“All the world’s a stage…”
I was not even born then, and yet I remember it well. In colorized black and white, that moment—where is it now? It disappeared while we were somewhere over the rainbow.
Those were the days!—drowning in background music, we listened for cues, trying to follow the footlights through the portal. We wanted to capture that perfect world, inhabit it, pretend it into now and forever.
How do we measure a time that never was? We continue as dreams, a montage of cinematic stillness, myth disguised as memory. A voice calls from behind the curtain—is that me? Is that you? We rehearse our scripts of storied pasts, fools exposed by darkness, shadows of artificial light.
searching for signs
we adjust our eyes–
crow in a cherry tree
Stephen Sondheim turned 90 this year. Another master.
I’ve taken the art from my archives.