Dance me to your beauty

 with a burning violin 

Dance me through the panic 

 til I'm gathered safely in 

Lift me like an olive branch

 and be my homeward dove 

Dance me to the end of love 

Dance me to the end of love

(Leonard Cohen)

New work inspired by my Italian nephew the amazingly talented dancer, writer, maestro, Alex Imburgia. Alex teaches choreography at his studio/school in Rome and just wrote a beautiful reflection on painting-light-shadow-life-love-ecstacy—through a painting by Caravaggio, “The Vocation of St. Matthew.” I was astonished at how Alex could also make language dance with excited passion and subtle graces his words tangling as lovers with envious angels inspiriting souls/bodies/spirits thrumming as star-flesh, flashing through allegros > adagios > arabesques > leaping about the text with a grand jeté then quietly reflecting in agonistic silence, mortal ecstasy, and holy tears…… Much obliged/Molto riconoscente Alex. 

 

Alex writes: ‘I love Rome in the fall, did I mention?

Slow, melancholy, Sunday afternoon. The sun trembles on the dry leaves, the sampietrini echo under the shoes, the chatter of tourists mixes with the sound of scooters. Faith and I are walking slowly, trying not to be overwhelmed by the chaos.

— Come on, ten minutes, I swear — I tell him, dragging him towards San Luigi de French. Going back here isn't optional. It's just like breathing.

Let's get it in. The air is thick, tastes of dust and wax, of silences full of anticipation. Smell of old wood, sound of footsteps screaming on the marble, of never-ending stories... and tourists trying to get the right frame without tripping over the steps.

And there she is in front of us. The Vocation of St. Matthew.

It's not a painting, it's a small earthquake standing still in time. Matteo, the gabellier, sitting counting coins, as if the world was shrinking to that table. Distracted comrades, chatter, glittering coins, fake interests. Not everyone can see. Not everyone wants to see.

For a moment I hold my breath. Light arrives, clear, without asking for permission. Cuts through darkness, hits Matteo who points himself, and then stretches on clothes and faces.

Watching Christ move, the finger crossed. Don't beg, don't judge. Make a call. And I think of the outside world, to those who scream without listening, with eyes closed to the truth, with hands busy counting useless things. Hatred becomes a right, indifference a shield. I feel all this on the inside and I can't hide. Art forces me to look.

— Hey, ten minutes, remember? — Faith whispers behind my shoulder. Life always breaks in like this, without warning.

A group of tourists passing by laughing, quick selfies, backpacks slamming on the benches. Someone is desperately trying to convince their mate that the picture is "Instagrammable". They are passing through, but I still stay there for a while, digging up every shadow, listening to the breath of centuries. Caravaggio is still talking to me, and reminds me that looking is not seeing, and that choosing is not suffering.

I sit on the bench near there, hands on my knees. Silence crosses me. The world outside screams, it blinds. Here, instead, the Light persists. Invisible to many, inevitable for those who still have the courage. A Vocation is not a sermon, don't beg, call. Only those who have eyes, ears and heart can answer.

Gonna sit down a little while longer. Just light, shadows, gestures, breath, the rustle of the tourists leaving. Perhaps the salvation of the world lies here, in stubborn fidelity to what is true, to what is beautiful, to what deserves our most honest look.

There are people who think that art is a luxury, that real life is work, traffic, emails to answer. But art, when it’s honest as Caravaggio’s, is not decoration. It's life. We are the ones who, like those gabelliers, count coins and complain about everything without realizing that the Choice, the Truth, the Urgency of Being, is calling us.

He is there, between shadow and light, asking: what the f.. or you just wait and watch really?’

Much obliged, Daniel.