All tagged Still Life
Have you ever cooked fairy tales?
I have.
I’ve mixed them, I’ve stirred them, and I’ve baked them and served them to my children as a brand new yarn.
When I was little, I grew up with a big collection of fairy tales in our family's built-in library wall. From Aesop, Lafontaine, Grimm Brothers, Hans Christian Andresen, Alexander Pushkin and Ran Bosilek… And then comes the whole Pleiades of Bulgarian folklore tales.
The last few years I have been moved to tears on many occasions by the surprising presents from friends that live far and that I haven’t seen for many years or we’ve never met in person. Their gesture was even more touching because it was unexpected and so much thoughtful. I also embraced my friends with loving presents and I honestly hope they loved them.
Thinking gratefully of these gifts, a smile started to sneak on my face, as I realised more and more how our way of showing appreciation, friendship and love resembles the classic short story by O. Henry “The Gift of the Magi”. We are approaching Christmas and now I wish to share with you the stories of gifts from my friends from far and away, from people I knew from long ago and people I only know from recently and I never met… As I have discovered, a “friend” is a very long-drawn-out concept and always demands the presence of care and compassion.
Fragrance.
Gentle fragrance.
And nearly impossible to describe, delicate sweet scent, that can draw in people and insect…
Moonlight was streaming through the open window and the hoary gramophone's horn was howling at it. The record was wobbling on the misbalanced turntable and made the pin jump, skip a beat and screech when landing on the disk again...
“Sweetheart, my optometrist called, the glasses are ready to be picked up. Can you please go and get them?” was the short message from my husband. And that would’ve been the end of this story.
I have only sensations beyond the written word when holding a ripe fruit of quince.
Today I invite you to be my co-writer and let’s dive into this imagery story.
My dear friends and you, occasional visitors, that might’ve wondered here lost and with no aim, I have a confession to make.
I’ve sinned...
The days at the freight station had no beginning and never ended. The shifts and movements were simple – “arriving” and “leaving”.
As today I was crying over my badly crashed MacBook, marking quietly the 87th birthday my Dad would've have, I received a press release from the International Photography Awards competition (IPA), Los Angeles...
He wasn't making much effort to undress her – the cashmere coat slipped down swiftly on its own. "Whoosh", the silky lining made a whooshy whisper as it dropped on the floor.
A young male nightingale settled in between the fragrant branches of the blossoming nectarine. He was not going to stop singing till finds his female match.
They called her Lolliphabai for “red apple” in Romani. But the only red she had were her plump lips. Her hair was char-black and wavy; her eyes were deep brown as the chestnuts she was roasting on the potbelly stove.
The tables were getting ready and butlers were overseeing the correct placing of plates, glassware and cutlery as the ball was to start soon.
Mondays were nonworking days.
The aged seamstress made sure that all garments were sewn, pressed and ready for her patrons before church time on Sunday...
With no more time to waste, Takahiro grabbed an old sake bag kneeled down to the fireplace and filled it up with binchotan charcoals. They were just as good for keeping him warm, cooking with them or drawing, as well as keeping his water clear and pure.
Every summer my parents would take a four-weeks break and we would share this time in resting in the high mountains and fun on the seaside of Bulgaria.
It was a simple tree, ordinary looking tree.
No botanist would stop and think an invisible dragon guarded it.
