Pomm’s Studio is pleased to introduce you to Jody Lynn Perry, our
guest blogger for today’s post. Jody is a dear friend, collector
of my art. and a very talented writer. Last week I posted about art that
moves you. What you are about to read is Jody’s response to my newest
painting ‘Dancing Prism”. Upon viewing this painting, the
muse further stirred her to create the name for it. I think you will agree
she was both moved and inspired to write this beautiful story . Enjoy!
A LEGEND OF POMM'S
DANCING PRISM
By Jody Lynn Perry Copyright © 2014 All Rights Reserved
Tuscanie let a quiet groan of frustration. "How did they do it?"
she lamented. "How did all these women trill this aria so…effortlessly?"
"Dear child," her voice coach assured her, "even Mozart's
renowned sister-in-law must have struggled with the complexities of this
melody before her voice rang it true."
"Yes, but he wrote it specifically with Josepha Hofer in mind. All
those staccatos! He must have known—"
"Possibly," she interrupted her pupil. Over the years she had
helped many an exasperated student through the demanding passages of
Der Hölle Rache (
Here In My Heart) from Mozart's opera
The Magic Flute. The aria was beautiful and famous and known for its challenging complexity.
"It is time you took an interlude," she suggested, gently firm.
"A walk on this lovely day will inspire your voice."
Tuscanie rose. It had been several hours, and she knew her teacher was
right. With a hopeful smile, she withdrew into the welcoming sunlight.
She stopped at a customary corner, opting, impulsively, for the opposite
direction. Meandering leisurely, the unfamiliar geography silenced her
crowded thoughts. Tuscanie let her gaze rove lazily over the small cottages
and quaint, older apartments, much like hers on Rue de Palette.
The sidewalk beamed with blushes of buds; tender new white primroses, blue
forget-me-nots and lavender sending a heady whiff of invigorating perfume.
Faded shutters of greens, reds and blues soaked in warm rays and whispered
to the birds. Bright red poppies, pink bougainvillea and wood violets
added to the pathway of varied hues.
In her mind, caressing her world, was not an aria, but Debussy's symphonic poem
Prelude To The Afternoon Of A Faun. She paused as she came upon an elderly woman on a chaise, a cat sunning
lazily on her lap.
"Bon apres-midi (good afternoon)," the woman greeted, her worn
and friendly face creased with affectionate memories of yesterdays meeting
tomorrows.
"Bonjour, Madame," Tuscanie said, affection for the woman and
her cat illuminating their shared moment. The warm brightness of the day
imported the feeling of a serene forever. Bees busily collected pollen,
buzzing importantly, and warning Tuscanie to steer clear of their flowering fortunes.
It was then Tuscanie's gaze fell upon what appeared almost as a mirage,
too brilliant and breathtaking to be truly real. Perhaps the sun was at
a particularly auspicious angle. Perhaps the paint was magically iridescent.
Perhaps the red and pink roses added to the vividness of the spectrum.
The welcoming domicile was practically dancing with light and color.
The old woman nodded, the creases in her countenance broadening. "You
see it, vous n'avez pas (do you not)? It is my Dancing Prism."
Tuscanie stood before this seeming apparition, transfixed upon the ethereal
moment, seemingly light years from her Earth. For a fleeting, gossamer
twinkling, Tuscanie became herself a dancing prism.
The old woman lounged quietly, surveying the young girl. Presently she
murmured, "You know how to sing the aria now."
And Tuscanie, in clear, coloratura soprano, gave full life to Mozart's
aria, rejoicing into the air a perfection of tomorrow's promise.