Dance of ideas for a woman with a blue guitar

Is this BLOG an experiment? I doubt it. It’s not a reasonable, predictable space. Words can be heavy. Stones, they were called. How to love them?

A place of pleasure, that’s my goal. Encounters and exchanges about art and life. A selected group of people will come and play the thinking game. They will send their thoughts by e-mail. We might be read by the global village. Let’s give them pleasure! Let’s learn to be light. Fleeting and temporary, at least for one year. Personal, fearless, bringing out uncertainties, pauses and hesitations, conflicts and doubts. Most of the artworks reveal idiosyncratic states of mind that are not allowed to writers: no smoking in the toilette during the flight! Unless they are poets.

I was an Eighteenth-century philosophy scholar who turned into a journalist and a maker of hand-sewn books. So my hands give the books a body as the secluded princesses of the old tales, making their lovers’ body with flour and water. None of them have a beating heart. Lack of love makes me sick. Lack of confidence, same effect. Plaintive commentaries about climate and institutional collapse are a black mask on my eyes. Reality is painted black. But The Arts keep me alive. Meredith Monk sings without words, only voice and feelings. I wish we could write like she sings.

No yes, no, I like, dislike, no evaluations. Intelligent kindness. No aggression nor rivalry. Reading, writing, “an exchange of desire becomes possible, of an enjoyment that was not foreseen. Games are not done, let’s play.” (Roland Barthes) Wind and earthquakes shake our landscape. Los Angeles is luminous in the middle of April. We can wear the on-line dress, all the possible colors and shapes, because ideas have colors, if someone cares. The kite needs hands holding the thread as well as the winds and the sky; it needs tension, inside and outside.

“I play them on a blue guitar / And then things are not as they are. / The shape of the instrument  / Distorts the shape of what I meant, / Which takes shape by accident. / Yet what I mean I always say. / The accident is how I play./  I still intend things as they are. / The greenish quaverings of day /  Quiver upon the blue guitar. (Wallace Stevens)

One thought on “Dance of ideas for a woman with a blue guitar

  1. Dear Rosanna !

    I’m finally making connection with you after our wonderful meeting at Fiona Connor’s opening a small eternity ago. Such has been my relationship to time and priorities as of late – eventual more than intentional.

    What can I say? Hopefully you’ll remember me – Rigo – friend of Fiona’s and Sebastian’s, also an artist. Recent transplant to Los Angeles, with a now 23 month old daughter (by the way loved seeing your daughter’s birth inscribed into your CV), mom works at the Central Library. Also a friend of Christopher Wilde’s.

    At any rate, we had a really nice chat and I look forward to now following your writings and spend time hanging on to the kite. It’s been a wild few months for me – baby daughter included – and I just returned from setting up an exhibition in Frankfurt at the Weltkulturen Museum.

    http://www.weltkulturenmuseum.de/en/content/exhibition-5

    A wonderful adrenaline filled couple of weeks, staying in the same room with my mother, aunt and dear friend Rainer Kwasi, who all travelled to offer support and companionship. After one week back I’ve mostly recovered from the withdrawal symptoms, and am crawling towards engagement with all matters CA.

    I leave you my email address – rigo23studio@gmail.com – in case you may have the time and interest to reach out.

    Best regards,

    Rigo

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