Choses Vues: 1

Hearts full of love. Where to turn when your heart's full of love?

On a sunny Saturday afternoon in April, under the Seine on metro line 13, a little black bull-dog sat between the legs of her master. He was sinewy and hard, like a sailor, like Popeye, wearing a black t-shirt and black jeans and black work boots. He had tattoos on his arms and his head was shaved. He looked about 40 or so: grown-up and accustomed to being independent, but not old. She was black like his clothes and well groomed: her fur was shiny and she smelled clean. Around her neck was a collar attached to a leash (also black). On the other en

d of the leash, was a small, muscular hand.

The dog calmly lifted her head as I sat across from her. The master gave a look of consent when I motioned that I wanted to pet her head. He was wearing headphones, so I didn't expect him to speak. The dog sniffed my hand and then accepted my caress with evident pleasure. I wanted to take her in my arms like a baby. She was so soft. She came closer and gently lifted her fore paws onto my knees then backed away of her own volition. Her master whispered, "Assis." She obeyed.

During this time, a family: a father, a mother, a little boy, a little girl and an aunt had taken the seats between me, the dog and its master and the door to the car. I slowly became conscious of their presence due to the little boy's excited repetition of a nursery rhyme. The boy, who must have been five or six, was standing in front of his little sister, singing a song about a silver bird and illustrating the lyrics with a series of hand movements. He had a pretty face: oval-shaped with a button nose and large brown eyes that lit up as he was singing.

I think that the dog became conscious of the little family in the same way I did. She leaned her body in their direction, and lay down like that. Her eyes - two perfect circles - riveted on the little boy. Two black eyes full of desire and an infinite capacity for love.

Moons in Motion

Monday, November 23, 2015 – Clamart

I would like to share with you my recent personal discovery of the way in which metaphor is naturally integrated into the human learning process. Learning through comparison is kind of an animal reaction, not limited to the soi-disant reasonable benches of the university setting. I've noticed this while observing my daughter discover and put words to her world.

About a month ago I was in Lyon to research at the Musee des Tissus. Since my parents were in town at the time, we all went together and brought my daughter along. She is a toddler. She's 18 months old. We stayed in an apartment on the quai of the Rhone just off of the Place Bellecour and right around the corner from an epicerie called Pignol. (Pignol has nothing to do with the story, but they have really good food.) 

Cezanne, Paul, Pommes et oranges, oil on canvas, 1899, Musee d'Orsay.
Cezanne observed that by moving his head ever so slightly he could paint
an entirely different perspective. This still life seems to have been painted
from multiple angles which were then regrouped together. 

Well, on the first night we had dinner in the Vieux Lyon at the base of the colline Fourviere. After dinner we strolled in the dark back towards our home base. It was cold (by California standards). It had been raining, but the rain had stopped and as we crossed the river Saone on a footbridge a curtain of clouds rolled back, discovering a bright, full moon. My mom, who has always been sensitive to atmospheric effects, turned to her granddaughter with wide eyes and said while pointing towards the sky, "Look Baby! It's the moon!" Baby, in equally wide-eyed wonder, stared up, pointed and exclaimed, "BALL!!" I was speechless. There she was layering images in order to verbalize her surroundings. It seems that it's inevitable. Mom, already expecting this type of reaction from a child (she was a grade school teacher), lost no time in responding, "It looks like a ball because it's round Baby, but it's not really a ball. It's the moon." The new word has been fully integrated into her vocabulary now - even when the moon looks like a section of orange or a fingernail clipping.

So are we trapped in these repetitions and variations? 

Lazlo Moholy-Nagy wrote in Vision in Motion, "Tradition must be dynamic." At first, I really liked this expression of the importance of renewal in the process of living. But it's occurred to me recently, "Why worry about the inevitable?" Last night for example, as I opened the oven door to check on the gratin, I realized that even though I've done this one hundred times already, it's different this time, and it was different the time before that, and the time before that... even if it's only different because of the slight gradations in the burnt smell. But seriously, it's always new and different. The important thing, in my eyes, is to make a humane decision. In this case, trying to provide a palatable dinner for my family.

The particular difference last night was that the gratin was in no way burnt. By some small miracle it was actually good. Even so, my toddler didn't eat it. It's as if she were saying, "Even in the face of a miracle, some folks just can't be swayed." 

-- CSL

Hummingbirds, Fireflies and Reminders of New Life

Frantisek Kupka, Les nenuphars
(commencement de la vie),
colored aquatint on paper, 1900,
Collection Centre Pompidou, Paris.

Californians love to talk about the weather. While living in California, each time I ventured out the door I thought, “What a great day to be alive!” There, the air is warm and light. Your body cuts through it seamlessly. Your being becomes lighter as the air almost lifts you up. Californians love to talk about the weather.

Californians have a naïve way about them. We continually talk about everyday things as if they were amazing, one-of-a-kind experiences. This can be obnoxious to serious people, but I find it quite pleasant. Do not underestimate our innocent exterior. Innocence often opens doors to change and is at all times a useful way to start a conversation.

Any time a Californian sees a hummingbird, and this is nearly a daily experience, he or she will immediately point in the direction of the small creature and exclaim in excitement, “Look! A hummingbird!” In response, all those present will turn their heads to the spot indicated by the pointed finger and seek the marvelous object with eager eyes. More often than not, the bird will flit away before anyone else can see it. Occasionally it will linger and allow the curious observer to discern between red and green iridescent feathers. Californians see these birds every day and yet their presence will forever be greeted with the enthusiasm of a child discovering the moon.

The arrival and departure of the hummingbird is accompanied by a thrumming sound. Thrrrrrrr… as if someone got stuck rolling their tongue in a Spanish ‘r’ sound. I thought of this sound in the doctor’s office when I was pregnant with my daughter.  Because I’d had trouble with previous pregnancies and wasn’t looking forward to being disappointed again, I took my time to go get the ultra sound that allowed the doctor to pronounce a conception date. I was over two months pregnant by the time my appointment came around. As the technician swung the ultra-sound sensor over my lower abdomen, a little bean appeared on a screen next to me. I was charmed by its presence without attaching any sort of deeper feeling to it. But then my ears detected a low burrrr-ing, the hummingbird thrum slowed down slightly. I told the technician that I thought that weird nois meant her machine might be broken and she said to me, “C’est le battement du coeur, Madame.” The thrumming of the hummingbird is like the sound of new life.

The only other experience I’ve found comparable to that of observing a hummingbird is watching fireflies. I have only seen fireflies twice. The first time was in Oklahoma at the end of a hot and humid day. The atmosphere had been dripping wet so that you couldn’t tell the difference between being in and out of the swimming pool. In those conditions the sight of the fireflies hovering over the lawn at nightfall brought about a feeling of relief. The fireflies seemed to say, “At least you have us, even if the weather is nearly unbearable!”

The second time I saw fireflies I was walking down the mall in Washington, D.C. at dusk. I was fourteen years old. It was early summer, maybe even the first days of June. Sunlight was fading. Faint twinkling began to fill the darkening air. The twinkling became increasingly brilliant and dense until eventually I had the impression that the stars had come down from the sky and settled all around me. Fifteen years later, the memory of it still leaves me awestruck.

I wonder what the people of Washington say when they see fireflies. Do they “ooh!” and “ah!” in wonder the way a Californian would? Despite the risk of sounding relatively naïve, I hope they do.