We had a wonderful anniversary weekend in Atlanta, a city I've always referred to as home, but with each visit, I realize it has silently morphed from home, to hometown, to the city in which I was born, to a place I once lived. What used to feel familiar and inviting is now unrecognizable and less interesting than ever. If pressed to describe Atlanta in a word, I would choose sprawl. If given a two word option: pretentious sprawl.
There are a few things about the city I do love: sitting at outdoor cafes and being surrounded by a half dozen foreign languages, festivals every weekend, vegetarian friendly restaurants, and the tiny gelato shop near my mother-in-law's house. Roughly the size of a closet, Paolo's has room enough for a cash register, an espresso machine, and a cold case full of flaky cannoli, tempting tiramisu, sparkling marzipan, and a rainbow of gelato. The shop stays open late, so around 10 pm on Saturday night, we joined the line spilling out the door and down the sidewalk. The young man behind the cold case served customers non stop, his hands moving as fast as his unintelligible accent, his patience never wearing thin no matter how many samples the four kids in front of us requested. Their father gently prodded them to decide. I joked with him it would be easier to choose by their favorite color, but I was glad they were ahead of us, slowing things down, so I would have time to decide. So many flavors, but in the end, I took my own advice, and chose violet flower gelato simply because it was a pretty color.
The weekend was a study of color, first among the 250 artist booths at the Dogwood Festival, to the Frida and Diego exhibit at the High museum. The festival is one I have fond memories of; I've attended for over twenty years, and I used to buy pieces, but this time around only one booth caught my fancy, and the rest served to spark my imagination, but the cost and content left me empty-handed. The downside to being a creative soul is looking at a beautiful piece of art for sale and thinking I should just keep my money and go home and reproduce what I am admiring. The Frida exhibit was well done; their art interesting, compelling, and topical, but the photographs of the artists were what my husband and I enjoyed most. He appreciated the compositions and moods. I appreciated the photos for the glimpses of Frida's jewelry and adornments. More than her art, her style appeals to me.
Above is a photo of another necklace I made last week with wool left over from the baby's blanket and sweater. I realized when I started writing this post, I had not even taken the lens cap off my camera this weekend. I think it was because I was enjoying myself too much, and often a photo falls flat from the reality. I'd rather journal the days or even work them into a story. The laughter, the chilly wind off the park lake, the smell of street food, and the warm company couldn't possibly translate as colorfully as my memories.
Why do two colors, put one next to the other, sing?
Can one really explain this? No.