Art is my salvation. It has always been. The art I produce as much as the art I enjoy as a spectator, reader, listener, observer. In times of happiness, art; in times of hardship, more and more and then some more art.
I hide in poems, cry and laugh inside a dance piece; I make my decisions bathing in a painting and I recover from heartache by swimming through a song. If I need healing, I run towards a great movie, or a book. If I want to restart the machine – this machine called Joana – I will turn to a sculpture. Every question and, probably, every answer resides in Art.
I wouldn´t be alive if it wasn´t for it. It keeps saving me – from the world, from myself -, lifting me up, reminding me why it´s worth to be on earth, having this human experience.
“One of our joys, when the talk touched on any great example of prose or verse, was to get the book from the shelf, and ask one of the company to read the passage aloud.
There were some admirable readers in the group, in whose gift I had long delighted; but I had never heard Henry James read aloud–or known that he enjoyed doing so–till one night some one alluded to Emily Brontë’s poems, and I said I had never read ‘Remembrance. I had never before heard poetry read as he read it; and I never have since.
James’s reading was a thing apart, an emanation of his inmost self, unaffected by fashion or elocutionary artifice. He read from his soul, and no one who never heard him read poetry knows what that soul was.”
-from A BACKWARD GLANCE
Edith Wharton’s library at The Mount, Lenox, Massachusetts:http://www.edithwharton.org/news/in-the-library/