The art in life, the art in politics, and the politics in art. Reflections in retrograde after a performance of Nixon in China at the Edinburgh Festival Theatre, February 2020 Christmas, 1991Paris, France Paris is colder than I imagined. Its bones contain crumhorns and battles, but Paris is a woman, handsome, yet pretty. Despite bold Learn More
touch to be with you there, at that place of long aheadsbut rejected assurances,of declamatory incertitudeincautious and luxuriant, found emptiness brightly blooming. nothing presses nor expectsnor projectswithin our time, within time, within confident un-absolutes,unspoken un-promises,treading lightly forward.that which is tenuous stays fresh.the comfort lies inblind embracesreaching out sleepilyin night-time placestouchonly touch.
The Bones of Trees The split of earth and sky blurs in greysas we tilt toward sunlightand the hopeful.Our journey is always the same –grey on grey, slate-coloured, tarmac black. Dogs pull on leads, worn red,crossing streets without discretion,panting smiles. We talk while shuffling towarda quiet place and the memory of trees. For a dog a graveyardis a yard.How lovely Learn More
What once were todays.A woman, lithe past my body’s comprehension,standing square, yet in imperceptible motion,sways. Her face wears pride and delight,a moment within a moment,a moment gone, yet resonant.Her friends wear smiles equally bright. People were different then,or are we so changed?So angry, so disarranged?How and when? The woman? My mother. Dark brown hair cut Learn More
Waites has said that she has been on a “crusade” to perform music by Black women composers.