My friend the fox was crying…she was also chopping onions so I wasn’t really sure if it was because of my story or the just the onions. It’s hard to tell sometimes...
This episode introduces and sets the tone of this audio performance piece which is inspired by a group of women who I asked to tell me about their own personal feminine hero and associate her with an object. These exchanges were very personal and I chose to take elements of these stories and transform them into a contemporary fable.
Contact : andthentherewaseve24@gmail.com, @jeannamusic,
Mixed by my son Jasper Jeurissen : jeurissenjasper@gmail.com, @jasperucci
Photo by Marie Noordbergen and Arnaud Pyvka
While I was making dinner I started telling my friend the fox that I been to Paradise that afternoon. I was hoping she wouldn’t ask too many questions like...was I on the guest list? Was it crowded? Or...what as His name?
And then she asked...ever so slyly...if I ate the apple. My foxxy friend likes to go out of her way to push my buttons sometimes. She knows I have a hard time being such a celebrity. She knows I hate labels. She knows I have a lot of pressure and responsibilty. So, I decided not to go there and I just gave her «The look» and that was that. She immediatley started chopping up the onions. I wasn’t too sure how to describe what happened to me that afternoon so I thought about drawing her a picture. I would have drawn the cargo boat that took me from Olympia to Atlanta. Deep water. I would have drawn the girl I met with black hair and blue eyes who was crying because she was being tormented by her bitchy big sister and that I didn’t want to tell her that she looked beautiful when she cried...
When our boat docked, a woman dressed all in black bumped into me so hard, it hurt so I started to cry. She didn’t even seem to notice because she was too busy hurrying her three boys along. She had an accent from Elista which made me cry even harder...
I had to walk from the port to the train station. It wasn’t very long but I found myself in a rundown part of town with dilapedated townhouses and Kebab shops. It reminded me of my godmother’s old neighborhood. She looked like Audrey Hepburn and had lots of lovers who played piano. Her fireplace was always firing and her birds always birding. I passed by an old woman working in her garden behind a closed old iron fence. Her dogs barked loudly at me. The woman looked up and fixed me with her eyes. A kaléidoscope of color and outrage planted with gréât care. She was silent and alone in her garden. I didn’t want to stop and ask her for directions. I felt she needed to stay protected and safe behind that iron fence. So I lowered my eyes and kept on walking...
I made it to the station on time. I bought my ticket and sat down to wait for my train. I started to hum a Calabrese song about a boy losing his father to the Mafia. The train arrived and I found my seat next to an old woman who sat straight up with the noble neck of a Queen. We looked out the window in silence but I could hear her story in my head. Too Young to know better, young mother of four. Raise your children Nona and when they’re grown take the train and run away to walk on the Promenade des Anglais...
My friend the fox was crying...from the onions, not my story I’m sure. So I told her to stop chopping and serve us a glass of wine. She asked me if I took pictures but I told her my phone died so I couldn’t. I finally decided to draw something. I did the best I could but despite my efforts all I could manage were some squiggly blue lines. I realised that what I was drawing was my energy. My Scottish healer showed me how to balance my energy but she says that before energy can be balanced you have to be able to visualise it.
At that point foxxy looked up at me and asked if she was going to be alright?
She looked shaken as if I had unlocked a secret door. The layers are infinite but the same story gets told over and over again. I wanted to soothe her. I wanted to lock all my love in a gold Cameo necklace and put it around her neck so she could hold it close. I wanted her to know that this was a living record of all of my stories, which were also her stories so that deep holes of darkness could be filled with every shade of color.