Essays:
Con todo Corazon...
Agnes Leuenroth, poet photographer
The wind coming from Salinas carries the scent of rosmary and sage that hits me the moment I step off the plane. The sight of the familiar mountains and the one remaining windmill fills me with joy, while the Island is changing and doing it fast.
The intent of my visit is not to mourn the past, but to find what's left of her beauty, to hold and share it with others, which has the side effect of a pleasure almost surpassing the initial moment of discovery.
Every skinny cat who's purpose in life is a piece of sun dried fish and her thin shadow on the wall- is pure Art to me .The secret gardens in the old part of Ibiza with a window so small one just gets a hint of a lushness that only hidden treasures promise.
The broken dishes in the over flowing garbage pail excites and inspires me to take a picture and write a poem ...think long and hard about beauty and its purpose and make me ponder what Art truly is, the unexpected or the purposely created...or the word that holds the image?
Perhaps Art is the blue painted stone in the fields, that makes me smile as if I am privy to an insider joke .The goats and sheep that graze in the fields under an olive tree who are sentinels of changing times, they impersonate beauty and live it -while I am forever...only the observer.
Slowly an old woman gathers an arm full of greens behind her house, her sun bleached dress, the straw hat that shields her eyes from the sun, is that Art? Or is it Art when I write a poem about it, that you may read.
Perhaps Art is the silence between the words, that is carried from me to you .The sunlight in the water, the taste of a ripe fig, the blue stone or my love for this Island trampled by tourists and hidden under two star hotels and nightclubs, or perhaps it is Art, when I take a picture of the artichoke pedals scraped by my teeth that fell on the sand under the wooden table.
