Thinking in color at the ballet

In case you didn’t know, I am particularly fond of being an audience member. Whether I’m seated under a starry sky watching a brazilian Bossa Nova concert of amphitheatrical proportions, under an ivy trellace watching jazz gods nonchalantly pound out diminished chords while making eye contact with no one or nothing in particular, or propped up in a red velvet chair soaking in the divinity of el Teatro Colon and watching the ballet Manon, I am a happy girl. Simply sitting in the theater with the third best acoustics worldwide (!!) moved me – I was lost to the whirling harmonies, intoxicating flexibility, choking strength and delicate passion from the beginning. Some people say the world is their stage, but no matter how much joy I get from performing — I much prefer taking a boxed seat. Bravo, Manon!

At the risk of appearing like a lunatic, I am going to share something with you – partially in hopes that someone out there relates, and partially to plant a seed. For as long as I can remember, inspiration and thought has flown through me in color. I associate nouns to color, verbs to color, any part of speech or deed or thought, really, to color. Last night, during the third act of the ballet, one particular scene provoked my stagnant thought process and prodded it through foamy, passionate, and then devastating hues. In this scene, Manon was weightless. Her limp body – lifeless with the most extraordinary elegance – was passed off to what appeared to be every male in the company. Over their shoulders, in their arms, on their backs, around their necks – her body was the furthest thing from a burden. She was the necessity of air. She was the warmth of a breeze. She was the stillness of silence. She was probably starving and weighed 91 pounds, but nevertheless, she was ethereal.

Follow my colored thought of the evening in accordance to Mark Rothko‘s colored thoughts. It’s like he knew.

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