If you asked most of my friends and family who or what has inspired me the most creatively, they would probably be able to tell you that it is the work of author Haruki Murakami. They would know that because I created an evening length dance-theater piece my senior year at Barnard inspired by his work (with the very talented producer Julia Bloch), but also because I recommend and gift his books to the people I love. Murakami writes in spirals, and he creates parallel universes in which people are like us, except that they are more connected to things from which we are often detached: dreams, ghosts, spirits, states of being. I couldn't be more excited about the upcoming screen adaptation of his novel Norwegian Wood, it looks like it's going to be magical!
Thanks to Rex for sharing this :)
Friday
Tuesday
Bed Bath and Beyond
When I grow up, I do not intend to live in a practical home. Instead, my house will be a whimsical nest. I'll have big spherical copper wire birdcage hanging from the ceiling, swings instead of chairs, a book corner with a library ladder, a beautiful little garden designed by my brilliant mother, and last but certainly not least, I will have a bathtub in my bedroom. There. I said it. Getting back into rehearsals and dancing everyday has reminded me (and not subtly) how much my body craves a hot bath at the end of each long day. Having trouble picturing such a thing? I'm talking about the bathtub in the bedroom, pervs! Well, here are some ideas: .jpg)
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Monday
Art out of Light
In the fall of 2008 Eric and I went to the Guggenheim to see the Louise Bourgeois exhibit there. Whether it was the rain, or my aching knees, or just another bout of hanger- on our way out I was impatient and was not particularly interested in the Jenny Holzer exhibit For the Guggenheim, being projected on the museum's exterior walls. It's funny how two years later, on a Monday afternoon, I was struck by what an absolutely beautiful and terrifying concept it is to make art out of light. I looked through her massive portfolio, which spans across continents as well as content: from famous poetry to her own prose, from truisms to dadaist musings. How I could have walked away from these beautiful words being hurled onto the walls of my city escapes me. I hope that by the next time I come across her work I will have mastered the art of "be here now" enough to be able to appreciate it in the moment.
Thursday
Little by little, and also by great leaps.
Trying to settle back in to life in NYC after a month away is like trying to do yoga on the branch of a very tall and wobbly tree, while its hailing toxic shit from the sky and an army of people are trying to ax down the tree from the ground, one annoying blow after another. You are hyper aware of the potential for danger and disaster, it's almost impossible to get into the flow because there is so much distraction, and it is very, very hard to find your balance.
Over the past week, however, I stumbled upon two things that have actually done wonders to ease my mind, and make my subway rides far less anxiety inducing. The first is the Irish folk group Lunasa, whose sound is both soothing and exhilarating, particularly in this song, Morning Nightcap:
The second thing is the poem below, by Pablo Neruda. It strikes such a chord with me in this moment, and I could read over and over and over and over.
October Fullness
Little by little, and also by great leaps
life happened to me, and how insignificant this business is.
These veins carried my blood, which I scarcely ever saw,
I breathed the air of so many places without keeping a sample of any.
In the end, everyone is aware of this:
nobody keeps any if what he has, and life is only a borrowing of bonse.
The best thing was learning not to have too much either of sorrow or of joy, to hope for the chance of a last drop, to ask more from honey and twilight.
Perhaps it was my punishment, perhaps I was condemned to by happy. Let it be known that nobody crossed my path without sharing my being. I plunged up to the neck into adversities that were not mine, into all the sufferings of others.
It wasn't a questions of applause or profit.
Much less. It was not being able to live or breathe in this shadow, the shadow of others like towers, like bitter trees that bury you, like cobblestones on the knees.
Our own wounds heal with weeping, our own wounds heal with singing.
but in our doorway lie bleeding widows, Indians, poor men, fishermen.
The miner's child doesn't know his father amidst all that suffering.
So be it, but my business was the fullness of the spirit: a cry of pleasure choking you, a sigh form an uprooted plant, the sum of all action.
It pleased me to grow with the morning, to bathe in the sun, in the great joy of sun, salt, sea-light and waves, and in that unwinding of the foam, my heart began to move, growing in that essential spasm, and dying away as it seeped into the sand.
-Pablo Neruda
Over the past week, however, I stumbled upon two things that have actually done wonders to ease my mind, and make my subway rides far less anxiety inducing. The first is the Irish folk group Lunasa, whose sound is both soothing and exhilarating, particularly in this song, Morning Nightcap:
The second thing is the poem below, by Pablo Neruda. It strikes such a chord with me in this moment, and I could read over and over and over and over.
October Fullness
Little by little, and also by great leaps
life happened to me, and how insignificant this business is.
These veins carried my blood, which I scarcely ever saw,
I breathed the air of so many places without keeping a sample of any.
In the end, everyone is aware of this:
nobody keeps any if what he has, and life is only a borrowing of bonse.
The best thing was learning not to have too much either of sorrow or of joy, to hope for the chance of a last drop, to ask more from honey and twilight.
Perhaps it was my punishment, perhaps I was condemned to by happy. Let it be known that nobody crossed my path without sharing my being. I plunged up to the neck into adversities that were not mine, into all the sufferings of others.
It wasn't a questions of applause or profit.
Much less. It was not being able to live or breathe in this shadow, the shadow of others like towers, like bitter trees that bury you, like cobblestones on the knees.
Our own wounds heal with weeping, our own wounds heal with singing.
but in our doorway lie bleeding widows, Indians, poor men, fishermen.
The miner's child doesn't know his father amidst all that suffering.
So be it, but my business was the fullness of the spirit: a cry of pleasure choking you, a sigh form an uprooted plant, the sum of all action.
It pleased me to grow with the morning, to bathe in the sun, in the great joy of sun, salt, sea-light and waves, and in that unwinding of the foam, my heart began to move, growing in that essential spasm, and dying away as it seeped into the sand.
-Pablo Neruda
Marcel The Shell With Shoes On
Sometimes I feel like this.
Thanks to my loaf Olivia Cerf for showing me :)
Thanks to my loaf Olivia Cerf for showing me :)
Friday
Buenos Aires
Greetings from Buenos Aires, where it's winter time but people salsa/tango/merengue/rhumba like it's hot hot hot! I am here visiting my dear friend and collaborator Julia Bloch, my other dear friend and collaborator Jake Slovis, exploring a new city because I haven't done that in far too long, and absorbing inspiration from the Argentine dancing culture. I've only been here for 24 hours, but I've already witnessed the musicality and sensual movement awareness that seems to be an inherent characteristic of the porteños (residents of Buenos Aires). Today, Julia and her room mate Nati are taking me to La Boca, the Tango district, where apparently people dance Tango in the streets! I don't have pictures yet, but, in honor of The Dance and The City, I leave you with some contrasting images from New York. These photographs are from The Ballerina Project.
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