|kemijska, kava, vodene boje na papiru|
|pencil, water colours, coffee on paper|
'Good morning sorrow, where have you been for so long?' about a decade ago, an colleague of mine greeted me with those words. To understand the context you'll have to know that those are the opening lyrics of a well know Croatian ballad. In his case, it was a probably just a joke, as his next words to me were: 'Come on, when was the last time someone greeted you with a song?' Nowadays, those words 'Good morning sorrow' always remind me of a title of a well know French novel Bonjour Tristesse. If you're asking where I am going with all this, bare with me a moment (or don't... no one is forcing you to read this) as I usually do get to my point eventually.
Sagan wrote it when she was only 18 and the novel was an instant success. When I read it, I though it was quite good (especially being written by someone that young) but I wondered whether some of the hype surrounding the novel had to do with the author's age. Why was I so skeptical I wonder now? The feelings are real enough, no matter what our age may be. Was I mistrustful to someone's writing because I didn't think them experienced enough? Why is experience something we as a society both treasure and abhor? or even worse... Do I think that counting years on our life's calendar is an accomplishment on it own?
Anyhow, I felt reassured at my past judgement when I've read another novel by Sagan. Scars on the Soul seemed to me so much more perfect and mature than her first novel. I thought...well, here she is fulfilling her potential as a writer. I still think it is a brilliant novel. Nevertheless, I must wonder why a part of me feels so skeptical towards youth and its tragedies? ( It's really humbling when one thinks that Mary Shelley was only 20 when her novel Frankenstein was published.) Sorrow is sorrow and often past sorrows are not a thing of the past at all. Are the sorrows of our early years less meaningful or perhaps more?
Sometimes they are more, sometimes less...and as much as the present is important, the past is always a part of us...and sometimes we live only to try to rewrite it as Kundera and Orwell both noticed. Bonjour Triestesse has a very tragic ending, one that foreshadows much sadness. Why are our sorrows so important to us? What would then growing old be? Perfecting our sorrow? Researching our grief? If Petrarca (Petrarch if you must anglicize it) has married Laura, he wouldn't had changed the history of literature. It was his sadness that made him write sonnets that had changed the way we perceive poetry forever. Must it always be this way I wonder? Must we choose between leaving our mark in material or immaterial word? Must we be sad to be able to write good songs or poems? Must we lose our loved ones to realize what they mean to us?
It so happens that a lot of people asked me why am I so sad lately. I don't have an answer to that question at least not an innovative one. I'm sad for the same reasons I'm usually sad about...and for very much the same reasons everyone is sad really. If I wanted to be banal, I could say I'm sad because I'm not happy. Sometimes it seems to me that sadness has become a way of life for me. Perhaps it is a way it should be. Life has taught me that ignoring sadness is unwise for she usually has some valid points. My sorrows are as much a part of me as my joys, perhaps even more so. Both the past and the present ones. I'm not sure why, but feeling sad always makes me feel creative....and that finally brings me to my point. Another illustration...I could say it is a sketch of a necklace (something I've been working on recently) but I'm not sure it is...I think I'm searching for something when I drew these faces...Perhaps I am really trying to ask: Sadness, where have you been for so long?