Moth, My Love


I love moths ... on photographs. Every now and again I browse the net just to look at them. I love their colours, their Latin names bringing back mythology and poetry I stashed away in one of those far away dusty forgotten drawers. The real moths freak me out. I don't know why, and I can't help it. They just do. My first memory of a moth was when I was little. It was a black moth, or of some similar dark colour. I remember standing in the hallway in the apartment we used to live back then, staring at the spot just above the doorframe begging my mum to get rid of him. I always think of a moth as him, seems logical, kind of. Anyway she went at him with a hair brush, but since my mum isn't particularly tall, she missed him. He just spread his wings and slowly walked away to hide. He didn't seem worried at all. I remember dreaming about him that night, how I was holding the moth between my fingers. 

I've been painting the moths in watercolours these last couple of weeks. Always the same one, Actias Luna or Luna Moth. It's green, he reminds me of a green moon in Murakami's 1Q84 and gipsy romances by Federico García Lorca. The eyespots on his wings are windows into other worlds, where she stands with the shadow around her waist on a high balcony watching the green moon. 

Green, how I want you, green...


photo source / vir

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Obožujem nočne metulje, dokler so na fotografijah. Vsake toliko imam obdobje, ko brskam po netu samo zato, da jih lahko občudujem. Všeč so mi njihove barve in njihova latinska imena, zaradi katerih se spomnim mitologije in poezije, ki sem ju pospravila v oddaljen zaprašen predal in pozabila nanju. V resnici me navdajajo s paniko. Ne vem zakaj in si ne morem pomagati. Tako je. Moje prvo srečanje z nočnim metuljem se je zgodilo, ko sem bila majhna. Bil je črn in ne posebno velik. Spomnim se, da sem stala v predsobi  stanovanja, v katerem smo takrat živeli in strmela v steno nad vrati, kjer je sedel. Mamo sem prosila naj se ga znebi. O nočnih metuljih vedno razmišljam v moškem spolu. Nekako logično se mi zdi. Mama ga je hotela udariti s krtačo za lase, ker pa je premajhna, ga je zgrešila. Ni se posebno vznemiril. Samo razširil je krila in se sprehodil na varno, pod zvonec. Tiste noči se mi je sanjalo o njem, kako sem nočnega metulja držala med prsti. 

Zadnje čase jih slikam v akvarelu. Vedno istega, Actias Luno. Zelen je in me po svoje spominja na zeleno luno iz Murakamijeve knjige 1Q84 in ciganskih romanc Federica Garcíe Lorce. Očesca na njegovih krilih so okna v druge svetove, kjer ona stoji na balkonu in s senco ob pasu opazuje zeleno luno.

Zeleno, ki te hočem, zeleno ...


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