September 23, 2014 § Leave a comment
Once upon a time a friend had too much pastis or slow gin or rosé and invited the two of us to fancy-ass french estate managed by our boss’s uncle. The following afternoon, to our great surprise, Bertrand (said Uncle, who, by the way, fell asleep in my bed at 4pm during mentioned party. A Lil’ nap never hurt anyone- we understand, Bertrand.) and his wife arrived to collect us. It was a day full of feel. listen. remember. enjoy. all. of. this. moments but mostly a lot of pretending we were aristocrats. The house itself was a kind of conversation and the actual conversations had were ones I’m afraid my generation lacks too often. About chance. About suffering. About family. About place. And between all of it, laughing until we couldn’t feel our bellies. We left in a kind of magical stupor. Who doesn’t want that?
For the record, the portrait of Emma and the hand-painted doors is my favorite. There she was, all giggles, in front of the fragile, fairy-like, always white depiction of goddesses. Between Terpischore (embodiment of dance) and Thalia (embodiment of comedy) is a far better embodiment of both. And it’s beautiful.