Andrieş duminicile…

Bărbaţii-s făcuţi din carne,
Femeile – din oţel,
Ar fi trebuit să fie invers,
Dar Dumnezeu mai greşeşte şi el…~

Femeile zic că-s din carne,
Bărbaţii că-s din oţel,
Şi de-aia e noaptea-ntuneric
Şi viaţa e un hotel…

Ca nisipul femeile sunt,
Le ia pe sus orice boare de vânt
Şi-napoi nu mai vin nicicând…
Ca nisipul femeile sunt!

Au camere mari, cu multe oglinzi,
Ca-ntr-o plasă în ele te prinzi…
Când sub pătura moale te-ntinzi
Nici nu ştii cât de adânc te prinzi!

Au ochi să te-oprească,
Şi-aceiaşi ochi să te gonească
Curând…
Ca nisipul femeile sunt…

wool

I’m not a vegetarian, though people often say I look like one because I like cotton, linen and flat soles.

I’d wanted a sheepskin ever since Cătălina had left. I lived close to the center in Arad, in an old house heated with firewood. I lived alone, so no one ever made the fire.

When I looked for a place, one of the many people I’d asked was a TV repairman. I really wanted to live in one of those old houses falling apart, in the center of town, rather than in an apartment block on the outskirts. The TV guy threw me a meaningful glance and said: I could use a woman in the house… make the fire… warm the place up. I remember trying to cut wood with an axe. How good could a TV repairman be at splitting logs? His house was full of spare parts.

I always passed through a market on the way home, and looked at the sheepskins yearning for one of my own, but couldn’t afford one. It wasn’t just the heat, it was also the comfort they implied. A soft, fluffy life.

Three years later, my parents came to visit me in Amsterdam. They brought me a sheepskin. My mother had noticed me staring at them whenever I went home and joined her at the market. My brother commented on a facebook photo where a corner of the skin was visible: „Is that the skin of a dead animal?“ In Romanian it sounds even worse, „pielea de la o oaie moartă”. Not that he were a vegetarian, but he loves teasing. I never think of the sheep or the sacrifice, I focus on the softness and the warmth.

diane arbus on depression

”The pictures were sometimes dark and scary, but she was lighthearted, like it was an adventure for her.” The doubts and depressions were triggered by other causes, sometimes by a sense of abandonment, at times by an internal biological flux she could neither understand nor control. ”I go up and down a lot,” she wrote Carlotta Marshall in late 1968. ”Maybe I’ve always been like that. Partly what happens though is I get filled with energy and joy and I begin lots of things or think about what I want to do and get all breathless with excitement and then quite suddenly either through tiredness or a disappointment or something more mysterious the energy vanishes, leaving me harassed, swamped, distraught, frightened by the very things I thought I was so eager for! I’m sure this is quite classic.”

”She was very funny about her cameras,” he continues. ”If one didn’t work, she would put it aside and then pick it up the next day to see if it had gotten better.”

Allan Arbus despre Diane Arbus

Things like this remind me of Ira. The sense of humor I learned from her, an Ira that disappeared, sunk into comfort far far away.