I enter the room and take in the players as well as their positions on the stage.
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Mise-en-scène:
Mise-en-scène:
Cole Porter in playing softly in the background. Men and women move deliberately, interwoven in permutations rehearsed and fluid. The edges of the frame blur, the soft glow of chandeliers illuminate faces and cast diametrical shadows upon the marble floor.
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Obstacle One:
I drift unnoticed into the heart of the room. The music plays for a few more minutes before stopping and everyone in the room freezes as if someone broke a window and winter seeped in. Delicate cheeks rest on dinner jackets, hands gently cover the small of backs, faces stare into one another with warm hints of recognition. The players remain statuesque in their places, I am the only one walking through them. Champagne suspends in mid-air from tilted bottles. Light is frozen in rays, disturbed only when I glide my hand through it. Holden Caulfield and Hamilton Leithauser sit at the bar, their conversation put on indefinite hold. Very slowly the scene rewinds and all the beautiful players dance in reverse, the convergence of limbs fascinates when not in chronological order. The scene rewinds till coats fly off stands and back onto shoulders. Everything resets and the malleability of time is made apparent as the players start their dance again. They will never leave this room. I feel the sharp pang of discomfort before reassuring myself. Why should I feel sad for them when all they will ever know is music and dancing and laughter? I exit the room and leave them to their unfinishable rituals.
I drift unnoticed into the heart of the room. The music plays for a few more minutes before stopping and everyone in the room freezes as if someone broke a window and winter seeped in. Delicate cheeks rest on dinner jackets, hands gently cover the small of backs, faces stare into one another with warm hints of recognition. The players remain statuesque in their places, I am the only one walking through them. Champagne suspends in mid-air from tilted bottles. Light is frozen in rays, disturbed only when I glide my hand through it. Holden Caulfield and Hamilton Leithauser sit at the bar, their conversation put on indefinite hold. Very slowly the scene rewinds and all the beautiful players dance in reverse, the convergence of limbs fascinates when not in chronological order. The scene rewinds till coats fly off stands and back onto shoulders. Everything resets and the malleability of time is made apparent as the players start their dance again. They will never leave this room. I feel the sharp pang of discomfort before reassuring myself. Why should I feel sad for them when all they will ever know is music and dancing and laughter? I exit the room and leave them to their unfinishable rituals.
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Nostalgia is the cruel denial of the present.
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