Archival Footage: Lady In Grey
LOCATION: SUNSHINE COAST, BC
On the beauty and possibility of a perfect grey Sunday.
Any good Saturday is bright and joyous, with sunlight honeying the air. But Sunday is washing day, when the mountains disappear into the sea and the clouds rinse out the week and hang it to dry. It's a grey day, a slow day, when choral music plays on the old stereo and you gaze, blanket-shrouded, at the misty lappings along the shore. It's a day for almond chai and playing cards and Yo Yo Ma's Bach cello suites, for letter-writing and contemplation.
I watch my mother shape triangles from the fig-studded dough as my father pours lattes and chops potatoes. My sister haltingly reads me a passage from Alice In Wonderland. Later, my brother slathers honey on a piping hot scone and watches it melt, mesmerized. Time stretches out like a sleek Siamese as we walk in gentle silence along the rocky vertebrae of the beach and pick up oyster shells, transfixed by their luminance. We snap polaroids in the cool damp air and laugh as they materialize into foggy grey squares. Someone discovers chocolate in a secret pocket; 85 percent, serendipitous, a group favorite. The salty air melts into the rich smooth cocoa on our tongues as we breathe deeply, gratefully.
I watch my mother shape triangles from the fig-studded dough as my father pours lattes and chops potatoes. My sister haltingly reads me a passage from Alice In Wonderland. Later, my brother slathers honey on a piping hot scone and watches it melt, mesmerized. Time stretches out like a sleek Siamese as we walk in gentle silence along the rocky vertebrae of the beach and pick up oyster shells, transfixed by their luminance. We snap polaroids in the cool damp air and laugh as they materialize into foggy grey squares. Someone discovers chocolate in a secret pocket; 85 percent, serendipitous, a group favorite. The salty air melts into the rich smooth cocoa on our tongues as we breathe deeply, gratefully.
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Photography by Annika Jordan.
And now it is up to me to carry the great grey mantle. To rouse my self on a cold Sunday morning; to boil the water and strain the tea leaves; to chop the figs and foam the milk. My memories lie in careful wait for the perfect mystical misty day, wait to seep into the forefront of my mind, to awaken my senses to the possibilities held within the aching beauty of a grey Sunday.
Mille tendresses.
Mille tendresses.