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Without the look, it does not interest

Early CPR, I barely six years. My mother has a colleague who has taken a liking to her and who cares to see it go off every morning from the hospital where they work. Then she brings the car regularly, and during one of these trips friendly, punctuated by radio news and strict arrest in a small bakery that was divine chopsticks, she referred to my mother's dance classes where was her daughter every Wednesday for a year. It was in a municipal school of classical dance, and my parents would certainly registration fees low.
My mother taught me the registration form, a simple yellow sheet, that would be my name. She bought me a small bag pink and green water, I adored. And then very soft slippers, a pair of tights. The blue tutu is the colleague who offered it to me.
Wednesday afternoon, I liked everything. The lockers in the locker room, the rustle of tulle, the voices of girls to infinity when they change, the ballroom, its wooden floors, mirrors, the bar, his dark piano. I loved the meticulous movement, grace, its agreement with mysterious music. I was just a little embarrassed because I saw my reflection in the large mirrors, black hair, slanted eyes, I felt a bit lonely. And then one day, there was a suit to try to show later this year. And I overheard the teacher say to the seamstress "There ought to be a little round" . And they handed me the white satin tutu, as if it was a privilege. And I never went back to dance class on Wednesday.
This may explain in part the internal shock I felt seeing tonight Tanzträume (Dancing Dreams) , the documentary on these youngsters who ride Kontakthof , the beautiful performance of Pina Bausch, who in 1978.
Secretly, without them being related to sadness, the tears flooded my face silently. I was moved by the beauty of steps and swaying, the joyful energy of youth, despite the doubts and anguish, by the character of Joy, which seems so fragile in her pink dress but the outlook does not disturb the opening night. The scene where she simpers maliciously with a friend, both in powdered gala dresses, is magnificent. I also liked the mad scene from boogie and all that detail the accuracy of the unexpected direction, the special way of stroking hair or slap one cheek. I already want to see him. ****



For those remaining girls private dance lessons (or not), those who love photography, the Scandinavian furniture of the 50s, painting Bone China Blue home Little Green , Christmas lights, photos of Godard's films, those of Patti Smith, linen tea towels stained, picnics solely on checkered tablecloths with lemonade and processing of standard furniture design object, it seems to me essential to get the faster the number one (is that like me you like to compile a number of magazines?) the pretty journal Knock-knock-knock!
In Rennes, it is in the window of The beautiful story (8, rue Saint Melaine) but, in memory of an applique flowers purchased this summer, I ordered mine from Mum , an adorable boutique Bordeaux demonic enough if you like pins in wood, fabric bags, boards clouds or vintage books ...


(I still have lots to tell but sometimes I hesitate, because I find I ramble serious. Fortunately, P. E. and his glasses, C. amid eucalyptus, in C. the same country, the Salle Pleyel E., V. as in Bloomsbury, on the other side C. Atlantic and the other G. know to be encouraging and caring. They shall thankfully! And then Mr. started a blog! Incredible!)