I watched a movie last night called monument men. It was a nice movie with the benefit of a cast of many of my favorite actors all in one movie. The movie acted more of a catalyst for reliving my actual life experiences as a vicarious trigger of sorts. I don’t remember if this ever happened before with me watching something. Usually this is the beauty of the domain with reading books? Your mind has to create the vicarious experience as the writer has a conversation with you and tells the story.
There is a great lesson in going out into the world and trying to do your best and go beyond your known limits. You will learn a great deal in high and low ebbs in the life you lead versus someone that plays a conservative route. Yet, experientially, I don’t now if they enjoy as deep, rich, or many layers and textures in living?
Watching the movie and the settings in Ghent, Paris and various other cities we passed doing shows, my memory had me reliving actual conversations with people who were kind enough to share what the war was like for them. Various European, Asian, Australian, African and Middle Eastern elders have shared stories to me about what life was like on both sides of the war. I will share snippets from various people as this idea unfolds however it is meant as I type away.
The art connection to these posts comes in that while on the road, many crew would go out and have libations and enjoy the road life. I would sit in my hotel room reading books and then planning which museums and historic sites I could visit in the rare few hours we got off. While I love the impact of a good photography, I can’t really say that photography is art anymore. I just want an unedited moment in time. Today everything appears to be a manipulation of sorts.
I am just really fortunate to have had that experience and three “art” people in my life. Lydia, Hedda and Terri.
In the area of WW2, I will write about Americans, Jews, French, my Japanese counterparts family, Russians and Germans. There is also one more German man I would like to meet before he passes on and see if he will share his horrific story as a child soldier.
I think I will stop here, as it will just get confusing if I don’t. I will write about Art first, as the memory of the first time I stepped into the Louvre is clear in my mind.