To tell this story right I'm going to have to set the stage by telling another story...
A couple of months ago, I began tutoring a very bright, wholly remarkable young Georgian girl whom I will call "Blair" due to her love of the American series Gossip Girl. After one of our sessions last week, which we do at her house, her parents invited me to stay for dinner.
It turned out to be an incredibly delicious meal accompanied by a bottle of excellent Georgian wine. We discussed the family's travels abroad, my own travels, my future plans (or lack thereof), and art. Near the end of the meal, Blair's father gives me a calendar featuring the modern artwork of Georgian artist Levan Lagidze.
One of the truly awesome things that Blair's family does for me (besides inviting me to dinner and giving me art) is to pick me up and take me home for each lesson. Today, when I get in the car Blair says she wants to take me to Levan Lagidze's gallery, in Vake. Of course I say okay.
The gallery is exactly what a gallery should be -- bright and airy and showcases an excellent representation of his work. As I walk in the door and look around, I am greeted by an older man with a mobile face and eyes that smile. He mistakes me for an American friend of a friend. Once that is cleared up, I ask: "Are you the artist?" Of course, he is.
Levan says hello to Blair; he and his wife are friends with her parents. His English is surprisingly good. I ask him about his method and he explains about painting layers upon layers, then removing sections or stripes of those layers to reveal what is underneath. I tell him, quite honestly, that I love his work and his style.
Near the back of the gallery is a lovely painting of blues, whites, yellows, and maybe a little green. It is labeled "Makkondo." I ask him if the name is taken from Macondo in 100 Years of Solitude, and he says:
"Yes, of course. It is a beautiful book."
"I've only started reading it recently, as a matter of fact. Maybe 20% of the way through."
"Ah, you are reading it now for the first time?"
"Yes, and I like it very much so far."
"Then this is a very special time for you. Reading this book for the first time is an unforgettable experience. A joy."
At this point, we are invited into the back area, where Levan's wife serves coffee, OJ, lobiani and khachapuri, along with seasoned crackers and hazelnuts. On the mounted flatscreen, he shows us photos of his recent art opening in Kuwait. I tell Levan that his work reminds me of a sort of geometrical blending of Mark Rothko and Jackson Pollock, and his smiling eyes smile a little warmer.
We talk about modern art vs. postmodern, about installation vs. exhibit. Blair tells us about her friend who wrote her CV as a poem and sent it to premiere art schools around the globe along with photos of her work. Levan asks me what I studied in school, and when I say English he is surprised that I never studied art. I reply that I just really like going to the Smithsonian a lot. He agrees that the Smithsonian is wonderful, but says he prefers the galleries in New York. He asks me to stop by the gallery from time to time and work with him on his English. I reply, with the utmost sincerity, that it would be a pleasure.
As I prepare to enter into what was always supposed to be my last months in Georgia, it does seem that little vignettes of serendipity just like this one are popping up in my path. Looking at things from a purely practical standpoint, I am certainly not lacking for work opportunities here (recently had to turn down an offer to teach little ones on Saturdays), and so far my inquiries into opportunities elsewhere have yet to get any real response, which has been disheartening.
And a little voice keeps whispering "You could always stay here, you know."
Oh, I am coming home for the summer. Barring a global crisis of WWIII proportions, I can't think of a thing that would stop me. But I'm not ready yet to leave behind the Neverland of expat-ness and come home to grow up. And even if one of my inquiries does end up garnering a response, I've yet to find another program that offers such a comprehensive package as the one offered by TLG.
This is a very special time for me. Coming out of my winter cocoon of grouchiness, I need to remember that. It would be foolish to shut this book purely because I've had to suffer through a crappy chapter.
A couple of months ago, I began tutoring a very bright, wholly remarkable young Georgian girl whom I will call "Blair" due to her love of the American series Gossip Girl. After one of our sessions last week, which we do at her house, her parents invited me to stay for dinner.
It turned out to be an incredibly delicious meal accompanied by a bottle of excellent Georgian wine. We discussed the family's travels abroad, my own travels, my future plans (or lack thereof), and art. Near the end of the meal, Blair's father gives me a calendar featuring the modern artwork of Georgian artist Levan Lagidze.
One of the truly awesome things that Blair's family does for me (besides inviting me to dinner and giving me art) is to pick me up and take me home for each lesson. Today, when I get in the car Blair says she wants to take me to Levan Lagidze's gallery, in Vake. Of course I say okay.
The gallery is exactly what a gallery should be -- bright and airy and showcases an excellent representation of his work. As I walk in the door and look around, I am greeted by an older man with a mobile face and eyes that smile. He mistakes me for an American friend of a friend. Once that is cleared up, I ask: "Are you the artist?" Of course, he is.
Levan says hello to Blair; he and his wife are friends with her parents. His English is surprisingly good. I ask him about his method and he explains about painting layers upon layers, then removing sections or stripes of those layers to reveal what is underneath. I tell him, quite honestly, that I love his work and his style.
Near the back of the gallery is a lovely painting of blues, whites, yellows, and maybe a little green. It is labeled "Makkondo." I ask him if the name is taken from Macondo in 100 Years of Solitude, and he says:
"Yes, of course. It is a beautiful book."
"I've only started reading it recently, as a matter of fact. Maybe 20% of the way through."
"Ah, you are reading it now for the first time?"
"Yes, and I like it very much so far."
"Then this is a very special time for you. Reading this book for the first time is an unforgettable experience. A joy."
At this point, we are invited into the back area, where Levan's wife serves coffee, OJ, lobiani and khachapuri, along with seasoned crackers and hazelnuts. On the mounted flatscreen, he shows us photos of his recent art opening in Kuwait. I tell Levan that his work reminds me of a sort of geometrical blending of Mark Rothko and Jackson Pollock, and his smiling eyes smile a little warmer.
We talk about modern art vs. postmodern, about installation vs. exhibit. Blair tells us about her friend who wrote her CV as a poem and sent it to premiere art schools around the globe along with photos of her work. Levan asks me what I studied in school, and when I say English he is surprised that I never studied art. I reply that I just really like going to the Smithsonian a lot. He agrees that the Smithsonian is wonderful, but says he prefers the galleries in New York. He asks me to stop by the gallery from time to time and work with him on his English. I reply, with the utmost sincerity, that it would be a pleasure.
As I prepare to enter into what was always supposed to be my last months in Georgia, it does seem that little vignettes of serendipity just like this one are popping up in my path. Looking at things from a purely practical standpoint, I am certainly not lacking for work opportunities here (recently had to turn down an offer to teach little ones on Saturdays), and so far my inquiries into opportunities elsewhere have yet to get any real response, which has been disheartening.
And a little voice keeps whispering "You could always stay here, you know."
Oh, I am coming home for the summer. Barring a global crisis of WWIII proportions, I can't think of a thing that would stop me. But I'm not ready yet to leave behind the Neverland of expat-ness and come home to grow up. And even if one of my inquiries does end up garnering a response, I've yet to find another program that offers such a comprehensive package as the one offered by TLG.
This is a very special time for me. Coming out of my winter cocoon of grouchiness, I need to remember that. It would be foolish to shut this book purely because I've had to suffer through a crappy chapter.
I agree, reading 100 Years of Solitude for the first time is a special time. One of my favorite passages: "The Italian, whose patent leather curls aroused in girls an irrepressible need to sigh ... "
ReplyDeleteMary, I think the first line of this blog is the first line of your future great work. That is you. That is the beginning of your story, the beginning of all the rest. Take it from here!
ReplyDelete