Friday, 26 December 2008
Between Past and Future/Entre le passé et l'avenir
"Perceval"
Lead pencil on paper. Click on the picture to enlarge it.
Mine de plomb sur papier. Cliquer sur l'image pour l'aggrandir.
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The year draws to a close, and one takes stock of what must be consigned to the past, and what may be held in the heart for the future.
L'année arrive à sa fin, et on fait le point de ce qu'il faut laisser dans le passé, et ce qu'on peut garder dans son coeur pour l'avenir.
Perceval was a small white canary who was so tame he would nestle in my hand. He also fit in my daughter’s hand, when she was but five. He would protest with a single loud peep when she took him up to carry him about the house in her fist, and would register his approval of his release with another loud peep. Aside from that he marked no other objection to such adventures. Once back in his cage he would rustle his feathers back into place, flick his tail and burst into song, flitting from one end of the perch to the other, trying to see where the acoustics were best.
Perceval était un petit canari blanc si apprivoisé qu'il se blottait dans ma main. Il était également juste la bonne taille pour la main de ma fille, quand elle n'avait que cinq ans. Il protestait avec un seul piaillement fort quand elle l'attrapait pour le promener à la maison dans son poignet, et il marquait son approbation de sa liberté quand elle le relâchait, avec encore un deuxième piaillement fort. Mais à part ça, il n'avait pas d'autres objections à de telles aventures. Une fois revenu à l'intérieur de sa cage il remettait toutes ses plumes en ordre, donnait un petit coup à sa queue et il se lançait dans une explosion de chanson, volettant d'un bout de son perchoir à l'autre, essayant de trouver où l'acoustique était le mieux.
I recall my childhood home in a New England forest, where sometimes in winter an ice storm would sheathe every leaf and every bough with what seemed to be glass. The rising sun glancing through the ice would dazzle me when I drew my bedroom curtains open. Perceval’s song was as crystalline as that. The liquid notes spilling from his tiny throat cast me back to my own childhood dreamings in the wood: of errant knights longing for the magical bird to sing the secret they sought, if they could only find him among the glittering trees magically turned to diamond.
J'ai grandie dans une maison dans une forêt de la Nouvelle Angleterre, et quelquefois en hiver une tempête de glace laisserait une couche sur chaque feuille et chaque branche qui semblait ainsi d'être fait de verre. La lumière du soleil à travers la glace m'aveuglait quand j'ouvrais les rideaux de ma chambre le matin. La chanson de Perceval était aussi cristalline que ça. Les notes qui surgissaient de sa petite gorge me renvoyaient à mes rêves imaginés dans le bois: de chevaliers errants poursuivant l'oiseau enchanté pour qu'il chante le secret qu'ils cherchaient, si seulement ils pouvaient le trouver parmi les arbres magiquement diamantés.
Perceval lived with us long, trilling his joy as my children grew taller than me. He grew old, and just as the icy wood gradually sparkled less and grew still with the dying day, so did Perceval grow imperceptibly more silent. Not long ago he nestled in my hand one last time, a fluffy ball of white feathers, and then died in the night. As his little wisp of soul fled on soundless, shadowy wings, I dreamed again: of night fallen on the glassy ice-stormed wood of my youth. The diamond trees no longer glittered and sparkled, but the moonlight shining through the ice awoke its mystical nature, and the wood sang a silent song of divinity that never dies.
Perceval a vécu avec nous pendant longtemps, faisant des roulades de joie pendant que mes enfants sont devenus plus grand que moi. Il a vieilli, et juste comme le bois de glace qui étincelait moins et qui se tenait de plus en plus tranquil avec le crepuscule, ainsi Perceval est devenu imperceptiblement de plus en plus silencieux. Il n'y a pas longtemps il s'est blottit dans ma main une dernière fois, une petite boule de duvet blanc avec ses yeux fermés, et puis il est mort dans la nuit. Pendant que le petite soupire de son âme est parti, j'ai rêvé encore: de la nuit tombée sur le bois rendu en verre par la tempête de glace dans ma jeunesse. Les arbres diamantés n'étincelaient plus, mais le clair de lune passant à travers la glace a réveillé sa nature mystique, et le bois chantait une chanson silencieuse de divinité, une chanson qui ne s'arrêtera jamais.
18:20 Posted in My Sketchbook/Mon carnet à dessin | Permalink | Comments (9) | Email this
Comments
I almost never read the French, but I was fascinated by the translation of "a silent song of divinity that never dies", maybe because I found it so beautiful..."une chanson silencieuse de divinité, une chanson qui ne s'arrêtera jamais", with the repeated "chanson", suggesting that you write the pieces in each language, not just write in one then translate into the other. Not that I doubted that, only that I hadn't really thought about it.
Posted by: Roger Green | Friday, 26 December 2008
Beautifully expressed. Your own dreams will now be looked after by Percivalut and his song will animate your own.
Posted by: mallard | Friday, 26 December 2008
Hi Roger,
It means a lot to me if I can touch on something in someone else by words or by art. When I do the translation from the English, I often find myself liking the way I say it in French better and going back to "correct" my English. In a way I sort of write them simultaneously...although when the language gets a bit poetic, the French sometimes get a little out of my grasp...
D.
Posted by: Deborah | Friday, 26 December 2008
What a beautiful entry, both the drawing (which seems to have your look in its eye - must be my imagination.) and your text! Perhaps there is a children's story germinating somewhere inside of you? The world awaits the quests of Perceval.
Posted by: Ted | Saturday, 27 December 2008
Thank you Ted! I'm so flattered...several people now have suggested I write a book with my own illustrations. Perhaps something is developing...
D.
Posted by: Deborah | Saturday, 27 December 2008
Hi Deborah,
What a beautiful story about Perceval, and how well you tell it! You really have a way with words.
Posted by: Christine | Saturday, 27 December 2008
Hi Deb, I read your sad piece about Perceval. Peace to his singing soul.
Posted by: Véronique | Sunday, 28 December 2008
This blog posting is one of your -- or perhaps your very -- best! I had meant to make a comment on it earlier, but it seems that others have already been heaping such (well-deserved) praises upon it, I was afraid I'd be repetitious. It also makes me a little sad that with your gift for writing that you don't do more of it. I know! I know! You're also a gifted artist and you don't have enough time for that, much less to have the time your writing deserves. You should really be given one of those McArthur Foundation Genius Grants, so you could both paint and write. Where do I nominate you?
Dennis
Posted by: Dennis | Sunday, 28 December 2008
Roxane was in tears after having read about the canari. We returned from a two-week South America cruise on the 26th. Have a most happy 2009 and tell me where I can send a card.
Geoerge V.
Posted by: George V. | Wednesday, 31 December 2008
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