I am deeply envious of the singing bohemian in Agnes Varda's "One Sings, the Other Doesn't". She travels into forgotten towns bringing her sweet voice and music. Man is bourgeois, and woman proletariat, she sings, telling of housewives who bring their men their breakfast and morning paper. With a swollen belly, she sings that the pregnant tummy is a balloon, a cocoon, or a cookie filled with fortune. Her face shining like a flourescent lamp, hair a tangled web of strawberry curls. I so longed to be her, barefoot, in loose blouses that billowed in the wind.
Her Iranian husband had a bordering-on-gay wardrobe, tan skin, unkempt hair and bell bottoms that went on forever. He fell headlong into her life, but she left him for a career on the road.
Now, unfortunately, there aren't anymore Romantics from the sixties. We are left with only peasant blouses, billowing in air conditioning.
No comments:
Post a Comment