their togetherness, attempting to justify the cluster of different perspectives under the azure chandelier?  In Paris, I, the doubtful artist, collided with a city that is organically bizarre.  Where art can be found in the rugged cobblestone, the unsmiling faces of bodies pressed together on the metro, in the felt covered room at the museum, even in those ridiculous strutting pigeons. 

In Paris, the way stone buildings are lit from underneath makes you think the whole city is on display for that moment when you walk in, averting eye contact, smelling sweat and urine everywhere, but wanting to taste wines and fromage, and ready to write.  And the city sways and dances as if on cue because it wants to move you, it wants to fill that space just below your heart.  And it does.  It fills you with art.

I’ll write of this place, as it was these past four weeks, for the rest of my life.  Somehow, someway it’ll weave its way into all my art.  And that space that remembers will burn.

rue de la Bûcherie, rue Frédéric Sauton

Across the way, a young waiter stands under a red awning.  His arms are crossed, he slouches, he fidgets.  He speaks to an old man sitting nearby, who is still; only his mouth moves. They speak for just a moment.  Then the young man disappears into the café. 

The old man pushes his beer forward, offering it to a ghost.  His bag sits where his bride used to be.  He stands, glass half empty.  Then he leaves, taking his bag by the handle, leading it home. 

I’ll bring you here one day, ask the waiter, who fidgets with his arms crossed, for the table under that red awning.   And in a language you do not yet understand, I’ll order one glass of wine.  Then I will leave it half full and push it toward you. 

We will finish what was started here.

I promise. 

The Museum is filled with statues…obviously. 

But these statues are different - the details Rodin chiseled into marble, plaster, and bronze capture raw emotions and raw moments exposing the naked soul.  His work combines myth and humanity - the spiritual becomes tangible in the curve and contortions of bodies emerging from materials in ways I could never have imagined.

There was one in particular called Hand of God or Creation that I will never be able to erase from my mind…it inspired a poem

Read more …

Written in the Labyrinth of The Botanical Gardens

I was raised to consider myself buried treasure.  I was taught to cry alone.  I always looked for a reason to doubt everyone, and I still do.  I try not to consult a mirror for self-esteem advice.  I sometimes kiss and let my eyes wander.  I have a tendency to procrastinate “for art’s sake.”  I am a self-diagnosed, recovering perfectionist.  I have no qualms about my obnoxious laughter.  I almost sold my soul to a reality TV show, but they didn’t want my soul. It was too green. 

I pass the time by looking into children’s eyes and wondering what wisdom glitters there; hearing their voices and wondering what life-changing babble-language they speak; holding them in my arms and marveling at their potential.  I think to myself, “I would love to have ten kids someday; I want that cheaper by the dozen kind of life.” 

But then again, I think dried dead roses are the most beautiful things and I have recurring dreams about losing my teeth every time I try to say I love you.  So, instead, I say it with my hands. And I dance with my fingertips.  But I try to reach you with my words.

Chin Chin - c’est pour toi

La musique danse sur ta

langue – s’accroche à tes lèvres

Je veux goûter

du bruit

Tu dit ces trois petits

mots – ils s’enroulent parfaitement

autour de mon doigt

Nous sommes une bande de

chefs – rirons

dans obsurité, aimons dans

orange brilliant

Theatre du Chatelet - Slava and Lana Levin playing F. Poulenc: Sonate pour deux pianos…

Two grand pianos facing one another.  Their frames positioned just so - makes one think of a heart connecting, puzzle pieces sliding into place, hands clasping perfectly.  

She looks up from her music book.  He is already waiting to meet her gaze.  There is a moment of stillness.  Their hands rest, poised and ready, on the keys.  She lifts her chin dramatically.  His back straightens.  They breathe in together.  They exhale and their pianos begin to sing simultaneously.  

I’ve come to the conclusion that this is what love sounds like - two pianos being played together.  They both bring their own unique styles and quirks.  His spine dances as he plays. Her head bobs.  But they are playing one song.  They exchange quick glances over their music books, just to check in every once in awhile.  But it’s their energy that flows from their hearts (a mutual love for the music they are making) into their fingers, onto the keys, through the strings - connecting right in the middle where we hear their conversation - that makes me think of love.  

They play.  They talk.  They breathe.  This is what love looks like.