My intent wasn’t to to sit fireside at a Spanish tapas restaurant
on a day that commemorates Mexico’s triumph over France.
It wasn’t to sink sweetly into Argentine nostalgia,
while pulling salt from the rim with a light touch of tongue.
But when a couple on the patio excused itself from the only set table
to tango under suspended lights,
I dissolved into inky darkness
and watched, invisible, as they traced the outlines of their kingdom.
Reina, his only subject.
Rey, her every move.
I am sleepy and short-versed, but that doesn’t make my feelings for Chilean artist Jose Romussi any weaker. This is my favorite of his mixed media.
I wish you all an awkwardly limber Friday and holiday weekend. Make the most of it!
Brought to you in an extremely, no, overwhelmingly amateur state, from the comfort of my newly painted (dad, you rock!) and newly decorated (coffee, thanks for the energy boost!) bedroom in CALIFORNIA, here is a little video montage of just a few moments from my trip abroad. I admittedly didn’t think to take video until 75% of my program was over, so enjoy these here little glimpses of what I did between late November and mid December. En realidad, no hay igual, Argentina. You will forever be my fondest memory.
And so it’s begun – my last week in Argentina. I’ll do my best to spare the sob stories and sappy nostalgia for later in the week. As for now, enjoy my latest adventures, including a visit to el circo, La Bomba del Tiempo, The Planetarium to celebrate el dia del Tango, and the best cafe in Palermo – Oui Oui.
A few modest shots of little old me:
(Joking, I’m far too advanced for aerial sports. Here I am, in all my fish face glory, though. I am going to miss these sweet silly things I call roommates)
Nothing like a pool party in December – good food, good music, good thing we had a hose and time to spare to fill this sucker up!
Getting sentimental during Caitlin’s good-bye cake cutting ceremony
Free outdoor tribute to tango in the Palermo woods outside the Planetarium
a universal phrase
Time, I will fight you. Stop passing me by!
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.
wave parade 