Music. Unexpected burst of jazz, for I haven't felt like jazz in such a long time -- bits of NY and Rio, sax and drum solo and a good drink at a perfect time. The heat melts me. Hot hot jazz on a gloomy October night in packed dim-lited "Green Mill", a little memento, postcard from a fun trip.
Home. A beautiful mosaic of art, plants, poetry and light. Filled with warmth and growth, a living breathing soul of a Home, a Garden.. it was humbling and comforting. A flashback to a dream, for I know I have seen this before..this delightful deliberate clutter, random still lives scattered throughout..books, china..a vine-covered harp..a piano buried under pile of notes and books and pictures..nothing fake or out of sync. Reminiscent of great writers homes, perhaps that of Marguerite Yourcenar or Lawrence Durell, lost here, yet touchingly real, it had a flow to it, like music, like Anuar Brahm piece I so like..I feel as i have lived in such a home in one life or another, I have memories of it, de ja vues. A day later I have met the people that inhabit this dream and it all made sense.
A little gallery in an art district otherwise perplexedly void of good art uncovered another hidden gem. Tetsya Noda prints. Diary. Every single print is a part of it. Mixed media, photographs, woodblock prints on hand-made paper or silk, see-through recollections of a day in a life of a very observant man, very delicate, ethereal, like notes written in passing, a diary indeed. I bonded with one piece and it took me a while to walk away. Love art like that, its magic. Magic of seeing and sharing, collecting and recollecting. Building blocks. I want to build a home..
