It
is as if the rain has washed all my color away, along with my bird companions.
In
compensation I envision my gypsy tea caravan instead a gypsy art caravan,
traveling among the needy, bringing a desperately lacking dose of Bonnard and
Mozart, seedy raspberry jam, the fragrance of just-baked bread, the presence of
an otterhound (my new dog daydream), comfy slippers, sensual treats, joie de vivre. Just like the old-time peddlers used to bring
around all of the things a household needed, and bookmobiles bring literary
wealth to remote areas, I'll be a traveler in spiritual provisions, drive a joy
jalopy down the dull back roads where bright moments are in short supply.
Or
maybe just the art—the intoxicating colors of Bonnard and Gauguin, Dufy and
Macke, Matisse and so many others, and tubes of pigments, coffee cans of
brushes, great rolls of paper to unfurl, so people can come up with their own spontaneous
combinations, like build-it-yourself ice-cream sundaes, or a taco bar. Some days need a large scoop of teal or
turquoise, a little garnish of crimson lake, a second helping of burnt sienna,
a serving of Egyptian blue on the side.
image: Raoul Dufy, Interior with Open Window
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