EXCERPT FROM SARA’S JOURNALMarch 6, 1999
Calle Conde de Barajas, Seville
Time For Love
C and M are in love. It’s in the way he looks at her while she
sleeps beside him on the beanbag. She can’t help herself. She simply must have a nap
in the afternoon. C busies himself with the discussion at hand, namely the difference
between drawing a black line around the subject and leaving the coloured shapes to blend
and delineate themselves. I’m waxing with wide eyes and spittle. We work ourselves
into a pontifical frenzy. The topic meanders to Spain’s lack of recycling and pouring
paint water down the kitchen sink. We brainstorm a concept of biodegradable
buildings—"oh don’t mind that, it’s just that the bathroom was there
yesterday."
M’s studio swims in light and ancient tiles. She’s one to
close her paint pots and rinse her palette. Things are orderly, and there are lots of
supplies. The two on the beanbag finish with the comidas digestion and rise to
return to architecture. There are seventy AutoCAD drawings to be completed for a final
thesis, by Thursday.
These days connect effortlessly, with mass blurtings of productivity,
concentrated and extra-powerful. There’s time for naps, and street browsing,
bookstores and fresh bread. There’s time for love.
Nothing disappears in the moments between moments because every moment
is visited and noticed. There’s no rush, and yet the woo of discovery hovers, poised
for a challenge or delight. Every project invites a revelation. Drive and decision are its
evangelists, with confidence at every crossroad. Rich explores on his magic-carpet
computer, gathering a trove of ideas to be workshopped like bread kneading. And our
cooperative cognizance? It’s a poem—his linear, competent stanzas interspersed
with this—my watermelon-dropped-from-a-high-rise chorus.
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