Dancing in the Light by Shirley Maclaine

Author:Shirley Maclaine [Maclaine, Shirley]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Biography & Autobiography, Personal Memoirs
ISBN: 9780307765062
Google: cpkafq_Kh7YC
Amazon: B004AP9W14
Publisher: Bantam
Published: 2010-11-16T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 10

I suppose when one is in the throes of a newly developing relationship, it is necessary to overlook accumulating obstacles, putting them on the back burner of the mind, until they can be examined in the clear, objective light of a later day. That, I believe, is what Vassy and I did. Or maybe he never felt those obstacles were necessarily serious. I couldn’t have either, not then, because after our “evil-incest” night, the subject never came up again. Why would it though? We had so many other areas to explore in one another.

Vassy loved his wild island. He led me along the jagged cliffs overlooking the churning waters beneath. He took his camera everywhere. And I took my Polaroid. He instructed me in light exposures, framing, and attitudes to assume in front of the camera. He was alternately delighted and harsh depending on the moods that seemed to surge through him.

Vassy jogged every morning. He seemed to need the insistent pain of runner’s strain in order to feel the reward of the rest of the day. Sometimes when he jogged, I would run with him so we could discuss whatever was interesting us at the moment. I would go as far as I could, then stop and walk fast, whereupon Vassy would jog in circles around me so we could continue talking. For a while there I thought maybe he was training for some secret Olympics. But no, he really needed some kind of basic regimen to allow himself the reckless wonder of what he was feeling.

We walked and ran and talked through island fields of wheat, barley, and flowers. He even jogged in the muddy rain one morning.

Vassy was more and more certain that Doctor’s Wife would make a good film. I loved to watch him contemplate aloud the visual images he wished to achieve. His eyes were double cameras. They registered multidimensional images in one flash. And he never forgot a face. He never missed much of anything that went on around him. But he didn’t really perceive the subtleties and emotional depth in people around him unless it was a feeling he himself could identify with. Either that, or he couldn’t afford to heap more emotional entrées on his plate than were already there.

Eventually Vassy and I returned to Paris and our small cell. He arranged for me to see more of his films. He tried to translate the French subtitles and give me a quick rundown on the Russian nuances, but I found myself becoming more and more frustrated because I was realizing that a great deal of his artistic motivation had to do with rather complex intellectual symbolism. He wrote and directed his pictures, and, given the Soviet restrictions, most of them made a deep spiritual point. I couldn’t decipher the difference, though, between what he regarded as spiritual and what he regarded as religious. I wondered if he saw any significant difference.

As Vassy ran his films for me one after the other, I was struck by the purity of his romanticism.

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