text + image by Elizabeth Griswold
It is near on early evening, about to turn dusk, that hinge moment between day and night, what W.C. Williams called the ‘liminal’, (etched edge of the leaf as it meets air), the precision of the leaf-edge is defined by its amorphous thatch of background air. The rain has been falling in sharp needles all day, lit filament bars. The air has been soft and cool, thick, molecules moving slowly outside my window, muffled church bells and breeze.
I remember this heavy kind of air hanging in Palermo, Sicily, on late summer evenings. As I wandered the street in fevers, images coming in and out of focus, looking for neighborhood shrines, I felt the air (heavy cloud) pressing down on me– cloaked, mixing with black smoke from the roasting chestnuts, the vendors calling into oncoming night over bones of centuries-old churches.
On a night like this it is easy to remember that placeless, bittersweet feeling of the walking nomad, the sense of being a constant wandering traveler who looks into windows at night that are lit up like strung stage sets. It is easy to see forward into the coming nights of fall and winter thicknesses, and to think about stories, and campfires, and friends, and to plan for food and drink that will ease the sudden dropping of the day into dark.
On a dark night, here are some photos of back-lit summer days, birthdays, days that are lit from within like marzipan candies on a Sicilian pastry shelf. These photos are small records of meals and wines that were crystalline summer incarnate: bejeweled, incandescent, like the Sicilian coast, turquoise, pink, and drafted by a close, salty sea breeze.
Domaine aux Moines,‘Roche aux Moines’ Savennieres, 1994, Loire Valley, FR
Petrol, apricot, wet stones, and tangerine pith (100% Chenin Blanc) Read More