Lepopisana

And so I fell in love with a colour - in this case, the colour blue - as if falling under a spell, a spell I fought to stay under and get out from under, in turns. Maggie Nelson, Bluets Ever since I can remember I had a peculiar affinity for the colour blue. I say peculiar because some people tried to dissuade me from it, saying I looked pale if I wore blue and that blue is a boy's colour. The first statement can be true but it doesn't bother me, the second one is nonsense. There's no such thing as a boy's or a girl's colour.  On my last exhibition the majority of people wore blue police uniforms. One of them approached me saying the chief wanted to speak to me. I found him in front of a row of blue paintings." Why blue," he asked. I explained about blue, borrowing from Kandinsky and Klein and even from myself. Then I stopped and concluded with a simple "Because blue is my colour." "It's ours too," he said with a smil

Last week I picked up a box of fancy chocolates for a couple I've never met. M and I got the tickets for a concert they weren't able to attend. We were listening to Gershwin, Ravel and Scriabin and enjoyed it immensely. Ravel's piano concerto was played by a Czech pianist Igor Ardašev. What I found particularly beautiful was the way he treated the piano. It was as if his instrument was a human being. So, the chocolates were sort of a logical conclusion. Although there's no logic in it, really. I had a quarter of an hour of my lunch break left to kill, so I decided to go to a bookstore, just to browse. There's no logic there either. My eye was caught by a David Gorssman novel, Look Under: Love. I've never read Grossman. My watercolour guru recommended him to me a couple of times but up till now I never acted on it. According to the blurb on the back cover, the book sounds promising. On my way to the-lady-who-takes-my-money (read cashier), I saw a poetry c

Sometimes the moths remind me of ships, invisible, silent ... lost in blue oblivion. * Nočni metulji me včasih spominjajo na ladje; nevidne, tihe in izgubljene v modri pozabi.

The novel opens with a series of e-mails Jerome writes to his father Howard Belsey. Jerome is in London, working for Monty Kipps and living with his family. The problem for Howard is that Monty is his academic rival. They both teach art history, both are specialized on Rembrandt, only Monty published his book, while Howard still struggles with his. Another problem is Jerome turning to Christianity, which Howard as a liberal doesn’t approve. Monty on the other hand supports traditional values, which appeal to Jerome. With the approaching school year Monty and his family arrive to Wellington university where Howard teaches. Howard’s wife Kiki befriends Monty’s wife Carlene, Jerome returns to university in another town to avoid Monty’s beautiful daughter Victoria, he was in live with while being in London. The lives of both families intertwine, despite their different values and life. I quite liked this book. At first I found it slow paced, but it didn’t bother me. I think it’s

When I was a kid I was fascinated by ruins. The older, the better. I always tried to imagine people living there: who were they, what they were doing and how they looked like. When I was in fourth grade my teacher took us to see an exhibition on roman artefacts found in Ljubljana and I remember being mesmerised by thin glass object, lachrymatories, into which the mourners dropped their tears. I imagined people crying into these vessels and the image in my mind was otherworldly. After the exhibition, with my head full of stories concerning tears in various forms, we went to see the archaeological park Emona. After too many years M and I decided to see the ruins again. On previous occasions we found the park closed, but last Sunday we were lucky. We were met by a young student, bored enough to eagerly explain how the system works. "Do you guys know how this works?" "Um, no ..." How what works? Where will we be transported to? Apparently nowhere