I had a secret girlfriend back in my foolish youthful days. She was a short black-haired beauty who didn’t speak a word of English. To say her background was storied and strange would be an understatement. Her life read more like some fictional character who wanders in and out of the dark mysterious pages of some foreign novel masterpiece.
I never met her in person. By the time we were first
introduced, her life was coming to a sad and lonely end in her villa in the
south of France. Her last words supposedly were “Every damn fool thing you do
in this life, you pay for.” Her grave is in Pere Lachaise Cemetery in Paris.
Year in and year out, it is one of the most visited grave sites in all of
France.
To wit; she was born on December 19th,
1915. Over her lifetime, she experienced lost love, true love, tremendous
heartache, poverty and fame well beyond her wildest imagination. She was named
Edith after the World War One British nurse Edith Cavell who was executed for
helping French soldiers escape from German captivity. Her last name was Piaf
which is slang for sparrow. It was a nickname she received in her early
twenties and became her moniker for life. ‘The Little Sparrow.’
Edith Piaf became a French cabaret singer who was
widely regarded as France’s national diva as well as being one of France’s
greatest international stars. She is still considered by most of her countrymen
as a national treasure even after her death in 1963.
She came back to mind when I was in Paris recently
and couldn’t help but notice that her records were still being sold at record
stores throughout the city and country. I have several of her CDs and playing
them still brings back a plethora of pleasant memories.
Edith was introduced to me about the same time I met
Susan and began my metamorphosis into a wanna-be hippie, television apprentice,
struggling writer and seeker of all things a bit off course. Somehow this
little French woman who sang beautiful lyrics I couldn’t understand was able to
communicate with me on a deep emotional level that touched my soul…or some part
of my body that responded in kind.
In turn, she became an icon for all those artists,
musicians, writers, actors and other creative types who have touched me with
their wonderful works of art. It might be a simple song but one with melodies
and lyrics that still resonate after all these years. It might be their movie
story-telling that inspired me to begin writing screenplays. It might be their character-driven
novels that encouraged me to give it a go myself.
It’s fair to say that my love of foreign films,
travel, living abroad and most things foreign can probably be directly traced
back to that little French waif and her lilting melodies.
The simple ability of one person to create something
of such magnitude that it still affects people years later is quite remarkable.
I thought about that as I toured Monet’s garden in Giverny, France and then the hospital where
Vincent van Gogh committed himself for his depression. I thought about that as
I skipped around YouTube late one night, listening to those ‘oldest but goodies’
from the Fifties. I’ve already waxed poetic in past blogs about the influence
that the songs of Bob Dylan and the Beatles had on my youth. Edith would be
right up there with the best of them.
The subject of creativity is one that has dogged my
imagination and tested my patience since the beginning of time…my time that is.
As always, there are numerous web sites that explore this subject of
creativity. One of the best that I’ve found is called Brain Pickings Weekly.
I also tried to touch on it with another blog
entitled: The Ultimate Elixir. Creativity
is like some seductive mistress that one can’t get out of one’s head. It’s a
temptress that promises emotional euphoria and deep satisfaction but delivers
only a temporary respite from the deeper thirst for more. Yet it’s a thirst
that can never be quenched and dries the soul outside of its infinite pursuit.
They say for some there is a quiet spot between the
madness and greatness of the pursuit. I don’t want the greatness and I fear the
madness. I just want that quiet spot; the satisfaction of knowing that I
tried…and let the chips fall where they may. It’s a pursuit I can’t walk away
from.
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