15 June 2020. At Jack's.
That's what we always said, regardless of who might be there. Always an old-school (old country) kind of welcome--something about the paintings, the worn furrniture, the casual seriousness--anticipation--of ideas and conversation, camaraderie. And music, of course, Jack and Klara sitting together on the couch late one evening--probably midnight--maybe even holding hands. The song was something Russian--or maybe Goodnight Irene. He'd balked at the way I did it, years ago--Jack could be a stickler for getting things right--but by now we'd grown used to these varieties and variations together--and what was important (always) was a place for a certain quality of feeling.
I connected this with the Russians, of course--having grown up with a measure of it as a boy. The evenings with my father's friends (Uncle Howard, Uncle Jimmy) gathered around the low rattan couch table in the living room, glasses of scotch, a tray of rye bread hors d'oeuvres prepared with his special avocado and anchovy... All of them people I loved so very much without even knowing why...
I'm saying that a lot lately. "Without even knowing why..." As in the drawing here--Zoya and Klara, with me alongside. There's someone to the right--just the hands--and we're listening, attentively. That's the point--we're listening...
My love for all of them as well...
_____
Note: It's a pretty accurate drawing, which makes me happy. Missing Zoya's ancient hands--maybe that's okay. She'd have preferred it this way. But it has Klara's smile. And somehow I look like they've pulled me out off one of those early Renoir's, there on the balcony over the river...
That's what we always said, regardless of who might be there. Always an old-school (old country) kind of welcome--something about the paintings, the worn furrniture, the casual seriousness--anticipation--of ideas and conversation, camaraderie. And music, of course, Jack and Klara sitting together on the couch late one evening--probably midnight--maybe even holding hands. The song was something Russian--or maybe Goodnight Irene. He'd balked at the way I did it, years ago--Jack could be a stickler for getting things right--but by now we'd grown used to these varieties and variations together--and what was important (always) was a place for a certain quality of feeling.
I connected this with the Russians, of course--having grown up with a measure of it as a boy. The evenings with my father's friends (Uncle Howard, Uncle Jimmy) gathered around the low rattan couch table in the living room, glasses of scotch, a tray of rye bread hors d'oeuvres prepared with his special avocado and anchovy... All of them people I loved so very much without even knowing why...
I'm saying that a lot lately. "Without even knowing why..." As in the drawing here--Zoya and Klara, with me alongside. There's someone to the right--just the hands--and we're listening, attentively. That's the point--we're listening...
My love for all of them as well...
_____
Note: It's a pretty accurate drawing, which makes me happy. Missing Zoya's ancient hands--maybe that's okay. She'd have preferred it this way. But it has Klara's smile. And somehow I look like they've pulled me out off one of those early Renoir's, there on the balcony over the river...
