Strange title, and even stranger thoughts. Today was a Siberian day in Montreal, full of blowing snow and freezing wind. But still, we plodded along, the lonely Chrismas shoppers.
At least on St. Lawrence street, people look at each other, and sometimes hold the gaze for more than 2 seconds, to show that they are there after all, to acknowledge each other's existence.
The studio was full of Christmas gifts that the real Santa brought. I don't know how he got in, but gifts were everywhere and the plants and artwork seemed happy. The paintings were luminous and I realised that I had talent which will probably never earn any real money while I'm alive. The only people that buy my work are loyal friends and N, whom I consider king Midas, because everything he touches turns to gold. Maybe that means that my paintings will go up in value because he's buying them?
In any case, my latest pastel of Nelly with the vines looks good, but I don't know what it means...is it the memory of her, or her memory of me, or my memory of Sarajevo? That is why I thought about Anna. In my mind she is still alive. I never read the last chapter and I will not. That is the beauty of books...you don't have to read everything, and the beauty in life is that you can imagine everything you wish. The beauty in painting is that you can see and know more than the artist does.
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