2 May 2020. Umami Window.
Reworked last night--the weight of the lines, and then the figure of the woman. Too pale before--a skein, abstract--nothing dense enough to hold the meaning. But these balances are essential, and sometimes pale tales us everything. Also, I let go of her face--which was maybe too sweet. But no face would return--I didn't want her to be empty, but she also needed to be herself.
Walking in front again yesterday evening, I saw a youngish woman getting into a car--realized it was the Unami person--so I greeted her, told her how beautiful the store was--especially in the days of quiet, when all one sensed was the presence of the fabrics and hangings in the windows, the room itself in darkness. She thanked me, of course--it's as much an act of sharing to make a place like this as with any other work of art. Melanie, she told me her name. I told her I'd made a drawing that morning--delight. But then I went home and changed it--so here we are now with all of these strands!
The figure could be C. I think that's a good thing--even if it makes no story sense. Maybe she needed to be here?
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Here's the writing from yesterday, before changing the drawing:
A dark interior—and then, one day, the living presence—a ghost or spirit, moving between the rows and stands of cloth— beautiful muted fabrics, displayed inadvertently in a permanent half-light, on hand-made shelves, just a hint of their discreet colors. And then, one day, a young woman—bending over to adjust something, rearrange a woven basket, oblivious to street, the shop still closed, but looking in, you sensed the change even before catching sight of her shadow—it’s too easy, but yes, like a flower, in early May, as if predetermined by the heavens, when everyone should begin to reemerge…
But where will the quiet go? The stillness that accompanied this time? It’s not fair to lament. The bustle is mandatory. But to hear a blast of hip-hop on a car stereo, driver door ajar, as the owner dashes into the burger place—his audio presence continuous—well, you’re reminded that this “cultural moment,” this “change in civilization,” will come with some dips and lulls…
I dread it, actually. Even though the quiet is unearned. Caused by a sudden aberration in the wrap and weft. Or is it an aberration? A muted, almost imperceptible apocalypse—one we never thought to enjoy…
But what can we learn from this time? What a didactic question. We learn from everything—like the photos of the girl in LA, manufacturing masks with a small crew, one-off, in her clothing shop in Silver Lake—a bright-spirited type, but with eyes that are a touch hard. Maybe clear-minded is a better word. How not? When the train of history goes around a bend, there are those who fly off…
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Note: The train of history quote is from Lenin—something my father used to say in defending the imperatives of change.
