una carta

hello.

i cried in a museum in font of a gauguin painting--because somehow he had managed to paint a transparent pink dress. i could almost see the dress wafting in the hot breeze.

i cried at the louvre in front of victory. she had no arms, but she was so tall.

i cried (so hard i had to leave) at a little concert where a young man played solo cello bach suites. it was in a weird little methodist church and there were only about fifteen of us in the audience, the cellist alone on the stage. it was midday. i cried because (i guess) i was overcome with love. it was impossible for me to shake the sensation (mental, physical) that j. s. bach was in the room with me, and i loved him.

these three instances (and the others i am now recollecting) i think have something to do with loneliness... a kind of craving for the company of beauty. others, i suppose, might say god.

but this feels too simple a response.

robin parks

tomado de james elkins, "pictures & tears. a history of people who have cried in front of paintings" (routledge, 2001)