I am attracted to poems about red carpet moments, streaks of gold, a showcase light shining on airbrushed makeup touched up just half an hour before.
Also the way neon dresses up a city in the midst of summer, highlighting, advertising, the buzzing above an active street corner. Beautifully masked dancers,
etched with sequins, do something for me too. The way they shift their motions, painting a picture in the naked space, blanketed by royal red curtains on either side.
People who strive for the spotlight­ well, I am not one, but I like seeing what they master: swift struts before a starstruck applause.
Powder particles fluttering about the dressing room covered with shiny costumes. How difficult not to run curious hands through their silky frame.
If you send something about classic cinematography, I will be fascinated. We are surrounded by gray buildings and microscopic cubicles, our home. Pinning our eyes to that mammoth screen, gazing at a soft face, soft curls, “Alright, Mr. DeMlle, I’m ready for my close­up”, so smooth like chocolate souffle.
But there are moments of desolation as well, consider the scarlet rose laying on the edge of the porcelain sink or the cigarette butt roasting in a pit of ash.