Just before sunrise, when I was
walking my dog in a narrow street, I came face to face with Pietro Calvi’s
Othello. It was a bit surreal, and I blamed the vision to the weak coffee I had
brewed.
But it was real. There it was, outside
the house, on the concrete, Othello’s bust that made Calvi famous in 1870. It was homage
by Calvi to the African American actor Ira Aldridge, the first Black actor to
play Othello in England in 1825.
There were ten versions of the
marble and bronze bust and I had seen one of them in the Walters Art Museum in
Baltimore. Now, I was facing a plaster duplica, left on the ground, in
Prescott, Arizona. It was beautifully done though, although the desert weather
had taken its toll. But Desdemona’s handkerchief was there, so was the single
tear on Othello’s face.
I took a quick picture and I move
on. My dog did not seem to appreciate Shakespeare interfering with his morning
walk.
A mile or so in to the walk,
somehow, I thought of Leonard Cohen. Perhaps it was the tortured soul of Othello;
or the influence L. Cohen’s poetry has had on my youth. It was a fond memory,
and I did not mind letting my dog extend his morning promenade longer than
usual.
… It was 1976 and I was a college
student in Montreal. We were francophone then, but L. Cohen was already a rebel
troubadour for my generation. I recall going to one of his concerts in
Vancouver, even though we did not understand all his words – but we did
associate with his persona and outlook.
The last time I saw L. Cohen was in
2009, at the Merriweather Post Pavilion in Columbia Maryland. He was an old man
now, and it was one of his last concerts. Now his voice had given way to all
the wisdom his life had allowed him to keep.
For me, it was like turning the last
page of a book, knowing the ending, but still hoping for a surprise.
When I came back home and fed my
dog, I brewed a stronger pot of coffee and let my experience and feelings of
the morning walk find their war in and into words.
Here is what came out – not surprisingly
Cohenesque lines within that single tear on Othello’s face:
Life
is designed to overthrow you
While
you write to clear your mind
About
what can be
On
blank paper that once was a proud tree
And
it wasn't an offering
But
was offered, anyhow
And
your words
Looked
like a wooden bowl
Tasting
of honey
And
your song sounded like a newborn
Learning
from you
About
you
Knowing
he will become you
One
day
After
his first heartbreak
Life
is designed to overthrow you
Even
when you're at the foothills
Of
where sunsets burn the clouds
To
shade names
And
bathe sad brown eyes
In
offering
August 17, 2024
© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2024
