4 April 2008. Mist and sun milk, yellows into gray. Last night--overland with Sara into the wilds of North Beach, San Francisco Italianate boîtes, patrons at their small tables in early evening light. A Greek waiter doubling as a paisano, all mustachio and glint, offering a tray of unnamed treats as we pass quickly by his door. Up Russian hill to a narrow alleyway, beautifully illuminated room in back, walls lined with small bronze gestures--lost wax casts--women, satyrs, imagined organic machines. The age in which we live, anything becoming possible, while the attenuated thread-lines to a denser past become more and more finely drawn. Thoughts of Maillol--a woman's middle--or Bonnard, from his very late models--or Renoir, even--where the impulse towards sculptural form leaves no curve unturned. "How her skin takes the light"--a painter's vision, and French as well--clarity of the morning, a folded table, wood, windows to south and east, line of hills with olive trees--or poplars--or wild black oaks...
Mi corazón...
No comments:
Post a Comment