Je t'aime.

*Photo by: Barbara Morgan

There are ideas had in the fleeting that come and go and die just as quickly. They shape and materialize in the psyche, but aren’t worked after and aren’t coddled at all in terms of what is needed to transpire the magic of internal light. Often this closes the door on greatness. Little fireworks fade away.

The other day I took a glance in the mirror and for once, liked what it was that I saw looking back. But what was wanted was the depth of the person standing there, rather than the raw outline, and I had no way of capturing the particular imagery I had let my eyes obsess over. It was the idea that “I couldn’t”, that shut down the strained glimpse of the art project I had been swimming in. A week later though, it came back to haunt me, and I started to realize just how much you must take a stand and push on, in order to conquer the impossible. It’s only then that the dreamers persevere and end up winning.

As if bringing parallels to this train of thought, I had stumbled upon the work of Martha Graham. This was by accident, but clearly maintained a certain euphoria that would drag me out introversion, and replace that with solace. 

She was mentioned in a chronicle of old journal entries put to print by Ned Rorem and this brought to mind the emails existing between me and that boy with the captivating soul. This same boy I shed truth on, had thrown out the suggestion, that we might think about turning our correspondence into a publication that would contain almost all that we thought and shared. His worry though, was that it might make for a very lazy book, what with its messy spontaneity. It all was in constellation with that hardcover I thumbed through back in June, when I was locked up in a farm house for two weeks. The letters being read then, were put to fire, by Kerouac and Ginsberg. Unlike us though, the two writers would fight often, and spar out demands, only to relinquish this and make love by directing praise kindly. Our wordplay comes a bit more passioned and easy, and instills an inspiration that burns and breathes stars. 

Martha’s name stood in the midst of a sea of arial-based fonts. The nectar wasn’t in the external obviously, but surfaced in the expanse of her history. It was a symbol of transformation and my spirit clung to this, while turning greedy for more factual elements that would support a hypotheses regarding the nature of art and the process in which it was created. Luckily, I found all that in the ocean of her life. The knowledge obtained brought understanding.

At first I saw everything in the diagram of a food web. I consumed details like her date of birth and the initial school of dance she had attended. She was born in Allegheny City and this brought to mind that of an old chum who lives close by. Her father was said to have been a practitioner of early psychiatry, and because I relate themes often with the outlay of buildings, I manifest quickly the first discernible memory of a therapist’s office I had spent time in, where upon the floor, I let tears bleed down and form puddles of melancholy. 

While receiving the informative on how it was she met her husband somewhere in the thickets of the labyrinth that is the internet, my focus was humming back and forth between that state of the virtual and the dream-like trance I let dictate all else. Mimi, a family-friend and Columbia professor, was talking systematically about some results she had just received from her science lab, regarding readings from culture tablets. This dialogue, likewise, began to weave itself inward with the facts I was collecting about the dancer.

“Remember the “take-out” flies are sensitive, so be sure to dial back more than you’re used to. It died with that first initial setting, and you know, it didn’t grow.”

As soon as Mimi pounced on the word ‘grow’, I had attacked the visuals of The Flute of Krishna, directed by Rouben Mamoulian, exhibiting well a dance that Graham had formulated while being employed at the Eastman School of Music in New York. It was an exploratory routine, that was forever essential.

The video footage was found on youtube and resulted in the pupil weeding through pixelated static and soft pale hues of pastel invasion. Nothing was likened, but I saw patterns in the mess. It was all ugly to the heart, but I still eyed genius. From then on, I knew Martha as someone that could heal.

After catching wind of how she died, I came across this quotation, that was handed forth from her friend Agnes de Mille, as advice she once gave her:

“There is a vitality, a life force, an energy, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all of time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and it will be lost. The world will not have it. It is not your business to determine how good it is nor how valuable nor how it compares with other expressions. It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly, to keep the channel open. You do not even have to believe in yourself or your work. You have to keep yourself open and aware to the urges that motivate you. Keep the channel open….. No artist is pleased. There is no satisfaction whatever at any time. There is only a queer divine dissatisfaction, a blessed unrest that keeps us marching and makes us more alive than the others.”

It was then that I understood why it was I gave in to madness. It was then that I agreed to try harder. It was then that I closed my eyes and let love wash all.