The Spainards

Posted: July 30, 2010 in Uncategorized

excerpt from “I Am Thier Musick”
by Paul Marshall, 2009
Many moons ago on the Charlie Rose Show, he had a particularly fascinating night of interviews. The first half hour started with the grandson of Pablo Picasso and the broading ruminations of his bohemian life and the subsequent phases of his art. Eventually, he and his curator led up to the many exhibitions of Picasso’s ill received last works and the horror of such a lackluster response to what the painter did before the end of his long life in the early 70’s.
As images of Picasso’s last paintings appeared on the screen, it was obvious what the passionate fervor in these interviews was about. Such exuberant color was spilled out onto these canvases, but it was the representation that was striking. The Cubist element could be seen only as muted undertones of a more realistic exactness of the masterworks of all historical pursuits. It was as if he wanted to encapsulate the whole of human history and human experience. Many of these pieces were homage’s to Dali, in his kindred Spaniard and artistic spirit. Some pieces were raw and violent. Some haunting. But every piece that was shown had the vitality more of that of a 20 year old on the brink of a lifelong odyssey of artistic revolution. Certainly not of a dying old man in his 70’s.
The next half hour, Rose brought on the most highly prized chef in all the world. Also a Spaniard, his translator convened for him as someone I recognized on T.V. from my Saturday morning cooking shows. Somehow my breakfast taste better when I’m watching master chefs make something I can’t pronounce but looks good being grilled over bamboo shoots then sautéed with red wine.
This chef will close his restaurant for 6 months to create new recipes. Chefs all over the world will fight for the chance to train in his kitchen for free. I enjoyed the exchange when Rose asked why he would close for 6 months and the chef scoffed back, “why not be open for 24 hours?” This was an example of typical American profiteering over patient creative fortitude, and at that moment I sided with the chef. And I voted for Bush in ’04! I mean, how is a guy going to take time to create a dish in the kitchen with the sun coming through the open window and the birds chirping and the music trickling from the I-Pod bar speaker in the living? You would like to sit down some night with your girl at the table and two candle lights and experience the delights of a Mediterranean stir fry. But who has time for the art of satisfying the five senses when your busy mastering the art of the budget just to navigate around the wolves masquerading in lobbyists and banker’s clothing?
I have to say, its not often I experience artistic, emotional and spiritual elation thinking about food and watching late night Rose interviews, but this chef seemed to tap into something our technocratic culture is deprived of. Maybe its even higher than stimulating the sense of sight, sound, smell, taste and ecstasy, through avante guarde cooking. The worlds greatest chef likened it to being on an alien planet. Experiencing taste that makes you want to cry. Can tasting an olive make you want to bless God Almighty?
We all have a real and desperate need for the perfect food. That manna from Heaven. Distracted by our complaining about what we don’t have and lusting after the riches and comfort of Egypt, the tragedy is our neglect of a deeply satisfying abundance of real food and a real life. A spiritual life; which is that manna for the soul.

  1. purpledragonfly says:

    Well said, there is much in life taken for granted when not appreciated by each sense. There is much to be said for taking your time, absorbing the moment and savoring each bite (whether of food, a book, cooking or taking a walk down the street)…

    • kozmo77 says:

      I appreciate your praise, Purpledragonfly 🙂 If you enjoyed this article you might also like other works by Kozmo such as:

      A War That Tugs

      Nesting in the shadow of obscurity
      And gazing upon the broad darkness
      I hear the music of life
      Vibrating from the distance
      I’m compelled to approach the soft light
      A cool breeze of understanding wisdom
      Blows through my soul
      Absorb, absorb it all
      The sound, the chill, the smell, the whole feeling
      Could I walk out into the light?
      Do I choose to be revealed?

      by Paul Marshall, c. 2003

      or maybe you would prefer this little ditty called:

      The Night

      The newborn milleniums electronic mind music is picked up
      Downloaded by the high speed connection in my newborn spirit
      From my rooftop window, under nights sky
      A lone van sleeps in the middle of a wide snowblind parking lot
      Cradled under 30 story office monsters
      At 3am bulldozers are taking away the 5 foot snow embankment
      that have made our streets thier recent landscape
      I’m gonna’ miss all of that exhaust sludge
      Across the street, Paul, Mike and Randall forgot to turn off the bathroom light for thier painting, print and photography studios
      The night is a blanket of smothering silence
      The moon is laughing at me
      So I ask, “why do you laugh?”
      He say’s, “because night has hidden the faces of the wicked from your view.
      “You fool,” I tell the moon
      “The God of Abraham, Moses and Elijah walks not far from my presence

      =by Paul Marshall, c. 2003

      Or perhaps this number would be more to your liking:

      From the Dishroom to the Laboratory of Creation

      Ahh, dreamy weather indeed.
      A cold walk tonight in the bright snow passing dark alleys of black ice
      Swinging around to the mayoral debate in heavy moist shoes
      This decides my early departure from the media frenzy and politico groupie sorority maidens
      Tonight is the night of surreal satire and finely placed irony
      Amidst this, the One still plants His seeds of vision in me
      This morning the media hounds congregated for some early morning copoeria
      As a male Barbie prepares in the amber light studio of Channel 2 News
      Across from the train station, across my sleepy memory
      As a male, my loins can give birth to fury
      But the production of my mind hath concieved a crumble of the art of God.

      =by Paul Marshall, c. 2003

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