Keeping up with the long standing Herrmann tradition of being late, I eagerly leaned forward in the back seat of my taxi to see through the cracked windshield, counting how many blocks on Rustaveli Ave I had left till my destination. Finally, I saw the drama masks rising into view on my left and quickly called for the driver to stop. A few laris, underground tunnels, and ticket purchases later I hastily followed the line of the
woman’s arm as she pointed me toward the theatre. Left? I asked in Georgian as I cautiously craned my neck around the corner into what seemed like a construction zone of missing walls and dusty cement. 'Ki. Yes,' she assured me, her hand still raised in the air pointing towards the desolate opening. Taking my chances I jumped over a missing floor board and quickly opened one of two doors with indistinguishable signs in hopes that I could still make the opening scene of the performance. Quietly closing the door behind me, I soon realized that my Georgian stopped at understanding ‘left’ and ‘yes.’ For a moment, all was still as I stared blankly into the actors’ startled expressions, who were unquestionably surprised to find a girl dressed in a suit back stage minutes before the opening number. Though at a loss for words, all I kept thinking was how this picture, of me still clenching onto the door handle in fear, of the actors staring at me, half curious, half amused, would make a great snapshot for some Rockwell painting. Apologizing in a whisper, I bashfully turned around and exited their sacred space. Luckily as pantomime performers they couldn’t express their shock, or perhaps irritation, save for an angry face or an invisible cane to pull me away.
Hoping for better luck with the second door, I breathed a sigh of relief at
the scene of audience members sitting in a small auditorium of tattered
green seats listening to a passionate storyteller just below the stage.
Despite the lack of lip movement by the actors, the performance was one of
the best I have seen thus far here in Georgia. The story was, as all stories
are, about a man and a woman, about love. But it was so much more than that.
Each scene in the play was modeled after a Pirosmoni painting, the most
famous Georgian painter. It began with a scene of growing flowers flowing
into an autumn harvest. It lyrically swept into a picture of bull fighting and onto a lonesome traveler’s night train. The actors swirled into compositions of circus performers, dancers, lovers, enemies all with the flick of their wrists or the wrinkle of their nose. The entire cast was dressed in all black save for one colorful scarf. The differed colored pieces of fabric became their costumes and their scenery. They stretched to become the wings of a bird and the hats of drinking countrymen. They grew up as the stalks of wheat in a late October sky and shrank with the death of love on a cold December’s twilight. Everything from the concept of portraying artistic compositions through modern dance to the creativity of the production was inspirational.
And yet, all my adventures seem to hold some sort of wondrous inspiration, this weekend living up to that almost preconceived expectation. It began with chocolate fondue and a Jazz concert sponsored by a local bank. I was fortunate enough to be offered an invitation by a friend to accompany him to see the father of Georgian Jazz. Unexpected for most, Jazz has a large
presence in Tbilisi and the Caucuses in general. At a time of musical and
artistic oppression and shortly after its defeat, the emergence of Jazz
symbolized liberty and the freedom of expression of the west. Even today as
one gets lost among the winding roads of Tbilisi you can hear jazz floating
on high from countless cafes. The show was, as always, brilliant. The
musicians came alive with their instruments, allowing each individual note
to paint a rich picture in the air above of what the music meant to them.
The love they had for the music and the passion they put into each stroke of
string or keys were the perfect ingredients to a flawless evening.
With the music still echoing in my ears, I awoke the next morning ready to
embrace the day with a two hour car ride out to the border of Azerbaijan to
visit the Davit Gareja monastery complex. The ride there was almost as
beautiful as the site itself. Though at first the landscape was seriously
polluted with plastic bags and piles of rubbish the city grit soon faded
away into hills of lushes farms ready to begin the planting season. Herds of
cow and sheep seemed endless as we continued on the dirt road, at times
having to stop to allow a herder and his flock to cross. Eventually the
fields turned to desolate lands and then a semi-desert terrain with sharp
mountains jutting up in the distance. Arriving at the monastery, our guide
led us through the opened area of the still-working complex, telling us the
legends of this hallowed land. Thousands of monks had lived here throughout
its history, some living in complete solitude in their caves, others facing massacre bravely in the face of invading Turks. We then began our two hour
hike up the mountain (for you Lehigh folks, imagine the death stairs between Rathbone and Richards for an hour straight), over the top, and then into the caves of the monastery. The rooms were magnificently carved out of the rock
with niches for candles and domed ceilings. Many of the compartments, particularly the refractory and the main church, still had Frescos (in painfully poor condition) covering their walls of ancient saints and
biblical scenes dating as early as the 6th Century. The surrounding nature paralleled the caves in its aesthetic might. Taking in the warmth of the sun’s light (and apparently a sunburn too), I stood in awe of the austere
beauty of the rocks of Georgia to my right and the fields of Azerbaijan to
my left. My eyes slowly moved from the blossoming wild almond trees with
their delicate pink flowers towards the stratified green and red rock
formations, up to the unfeasibly blue sky dotted with puffs of smoke from
farmers clearing their land for the new season. The trip, and those before
and those to come, continued to show me just how breathtaking the country of
Georgia is.
After the performance at the Pantomime Theatre, I ran into a co-worker whose
family was visiting from Israel. They graciously offered me a ride back to
my house and somewhere in between the lobby and the parking lot decided on
the necessity of dinner as well. Thus, the five of us packed into the car
and drove downtown to a local restaurant for beans, chicken, corn bread, and
plum sauce. We discussed dance therapy, shared travel stories, and
reminisced about the days of our childhoods. Though these posts may deceive,
my adventures, work, and constant worrying about graduate school and
fellowship applications are rather exhausting. For any who know me, my
personality type doesn’t lend well to the notion of relaxation or mediocrity
in any segment of my life. In spite of the rewards I reap from this mindset,
I must admit at times I forget to, simply, breathe, or laugh. As I sat there
with tears in my eyes from laughing at the violinist and pianist’s rendition
of Hava Nagela (with the rest of the restaurant surprisingly singing along),
serenading our table with the Georgian pronunciation of those familiar
Hebrew words, and gazing as the smiles of strangers turned friends, I forgot
about those pending Marshall interviews or override registration forms. For
a moment I remembered the importance of living in the present and enjoying
the simplicity of life. Wiping the tears from my cheeks and raising my wine
glass with a smile, I knew that the realization of how important pausing
from the chaos of life and, well, just breathing, wouldn’t escape me again.
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