I know what you mean about Joan Didion and how she writes from an era where there was more time. For what it’s worth your writing makes me feel like there’s time
Thank you for writing this! It was beautiful and I loved every second of reading it. An empty journal, even as a prompt would also have driven me insane!
It must be Didion season! (Her birthday was Dec 5) I just rewatched The Center Cannot Hold documentary on Netflix and had a similar self-inquiry. There's certainly something to the rhythm of her writing for me, but the point about the spaciousness or simplicity of the time touches closer to the appeal. I was telling my partner about the article she wrote for Vanity Fair ("Self Respect: Its source, its power") and what a pivotal piece it was, but what I was really trying to convey was that she lived in an era where pivotal pieces existed, where there were fewer names and pieces, where someone could become a household name. I still can't place the word for what I meant. Nostalgia? Space? Calm? I appreciate that I could easily read a dozen beautiful essays today on demand (including hers), but there's a feeling sense I've rarely lived (and miss) about seeing one lovely thing rise to the surface. (Or maybe that's inaccurate. Your essay was lovely and felt like this--thank you.)
The emptiness of the paintings giving us room to breathe - I feel drawn to both extremes: art that completely suffocates the senses (to give me reprieve from my own internal dialogue) and art that is quiet and “empty” to give me some space to process life.
I know what you mean about Joan Didion and how she writes from an era where there was more time. For what it’s worth your writing makes me feel like there’s time
Thank you for writing this! It was beautiful and I loved every second of reading it. An empty journal, even as a prompt would also have driven me insane!
It must be Didion season! (Her birthday was Dec 5) I just rewatched The Center Cannot Hold documentary on Netflix and had a similar self-inquiry. There's certainly something to the rhythm of her writing for me, but the point about the spaciousness or simplicity of the time touches closer to the appeal. I was telling my partner about the article she wrote for Vanity Fair ("Self Respect: Its source, its power") and what a pivotal piece it was, but what I was really trying to convey was that she lived in an era where pivotal pieces existed, where there were fewer names and pieces, where someone could become a household name. I still can't place the word for what I meant. Nostalgia? Space? Calm? I appreciate that I could easily read a dozen beautiful essays today on demand (including hers), but there's a feeling sense I've rarely lived (and miss) about seeing one lovely thing rise to the surface. (Or maybe that's inaccurate. Your essay was lovely and felt like this--thank you.)
The emptiness of the paintings giving us room to breathe - I feel drawn to both extremes: art that completely suffocates the senses (to give me reprieve from my own internal dialogue) and art that is quiet and “empty” to give me some space to process life.
the rhythm between memories and thoughts and poem and snippets was wonderful to read