{"id":9519,"date":"2018-03-22T10:54:48","date_gmt":"2018-03-22T08:54:48","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.travel-advisor.eu\/?p=9519"},"modified":"2018-03-22T10:54:48","modified_gmt":"2018-03-22T08:54:48","slug":"tales-behind-windowpanes","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/travel-advisor.eu\/en\/tales-behind-windowpanes\/","title":{"rendered":"Tales behind windowpanes"},"content":{"rendered":"

Whenever I first get into a new city, I gleefully notice the windows and doors on houses.<\/strong> One of the first things I learned to draw when I was a kid were houses, of course. I always thought windows to be the eyes and doors the mouth of those houses. The nose was a bit of a problem, but chimneys and water drains worked as ears.Tales behind windowpanes.<\/p>\n

Houses are one of those huge symbols open to many interpretations. They can be boxes \u2013 my eternal source of inspiration. They can be heads, books, cities and the whole world. I used to make my Barbie dolls houses out of shoeboxes, and matchboxes were furniture.<\/p>\n

\"Tales<\/p>\n

Nevertheless, when I grew up I resisted being a Barbie doll in a shoebox. That’s why I enjoy endless gallivants and never stay in the same place for too long. Whenever I visit a new town or city, I explore it excitedly, wishing I could stay there as long as possible and then I leave in even higher spirits. However, subconsciously I keep looking for a place I’d settle in, and so I observe the houses imagining one of them was mine.<\/p>\n

I envy the citizens of each town on their security and the sense of belonging, while lamenting the dullness and humdrum they must be going through. The very syndrome of being a citizen of some place grew out of this paradox, because, there are no maps of cities and countries for me.<\/p>\n

\"Tales<\/p>\n

They are all mere conventional illusions set up to help those who cannot find their feet in a borderless world. And the world unravels before us who are borderless. And so, there is a town made up of all the places I’ve ever visited. All the houses there have mysterious windows, and if you peeked through them, might be able to discern the plot unravelling behind the curtains swaying in the wind. That is because each house writes a novel of its own. Yet, I still crave home and peace, which is why I keep looking for a place I\u2019d find them and look at houses, imagining them as mine.<\/p>\n

There are whole novels playing out in those houses, and if you take a better look through the windows, you might be able to discern the plot unravelling behind the curtains swaying in the wind.<\/p>\n

\"Tales<\/p>\n

I reckon any person who likes writing and photography is a bit of a voyeur. Personally, I don\u2019t care much for people as real beings, I\u2019m more interested in them as archetypes, imaginary characters from the novel I keep writing in my subconsciousness. When I do spy on them, I don\u2019t do it because I want to intrude their privacy and learn about their lives, I do it because I want to learn about humanity. I give most of my attention to trifles people use to fulfil their lives and I yearn to understand them.<\/p>\n

\"Tales<\/p>\n

I\u2019m endlessly amused by the colours of the walls and wallpapers, coffee cup design, the patterns on pillowcases and bedsheets (and if they match), the fabric on the curtains (handmade or store-bought), the needlework on woollen sweaters, contents of female purses, books on the shelves, pencils in pencil cases, pictures in wallets and so on. If I cannot see the house from the inside, then I analyse its exterior. You can deduce all sorts of things from the shape of the windows only. Windows are gateways to an endless, limitless world behind them.<\/p>\n

My favourite windows are scattered all over the Mediterranean, hidden among the maritime towns. My favourite window needs to have blue or green panes, out of which at least one needs to be open, for the sake of mystery. And hand-embroidered lace curtains should be peeking behind them, dancing as if wind was playing just for them, luring them into a jig and sways inside and outside, just enough to spark the imagination of passers-by. Flowers sit in handpicked pots on windowsills. An occasional cat may stop and take in a bit of sun before stretching and scurrying away at the sound of the window being opened by some woman with rollers in her hair, who is out to water the flowers from a handpicked blue polka-dotted bowl.<\/p>\n

\"Tales<\/p>\n

The woman then glances up and down the street, takes a deep breath and disappears behind the curtains she may have, and hopefully did, made herself. And then we, who have been furtively observing her, are presented with yet another mystery. Where is she now and what could that woman be doing? If we wait long enough, she might bring smiles to our faces again, by pulling another performance, such as hanging the laundry to dry on a wire, which I had not even noticed before, because, dear me, that window has that too up above it. Depending on the colours and sizes of those colourful clothes, we can guess how many people live in the house, how old they are and their genders too. There are even babies sometimes, so we can be in awe of different colourful onesies hanging there, exuding the smell of laundry detergents.<\/p>\n

\"Tales<\/p>\n

And then, of course, I would wonder what kind of a detergent this woman sues. Some of them are equal in quality, but some are more expensive, like Lenor, which makes me inclined to believe that various wannabes buy it, only to appear fashionable. I, for one, only buy it on discount. I cannot understand why it\u2019s so popular, when it smells exactly the same as some others. You can\u2019t even hear the word detergent anymore, it\u2019s only Lenor, that\u2019s how popular it\u2019s become.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s as if Lenor is byword for detergents, a common noun, rather than a proper one. Then I notice that water is still dripping from the freshly-hanged laundry, but the woman from the window does not appeared to be perturbed by this, as she does not reappear. Maybe she\u2019s making lunch right now? Although I cannot smell any food, I can imagine what\u2019s being prepared there. If our lady is one of those wannabes who buy Lenor at full price, then she\u2019s most likely to be preparing broccoli soup, and if she buys some other detergents, then she\u2019ll be making beans with lots of onions.<\/p>\n

\"Tales<\/p>\n

My perfect window has never really been mine. Wherever I lived, I never had beautiful windows. This is why I\u2019m carefully preserving the idea of the perfect window for some future ventures. One day, when I\u2019m no longer a vagabond, but some \u201ccommon\u201d woman in bathrobes and rollers and kids and kitchen, then I\u2019ll have that window.<\/p>\n

I\u2019ll paint the windowpanes every spring into a different colour, and I\u2019ll always scrape the final coat of paint a bit, so that the old colour could also be discerned. I\u2019ll make my own curtains on my mum\u2019s old sewing machine and if I ever learn to sew in a zig-zagging pattern without breaking the needle, I\u2019ll crochet lace on the bottom of these curtains which will reach the potted flowers. I\u2019ll water my flowers regularly, careful not to let Lenor drip all over them. Sorry, did I say Lenor? I meant some cheaper detergent. And of course I\u2019ll make sure that broccoli soup doesn\u2019t spray my windows. Sorry, it\u2019s beans, not broccoli soup, and they\u2019re bound to burn anyway.<\/p>\n

One day, when I\u2019m no longer a vagabond, I\u2019ll move into a small house by the sea, and watch the world go by from my windows, the eyes of the house I drew as a kid. The windowpanes will be eyelashes.<\/p>\n

\"Tales<\/p>\n

Right now, while I\u2019m still a vagabond with a notebook and a camera, I kinda envy those women behind the windowpanes. I envy them on their security. Once I become one of them, I\u2019ll envy young girls with cameras passing by my house and admiring my flowers, curtains and laundry, envying me in return. The smell of my lunch might attract some of them. I might even invite one to join me for lunch.<\/p>\n

She\u2019ll then tell me how beautiful my curtains are and I\u2019ll brag about having made them myself on my mum\u2019s 30-year-old sewing machine. \u201cWhat about this lace?\u201d, she\u2019ll ask. \u201cI made it myself too\u201d, I\u2019ll proudly say. She\u2019ll then ask me about my cactuses, and I\u2019ll tell her each of their stories and how I re-pot them every spring into ever so big pots.<\/p>\n

\u201cBut, don\u2019t you get all stung while you\u2019re re-potting them?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, but whatever you love will sting you.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d<\/p>\n

\"Tales<\/p>\n

\u201cThese cactuses did not choose to live in my pots. Their ancestors were long ago brought from the desert, and these ones here are now carriers of genetic information about their homelands, and they still crave their homes through those subconscious memories. And I made an artificial home for them, I encaged them in these lovely pots full of sand and dirt, which should remind them of home. Only because I love them.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAren\u2019t you then \u201cbeing evil towards them? \u2013 she\u2019ll ask in confusion.<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u201cI am\u201d, I\u2019ll respond calmly. \u201cWe\u2019re all evil towards what we love, because we want to own it, to possess it, to tame it and take away its freedom. And they sting us in return.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s an interesting theory\u201d, she\u2019ll add thoughtfully before asking: \u201cIs it even possible to love someone without doing them harm?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOf course\u201d, I will then hurry to make my point.<\/p>\n

\u201cHow?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBy letting them be.\u201d<\/p>\n

And then a strange silence will fall before she finally continues: I do understand your cactuses. I would also prefer to live freely in the nature than in such a lovely pot, like the one on your windowsill.<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t you think I understand them too?\u201d, I\u2019ll reply. \u201cDon\u2019t you see that this house is like that perfect pot?\u201d, I\u2019ll probably think, but won\u2019t say it out loud.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy don\u2019t you set them free then?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s too late for them, they wouldn\u2019t be able to fend for themselves out there in the wilderness. They have picked up some new habits now, forgotten their roots and can no longer live without their pots or me.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"Tales<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd yet they still sting you?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s just their subconscious revenge. I can take it.\u201d<\/p>\n

And then I\u2019ll probably feel a bit awkward and I\u2019ll change the topic quickly: \u201cWhy did you decide to stop and take a photo of my house?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u201cBecause I\u2019d love to live in a house just like yours one day.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOne day will come too soon.\u201d, I\u2019ll murmur, but then I\u2019ll realise I\u2019m broaching a dangerous topic and change the subject again: \u201cGo on then, show me the picture.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"Tales<\/p>\n

We both agree that the photo had not come out great because the house seems somehow crooked, just like all object usually do in pictures. I tell her this phenomenon is called distortion and it can be fixed in Photoshop, but I won\u2019t be showing her how because I myself have no idea. She\u2019ll be evidently disappointed in her photo and keep telling me that she cannot capture the beauty of it and everything she had felt and experienced when she\u2019d seen it. I\u2019ll tell her not to worry about the fact that the photo cannot convey the impression well as long as her memory does it. \u201cPeople care more about photos than their own memories and emotions, probably because they cannot show the latter.\u201d<\/p>\n

Then I\u2019ll tell how well I still remember one water drain from Kotor, from which the clouds cried and no picture of mine had managed to preserve its despair. I also remember one small chimney from Ohrid, a cute little ashen construction which smoked in its modesty, while some elderly people, possibly, might have been sparking the fire under it, making tea on some old stove. I also remember how none of my pictures could ever quite catch the cough of that little chimney as it cramped in sad Ohrid winter.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt might be for the better if we didn\u2019t even try to take such photos\u201d, she\u2019ll say, referring to the fact that failed photos can discourage us from recalling the true beauty of some sight, because the ugliness of photos tend to contradict the virtual beauty. \u201cIf it weren\u2019t for these photos, we could always dream away about these little sights and embellish them in our imagination. The taken photos are a proof against the case of beauty.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"Tales<\/p>\n

\u201cIt is still better to risk it, because those photos which are not taken have a way of getting back at us.\u201d, I\u2019ll call upon the words of some poet, whose name is long-forgotten. I\u2019ll tell her not to worry about the fact that she cannot afford a \u201cbig, professional camera\u201d, because her \u201ctiny amateur one\u201d will take more passionate\u00a0 photos because the very word \u201camateur\u201d originates from \u201camor\u201d, which stands for love.<\/p>\n

She\u2019ll then take a look at the photos I\u2019d taken with a \u201cbig professional camera\u201d and yearn to take some like those too. \u201cAnd you will\u201d, I\u2019ll try to mollify her, \u201cbut you\u2019ll be more fond of any bad photo of the indisposed chimney\u201d.<\/p>\n

\"Tales<\/p>\n

I\u2019ll then tell her about the beauty of the plaster castings decorating old buildings around Europe and the ash sticking to their edges. And how we try to imitate that ash whenever we paint something. Then I might even teach her how to make that ashen effect herself from her own makeup, once she decides to stop using it. \u201cBut I\u2019ll always use makeup\u201d, she\u2019ll respond. \u201cYou won\u2019t\u201d, I\u2019ll tell her in a calming and reassuring manner before showing her some used-up samples which used to be new and pretty. She\u2019ll recognise them at once.<\/p>\n

Then I\u2019ll talk at length about wonderful plaster castings on balconies in Sydney, curious mailboxes in the US and Welcome signs on every house, black painted buildings in New York, gardens like those from the movie about Edward Scissorhands and the hills in Australia, where cows amble in even greater numbers than here in Serbia, and how those cows are always drowsy because they keep getting high on eucalyptus leaves. And I\u2019ll mention also how surfers are not as good-looking as they are made out to be in the movies.<\/p>\n

\"Tales<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019ve really travelled a lot\u201d, she\u2019ll say.
\n\u201cYet you\u2019ve seen far more than me.\u201d
\n\u201cHow come when I\u2019ve never even left the village?\u201d, she\u2019ll asked confused.
\n\u201cIt\u2019s because this village is the whole world.\u201d<\/p>\n

And then the coffee will finally be ready, so I\u2019ll dock into the kitchen and she\u2019ll keep casting glances after me and seize up my wallpapers.<\/p>\n

\u201cI have to go, it\u2019s getting late.\u201d, she\u2019ll say.<\/p>\n

\u201cBut the broccoli soup is not ready yet, why don\u2019t you stay for lunch?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHonestly, I\u2019m not much of a fan; we don\u2019t have broccoli in my village.\u201d<\/p>\n

As she is about to leave, I offer to hail a cab for her.<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t worry, I can walk, it\u2019s not that far.<\/p>\n

\u201cBut it\u2019s getting dark outside.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m not afraid of dark.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd it\u2019s about to rain too.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m not afraid of rain either.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"Tales<\/p>\n

And then she\u2019ll dash out of the house, leaving me to look after her from my window. She\u2019ll look back only once. She\u2019ll take another look at the open windowpanes, painted in blue with yellow and green tones protruding through it. She\u2019ll admire the old curtains my mum had crocheted and I finished when her hands got to shaky. Her eyes will trail all the cactuses and along them the road to Srem, Belgrade, Tivat and all the sandy deserts in the world. She\u2019ll then look at me, and see herself leaving for Europe, Americas, Australia, Asia, Africa, Antarctica, Moon and Mars. She\u2019ll start out of her reverie suddenly and call out for me to close my windows because it\u2019s about to start raining. And then she\u2019ll start running, barefoot, as fast as she can without ever looking back.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m not afraid of rain either!\u201d, I\u2019ll call out to her, to the night, but she won\u2019t hear me because she\u2019ll already be too far.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m not afraid of rain either!!!\u201d, I\u2019ll cry out even louder, struggling to overpower the sound of rain, which will keep pelting down as my stings rise into the sky.<\/p>\n

And then I\u2019ll stay at the window for a long time, looking into the darkness where the girl had disappeared as clouds keep coming down all over me, my stings and my cactuses, as we all keep getting drenched in the rain and in our own pots.<\/p>\n

Author: Mirjana Vasiljevic<\/a><\/p>\n

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