erika, I predicted that none of this week's drabble crop was likely to do more than tickle me in passing: not my thing at all, since I can't get emotionally invested in either of the two topic choices.
But that one cracked me up nicely. Nothing to do with art appreciation in any sense or form; just memories of the Louvre on rainy days, before they put in that fugly-ass pyramid in the courtyard and made it impossible for people to not pay money to check their umbrellas.
The standard thing on wet days was to find a convenient statue behind which you could stash it (you do not wander the Louvre with a dripping brolly in your hand). You'd find them in the oddest places, behind Winged Victory at Samothrace (Helene Whatsis riffed on that, in her Heloise in Paris), which was the most common place to hide it, because that was the first humongous piece of marble you came to. But only an idiot left it behind VdM, because there was technically no "behind". She's freestanding and can (or could, last time I looked) be circled by people.
Someday I'll have to go, one broken chick to another, huh?
I'm a little bit fascinated by personal ads, above and beyond my own desire to couple up. Some of them are so great, and some of them scream out "I'm a freak, perv, cradle-robber."..or whatever.
I can just see Venus, in that slightly twisted pose of hers, muttering "Étrangers stupides! Enlevez votre parapluie de ma vue!" as she glares at the brollies tucked behind her pedestal.
Funny.
Nothing to do with art appreciation or education, though. Carry on.
edit: make that "tucked" behind her pedestal...
That'd be a cute story...maybe she could love the janitor that picked them up.
My first ever romantic comedy...
Deb, that's a drabble of its own, right there. Maybe not in strict adherence to this week's topics, but still. I love the idea of Venus's internal monologue.
What, as an exercise? Sure, why not? You want to write it, or should I?
Here. A prezzie for Tep. Lightweight, I'm afraid.
Unheard
She mutters to herself, head gracefully inclined toward the endless stream of visitors.
"Wow, she's really something, huh?"
stupid little foreigner, you know nothing at all
"Mama, how did her arms come off?"
ill-mannered brat, how dare you point at me
"Papa, kann ich ihre Nippel sehen!"
dirty-minded imbecile
No one hears her. The crowd moves on, is replaced by more gawkers: Japanese, American, Argentine. She longs for saliva and air, so that she might spit.
Later, when the museum closes for the night, the muttering fades beneath the soft dust of time, settling on her cold white shoulders, her truncated arms.
Art education drabble:
Diners, bedrooms, and barbershops take on mythical stature as they are bathed in such glorious light that you think that you should be looking at Tuscany, not a Pennsylvania mining town.
The few people in these paintings all seem to be seeking refuge in the light. Some may even have found it.
Whatever his intent, the artist has taught me this: things do not have to be pretty to be beautiful, train yards and old hotel rooms are sacred spaces, and the tired woman sitting at the diner counter is every bit as magnificent as Venus rising from the sea.
I thought y'all might appreciate this quote from an interview with Tom Russell, one of my favorite songwriters.
You've had a fairly rambling and diverse life. If a teenaged songwriter came to you for advice, what would you tell her?
All the road dust eventually shakes itself off into a rhyme. It's the Gnostic process. Everything you bring forth will save you; everything you do not bring forth will destroy you. Young singer-songwriters? Advice? Go get a job in a bar and learn ten Hank Williams songs. Get lost in Mexico. Do your homework. Learn to walk on the ground before you get up on the high wire. Forget about all this bullshit about folk alliances, conferences and Songwriting For Dummies books, and magazines and technology.... where has it led us? Has all this bullshit created anything better then The Beatles and Dylan and Hank Williams? Hell no. Songwriting is about building on your roots then finding out who you are. and writing down to the blood and bones. You wanna sell out and stand in line with all the other zombies? Well there's buses leaving for Nashville and Austin and Toronto every hour. Get on board little chillen! The promised land? It's the dead fucking the dead. in a vacuum, to quote Bukowski. But then I digress..
