Paris, 25 October 2012
We found ourselves in a brazilian man’s apartment in Paris. With glasses of wine in hand and splatters of paint decorating the carpet. As his friends socialized in heavily accented french and english he nailed a crisp white sheet of paper to the wall, ready to begin. An old grand piano sat unattended in the corner, we waited for its muse. The door bell. The pianist had arrived, it was time to begin. A moment of stillness settled over the room, the collective in-breath before we exhaled a world of sketched color, fragile in its momentary existence. The piano sang, bodies twisted around space and each other, words danced across the air. And when we were finished, and all was still the crisp white paper was no more. We looked into each other with new eyes, still unable to communicate with words, but they were no longer necessary.