Petals of Red, Petals of Gold

A mask I made to commemorate the life of Marguerite Piazza. The petals of red represent her life on stage, the red velvet curtains; and the gold petals are her memories of that life.

It’s a night for remembering, and like all New Year’s Eve’s, a time  for looking back and pondering.

As a cold front blows in, I can hear the rain falling  in the varied movements of a sonata, changing its tempo and mood; the raindrops hitting the roof  in pounding torrents,  pattering on the leaves and the street in a lively staccato,  and at other times,  drumming its fingers on the windows.

And so it has been this year.

Passages, movements, whatever you want to call it, it’s all the same, it’s change.

I don’t want change to come to me via erosion.I want to change creatively, to become who I need to be.

I believe there is a seed  within each  of us that is meant to grow into an incredibly special and magnificently unique person. It’s sort of what the generation before us used to call, “living up to your potential”, but on a much more personal and individual level. It’s why I get so excited about most people–and frustrated with other people. It’s such a gosh darn shame when people do not honor the beauty of their soul and self.

Beyond the boxes and the layers of  tissue paper of position and insecurity and ideology, there is such a tender and fragile beauty in us all, a gift so precious and valuable. That is why I make my masks like I do–not to hide the person wearing them, but to reveal their  lovely inner natures.

As the rain continues to fall, I think of the song by Bob Dylan, a Hard Rain is Going to Fall.

Oh, what’ll you do now, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, what’ll you do now, my darling young one?
I’m a-goin’ back out ’fore the rain starts a-fallin’
I’ll walk to the depths of the deepest black forest
Where the people are many and their hands are all empty
Where the pellets of poison are flooding their waters
Where the home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison
Where the executioner’s face is always well hidden
Where hunger is ugly, where souls are forgotten
Where black is the color, where none is the number
And I’ll tell it and think it and speak it and breathe it
And reflect it from the mountain so all souls can see it
Then I’ll stand on the ocean until I start sinkin’
But I’ll know my song well before I start singin’
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard
It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall

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