Broken.

Wet cheeks, gritty eyes. Wild black hair over trembling flesh. 
Bare soles and naked spine; the floor is icy and the wall unforgiving. 

Sobs echo through empty lungs and knees dig deeper into aching ribs. Rocking. Rocking. 
Arms clamped around spidery legs. Fingers white as bone. Chest scratched raw by desperate nails...
But nothing can save a bleeding heart.

The Arts. So Fine.

For the past ten days, our neighbouring city, Cully, played host to the famous annual Cully Jazz Festival. I went. Twice. And it was good. Once you manage to squeeze onto a train, get over your personal space issues, find a bar with free live music and resume sardine-esque behaviour, you’re in for a real treat. 

My most memorable gig: Soraya Ksontini and Mark Kelly. She: a charismatic Tunisian with a voice that recalls Sunday morning pancakes with spicy chai tea. He: a long lost cousin of the John Butler Trio whose only worry in the world is whether his next head shake is going to tangle a dreadlock in his guitar pegs. Accompanied by another guitarist and pianist whose fingers I wanted to kneel down and kiss, they kept my heart singing for more than two hours. The venue was appropriately funky to match: Le Jardin, a transparent “tent” in the middle of an overgrown garden (surprise!), dimly light with a ceiling strewn by shimmering sarongs straight out of A Thousand and One Nights.
Also, she sang Hallelujah. I fell in love right then and there.

Yesterday, to take full advantage of Lausanne’s monthly "Free Entry" weekend, my roommate and I visited the Museum of Fine Art. Armed with our French exhibition guides and two open minds, we admired the diverse works of Eugene Grasset (1845 – 1917). He was a local, a Lausannois (with the later obligatory Parisian artistic career), and thus painted some beautiful oils of Lake Leman and the Alps. I loved the “Room of Clouds” section of the exhibit – a collection of his paintings on said condensational matter. Actually, I have a thing for clouds in artwork. And waves. Maybe because they never have one defined shape. Maybe because I am hopeless at drawing them myself. Maybe both. 

I also very much enjoyed Grasset's depiction of Joan of Arc’s story in his stained glass window designs. And his work for calendar issues of “La Belle Jardinière” in which his well-known and coveted chromolithography skills were on full display. In fact, I was stunned at how much I appreciated his style in general. You see, in art, I am very much a Modernism kind of girl – Impressionism in particular. Give me Renoir and Monet any day. I am also okay with turning back the clock (stopping at the start of the Renaissance, thank you) but when the year ticks forward past 1890, alarm bells start ringing. So, Grasset, a leader of the Art Nouveau period, really was a pleasant surprise.

Last stop: the ballet. You may already have guessed, dear reader, that my last blog was inspired by something I had recently seen. Indeed. Gala Tchaikovsky: best scenes from The Nutcracker, Sleeping Beauty and Swan Lake, featuring the Kiev Municipal Ballet. I’ve been to a few ballets before, but the standard here was just something else. Captivating, virtuosic, genius... I tried with words in my last post too, but really, this was just a huge “you had to be there” moment. The music was also nothing short of extraordinary. The fact that I have always had an extensive Tchaikovsky playlist on my iPod should tell you how much I adore his work. And on top of all that, I introduced a friend to his first ballet – and he liked it! Slow and steady wins the race...

Well, that was my weekend of good music, dance and art... When will yours be, dear reader?

Ballerina

Motionless, she rests. Head dipped, limbs poised.
A metal butterfly. 

The stick falls. A melody sparks.

Her heart ignites.

The flame caresses, flickering upward. Tantalising. Pure charm.

Radiating, melting, bubbling... An orb of molten lava.

The music burns brighter. Hypnotising. The notes white hot, their call irresistible. Wicked seduction.

She is an arched bow. A crouching lioness.

The blaze crackles and the night explodes.

Release.

A quiver of tulle, a flash of lace, she bursts free at last. Raw power. Excruciating poise.

An arm arches, her head dips. A leg kicks, her waist folds.

A seed on fire. Insatiable. 

She is hunger and thirst, need and desire.

The song erupts. Enthralling, consuming, a dancing inferno. Wild harmonies swirling. Fiery dragons intertwine.

Her body raw from the clawing within, she soars.
Wings of power and grace. All syrup and steel.

She transcends, human needs forgotten. Nymph. Angel. Goddess.

Time, ephemeral. Beauty, eternal.

Slowly, the flames begin their retreat. A gradual diminuendo.

She is the dying sun, the last ruby rays before dusk.

The final note relinquishes its spark. It falls to the cinders...

She comes to rest. The crescent moon in a velvet sky.

...and all is silent once more.

Serenity. Perfection.