From the basket of memories.
The blue has a sweet taste. I wanna say I have a strange relationship with color, but the same thing I can say about music, sounds, numbers, and flavors. In my world numbers have color, music has color, sounds have numbers… and they all taste differently.
The blue has a sweet taste.
Eight long years ago I was in a relationship with a young cinematographer. He just graduated from University and hated directors already. We met on set, I was playing a french whore, he was filming, we talked about the history of trains on a break.
He was from a very intelligent Russian-Jewish family: his father was a famous sculptor, his mother was a specialist in Russian Imperial Chinaware, and his young brother was a nervous and ambitious artist. They respected everybody, were highly educated, humble, brilliant, and like most of alike Moscow intelligent families in consistent need of money. They all were going to church on Sundays.
Their apartment was located in the prestigious neighborhood in a cultural center of the city, having a 3-bedroom apartment there is like having a condo with a rooftop in Tribeca. The government gave it to the father as an appreciation and support of his work. It was packed with antique furniture, chinaware, icons, and other beautiful things worth a fortune.
They were struggling with cash because their father recently had a heart attack and couldn’t work, the market for antique chinaware wasn’t great at the moment, and kids weren’t fully on their feet to ever support themselves.
I loved spending time in their house, listening to their stories about famous artists, talking about Bible, God, history, books, movies, and life; they silently thought me how to use a fork AND knife by constantly putting them by my plate (my folks lost this habit during the Soviet Union), and appreciate kindness. The mother tried to love me, even I didn’t always go to church with them, the father was sympathetic to me but criticized me for wearing a cross in my earring.
They loved each other deeply.
In this period of financial struggles they sometimes were completely out of food. Like people of great faith, they accepted it with peace and never complained. We all helped as we could.
Out of many, there was one episode that stuck in my memory.
One day in the afternoon I came over, the mother was at home. She offered me a tea in hundred years old cup and a dessert from Vienna. She put a beautiful metal candy box in from of me, the kind of box from Toulouse Lautrec paintings, and said:
– I don’t have any food today, but I’d love to offer you some sweets. Have you ever tried sugared violets?
– I have not, – I answered in amusement., – you mean.. violets like flowers?
– Yes, it’s sugared violets, a classic Vienna delicatessen, our friend brought it for us as a gift. It’s a bit funny, that we have this but nothing in a fridge! Oh well! Life!
She opened the box and it naturally was full of blue flowers… I can’t even describe the taste of them. Maybe if you have a morning dew with a hint of orange peel and a drop of vanilla, blend it with dried blueberry, may you’ll have an idea. I must say, it is something one can visit Vienna for. This flavor has been staying with me since.
It was an early fall, like now, the leaves turned yellow just a little bit. I know they are all doing very well now even though we’re, sadly, not keeping in touch.
This story came to my mind this morning like a lazy ray of light. But this time I felt this need to write it down as if it all of a sudden became so important! Before I forget? Before I get too busy? Before I forget the taste of sugared violets? My sweet memories: colorful, flavorful, and numberless.
Where am I going with all of it? Ah, yes.
The taste of blue is sweet.
It has a number: 9.
And it sounds like “Aguas da Amazonia: No. 1, Madeira River” by Phillip Glass.
