John William Waterhouse If ever a prose-poem spoke to me, or OF me, defining my adolescent self (who was in love with Hesse’s Demian) it is Baudelaire’s Favours of the Moon. I can always sense people who bear the same invisible moon-mark, members of my tribe. We find each other and glow in the shadows….
Month: May 2016
bellezza divina
My husband’s Florentine art studio on via dei Pepi is a small space shared with a violin-maker. The floor is carpeted with bass clefs of sawdust; an abattoir and atelier of music. Song involves small traumas; strings break, reeds splinter in the mouth soft as popsicle sticks, joints freeze, violins warp, gaskets crack, fingertips callous,…
guardian of travelers
I‘ve always been delighted by towers of round stones found in the forest, or along the seaside. Adding my own palm-sized stone to these communal monuments feels reverent; a small prayer to nature or getting lost, to permanence or transience, or to myself. The stones are without beginning or end, so perfect unto themselves –…
turning the page
I just turned a page within myself, and instead of prose there were paintings. Abstract images bathed in Tuscan earth tones; subtle pigments quarried from the mountains cradling Florence, a skyline that undulates in blacks and grays. Everyone tells me my prose is startlingly visual. There’s a reason for that; my paintings have been hiding behind…
j a l i n a m h y a n a 