“Being an artist means,
not reckoning and counting, but ripening
like the tree
which does not force its sap
and stands confident
in the storms of spring, without the fear
that after them may come no summer.”
— Rainer Maria Rilke
Christ in disguise
There must have been at least sixty of us in the choir tonight, and it’s always powerful when there are that many of us; the audience is quickly drawn in. But right at the start of the concert, a bloke —a homeless man— started hanging around in the middle, between the audience and us, making strange gestures, it was a bit awkward having him there (…)
Singing in the rain
The street? Empty. Yet, as the show begins, it seems as though our voices are like a campfire in the night. People automatically stop, draw closer to warm their hands, their souls, their hearts (…)
Willy
Friday, half past eight, Plaza de la Catedral. It is drizzling. The square is deserted; now and then, the footsteps of a passer-by echo in the night, then disappear like a mirage. Little by little, some shadows glide across the cobblestones, and beneath the remains of the Roman wall (…)
“It does come. But it comes
only to the patient,
who are there as though eternity lay before them,
so unconcernedly still and wide.
I learn it daily, learn it with pain
to which I am grateful:
patience is everything!”
