I knew then, to stay very still, as my eyes followed the lives of small, slippery grey lizards, scuttling along a thin wood rail.
When I was a very little girl, I slept in a small room, end of house. Through the large open window, early every morning, long sun’s rays would come probing, searching, reaching towards my bed. That was in Africa.
I knew that if I twisted and lay on my back, bare heels up against the walls; if I waved my arms vigorously ...or slowly ... I could scatter the minuscule glinting, wonderfully multicoloured flecks of light dancing on those rays... just for a moment ... then they’d reassemble in an instant, to ride again on widening beams.
I searched hard to discern shapes of faeries I had been told about, convinced that their elusive beauty and gauzy dresses would be carried within their gracefulness and gleefulness, as they pirouetted on the beams...
Then, the broad warmth of predictability, of sunshine & light, washed around the room as each new day unfolded...
Later, during school holidays, I’d lie on a bed in the mornings, in another daylit room, in a rural farmhouse. I knew then, to stay very still, as my eyes followed the lives of small, slippery grey lizards, scuttling along a thin wood rail. They had whitish underbellies, matching the plastered ceiling just above them. Sometimes, they’d meet each other briefly as they sped along on their morning hunting missions ... or, also stop and sit up for a rapid facewash with tiny forefingers. They were never short of breakfast - in an instantly available menu, in the form of passing flies, mosquitoes, a variety of insects ...
As that sun rose quickly, the sound of daily churning would start up; voices and bodies moved in the kitchen and the open verandah areas. After that, in a space before the coarse wild bush and grey boulders, belonged the sounds of chickens, dog barks, distant children’s cries...
I have a returning image of a dangerous Black Mamba snake, which one day, suddenly unfurled from between the cracks in the granite boulders, to fling itself and it’s venom, at our delicate, tame, little duicker gazelle, which had strayed and grazed innocently, away from our kitchen gardens ...
Light. It’s intensity and colours changed dramatically, for me, as re-locations and hemispheres changed, too. I tried to fathom the differences in light, in a northern Alpine atmosphere, or at an English coastal scene.... African golden sun suffusions, with spectacular rapid red sunsets, were replaced by mysterious evening skies, washed in mauves and purples with flashes of cream... A cool, very very clean whiteness, took over on long, lasting days.... They told me it was the effect of sea and snowy mountains, reflecting one another across vast plains and slopes with vines.
The breezes seemed to dance, too... but perhaps with a kind of mischievous character...
Light. In between, I spent time in London... aged around 20s. There, I was introduced to the Theatrical world of Light, now in hand, beautifully manipulative, distinctly atmospheric, mood-creating, able to interpret directly from minds, to yet another world, on stage, for a treasured hour or so.
Anything grey, could be transformed. Any hard object, softened; facial expressions altered with a flick, fabrics lent sound... with colour; dancing shapes exotically, in relief... A pool of light, for infinite memories, peoples and places.
London lay outside, at night, with its flashing features, taxi lights, bus interiors warmly lit, shops... shedding light over huddled shapes in doorways... shrouded worlds stretching away... and away...
In the museums - the ebullient paintings of the Italian Renaissance lit flesh clearly, with chiaroscuro and intensity, telling their stories boldly. Then along came the French Impressionists - sun-dappled, breathing coastal breezes among the cypresses, terracotta house-fronts, apples on a table, lit... and sometimes, winsome ladies in gauzy dresses...
Sunshades, interiors enhanced with gaslight, candlelight, evening light ... as eyes close.
Anonymous
