The Presence of Strings

Cairo’s Tahrir Square is vibrating with revolutionary demands. The American midsection is shivering under thunder snow. The Ilm Wiese is flooded and muddied by a rapid thaw. In a world gone crazy with man-made and natural disasters my solace is a library filled with grand ideas. I live several lives at a time. I am reading your Daybook of the Italian Journey 1786, while flipping through a modern novel about a father to son relationship, and, off and on, I am admiring individual contributions to the magazine Puppetry International.

            It is the magazine that makes me philosophical today. Issue #27. The piece is “Vertical Balance” by Irina Niculescu. She writes about strings – the connection between puppet and puppeteer. As she explores her relationship to marionettes she speaks of their helplessness, their “tragic-comic essence.”

            When I prepared P.K. I tried to make the strings as invisible as possible. I had never thought of strings as lifelines before. I was convinced that the manipulator should be hidden away. Then I watched a video clip in which a marionette discovers his attachment to the manipulator; the manipulator even holds his hand for a moment, but the marionette is obsessed with freeing himself; he tears down his strings and collapses on the floor. It was at that moment that I understood the connection.

When the kit arrived I wondered about the colorful strings attached to the wooden pieces. The color coding is designed to help the fledgling manipulator see which movement he is performing. I re-connected all the strings this morning after I had glued in the hands and sewn the scarf to the dress. But I did not try to walk the marionette. Clearly I haven’t found either form or balance or relationship yet; I am at the beginning of my journey. My marionette is evolving with each piece of clothing, each tug at her hair, each tentative pull of a string. Most importantly, with each photograph. In studying light and shadow, color, shape, I see movement develop and backgrounds and props emerge. I recognize a question mark in the face I painted. A faint proposal of essence.

Because I gave it some thought, I pause in my writing, feel bold enough to command the first steps.

Command, I said. Not a good choice of word.

After a failed attempt to make the marionette walk I have come to my senses. It is too early to make the connection. I am not ready.

A gentle lift of one green string. She waves good night.

Good night..