New Year's Day in Winston-Salem was a murky misty mild day. It's been a day that looked and felt and seemed the same all day long. The light held steady, tucked behind the sun's concealing veil.
I watched the documentary about Henri Cartier-Bresson, The Impassioned Eye. It's a quiet film. Father Henri spoke a lot about geometry, geometry and structure.
Anyway, about a half hour in, I drifted from the DVD to grab a camera and tripod and opened up the aperture wide, setting the shutter for seconds, full seconds. I wanted to see if I could capture that Dutch light in the upstairs window. The exercise felt soothing after a new year's eve that was marked by much jubilant fun and somewhat risky playmaking on my part. Let's just say, I'm not an actress and I acted. I'm not a dancer, and I danced. And I'm not a performance artist, but I seem to want to be. At least on New Year's Eve, anyway.
A few details from the performance: a policeman, a puddle of three dresses, the pussycat dolls, dozens and dozens of buttons, and my percussionist husband, who played the snare drum masterfully while dressed in his high school marching band jacket. (Maroon with wide lapels.)
I jumped in and skidded. I skidded against the rails. I had me a little fun in that way that's just a wee bit terrifying.
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