Time machine back to Sunday, I'm in the bottom of the union going over a project with my group mate. We're sulking over the work that college overwhelms our lives with. When I realized- oh snap, I have a paper due tomorrow, to be written in French, and that can only be done with a prior visit to the Ackland Art Museum. Well, I wrap up said group project and tromp over to the museum. What a gorgeous day though, along the side walk I saw many a friend basking in the sunlight and freshly cut grass. I couldn't help but twirl along Columbia street with music jamming through my head-phones. I came upon the Ackland, fingers crossed that closing early didn't pertain to art lovers. To my delight the doors were unlocked, and so I pulled out one of my ear-buds and asked the receptionist where my gallery was located. As I drifted to a mix bag room of paintings I passed a very happy thing. Live music in the Ackland. Apparently they host a free show every month. And I had just so happened to enter during the performance. After tracing my way through my French teacher's idea of a creative assignment I sat myself down amongst Asian art, including a Tripod vessel. Pieces of Indian art surrounded me-representing religion and commerce, works from the Chinese Tang dynasty sat to my left and right. Amongst these other world pieces I listened to three distinguished gray haired men play these jazz songs:
I only caught the tail end of the show but I was impressed as the lead singer's voice went from light and wispy to deep and gravelly.
Closing my eyes and leaning back in my chair, I can only presume that the lackadaisacal speed of sound mixed with the accelerated speed of light came together to transport my mind to a jazz lounge somewhere in the heart of Brooklyn. Where the walls are bare rugged brick, and you can see where the cement in between each row dried mid-oozing from being crushed by the repetitive pattern of slab on slab. Smoke puffs drift from the lips of a man holding his worn body up on the brick wall. He taps his foot on the unswept floor. bum. bum. bum. His fumes hang in the air to leave a lingering smell on all who enter, a badge of experience. A woman stands center stage on a wooden platform in a long sequined dress. The white spotlight hits her figure, cutting through the purple hazey atmosophere so that the audience is drawn to her being-not that any trick of light is even needed. If you look close, you can see the beads of sweat collecting on her upper brow. And the strain in her face as the song's lyrics carry memories from her past. She tries to bar them inside, but they seep through the cracks in her face. Her eyes are closed, the eyelids, her line of defense. She sways back and forth on the wooden planks, belting a smooth jazzy sound through the smokey den.
Applause
My eyelids flicker open, I am reminded of my location by the elderly woman to my right. "Is it over dear?" She asks after every song concludes. But to her delight the band plays on.
The calendar of musical days.
"Two things everybody's got tuh do fuh theyselves. They got tuh go tuh God, and they got tuh find out about livin' fuh theyselves."
"So she sat on the porch and watched the moon rise. Soon its amber fluid was drenching the earth, and quenching the thirst of the day."
-Their Eyes Were Watching God
This jazzy time, reminded me of the book/movie "Their Eyes Were Watching God." I absolutely adore both. I think Zora Neale Hurston is brilliant. I looked for pictures from the movie but these two were the only ones I could find. But here is a link to the entire movie on youtube.
Do it to it. If you watch the eighth part of the youtube bit you'll understand where I got this transition from...
...
"Kiss me and you'll know how important I am" -Sylvia Plath
"The great thing about getting older is that you don't lose all the other ages you've been." -Madeleine L'Engle
Wandering the bookstore, I stumbled across a ballet book. This sent me to reminiscing land. It's was simply what princesses did. This is the closest I ever came, and I'm pretty sure this was a tap dance/jazz/ballet concert.
"People who are sensible about love are incapable of it." -Douglas Yates