There is a collection of light images, elegant works of man and nature, scattered like treasures along the course of civilization, brightening our lives like lampposts along the way.
They string along in our consciousness, a collection of delicate forms, having subliminal influence on our lives, a string of light colored motifs, like a pearl necklace, stringing through time.
One can skip from stone to stone along their path, along the high notes of a piano register, light and sharp and crisp, like ice cubes on crystal, or crystal itself.
It is 21 ballerinas in white, pizzicato notes on a violin, Ravel’s airy flute.
It is the beauty of Greek columns and sculpture, of Bernini’s ivory and Cellini’s silver, of Monet’s dresses, and Louis XV chairs, and Women in White, and glass skyscrapers
There is an elegant journey in our minds, a Wagon Lits ride from Minoan Greece through the Renaissance, Hapsburg Austria, Impressionist France, and Art Nouveau.
It is about art making us feel lighter: Sisley’s light yellow impressions, Overcamp and Brueghel’s snowy landscapes, Chenenceau on the Loire, Swan Lake and white tutus, and Van Eyck’s delicate veiled ladies in white.
There is nature’s list: birch and aspen, white amber, and opal. There are flute solos, soprano arias, and Mozart. St. Exupery, T.S. Eliot, and Beloit’s monoplane, and DiMaggio in his home uniform. It is sails and clouds, and birds singing.
lecocqblog 