Every free moment I may have, between work and work, is spent in further travels, visits to Museums, observation, curiosity killing. As I had some extra time before and after my work at Joy Festival, in Bradford (England), I headed to Haworth (hello, Bronte sisters lovers), Leeds and York.
In Leeds, I cried over a painting. Just like that: I entered Leeds Art Gallery and faced a huge painting with a scene of a wild, mad, dark Ocean. There was no time to think. All I did was burst in tears, suffering the impact of extreme beauty. It happens all the time: when I´m face to face with something incredibly beautiful, I cry like a baby. It´s too much to digest. Too much to take in without overflowing with my own beauty, I guess.
In Haworth, a high mountain village (or city?) where the famous Bronte sisters Museum is located, I found a new Wonder*land where I´ll have to return. Magical place; somber; haunted; marvellous or not quite. The crows´chanting were about to make me go mad and I was only there for a day. Poor Bronte sisters! No wonder they died so early…I´d die earlier if I had to listen to those mad crows every day and night.
There´s a cemitery and a church – where their father worked – in front of their house. They had death at their doorstep and the ancient moors on the backyard: Nature´s fatal and generous hand, also enough to make you mad in wink; another possible reason for precocious death.
I´ve sat at cosy coffeeshops, taking time just to be. Nowhere to run, nothing to prove, no show to put on, no knowledge to share. Just being. What a luxury!
I´ve visited Bronte sisters home and marvelled at the conditions (or the lack of) that helped (?) produce their literary master pieces. If I ever complained about not having the perfect setting for my creative work, and yes I do complain every once in a while, this would put an end to my childish whining. Those girls didn´t seem to need an Apple computer and a writing table over a breath taking horizon. They had a dark, damp, Victorian dinning room with the minimum conditions for writing; they also had a strict, short, hard life lead by an extremely religious father. You see my point: not much space for exploring life in all its colours and then writing about it. They had to imagine; take the crumbs of the bread others ate; turn emptiness into life and anger into art.
No more complaining. BIG “get a grip” trip.
The next place to fall in love with was York, the second most visited city in England and, I suppose, one of the richest. Then again, I gasped at the beauty, History, abundance of Life; Past, Present and Future. This world of ours is so damn wonder*ful and it kills me that we´re destroying it.