copenhagen – part I
June 15, 2011
I’m in Copenhagen and the first bit of sun is peeking over the adjacent rooftops and streaming into the little balcony of the apartment we’ve rented. The balcony faces a courtyard full of trees, a gazebo of roses, a wooden play area for children. Last night at sunset Leonard Cohen was filling the space from one of the hundreds of open windows. The song would end and then two songs later be playing again. Dance me to the End of Love.
Six times an hour the train passes. There’s the sound of a door opening as a woman comes out on this Wednesday morning to water her flower box. I don’t think it’s possible to stand at any place in this city and not see a dozen bikes. There’s a covered parking lot for them as you enter the building. A mother passes the courtyard with three children, each carrying his or her bicycle helmet. As I sit here, I wonder where beautiful things come from. At my feet are purpling hydrangeas that E photographed with her Diana. Then there are pansies and earthenware flower pots stacked beside an antique-looking tin watering can. Next are twin lanterns with white candles inside that are made for hanging, an assortment of beach-stolen rocks, more earthenware but this time planted with herbs maybe and then an old tin dustpan which looks somehow as though it belongs. I’ve never been a connoisseur of objects. Apart from my books I’ve always tended toward the ascetic (or simple austerity, if you like), but as I grow older I start to see the difference between clutter and plasticine excess and then the objects that might matter, their variety giving life to a space like the personality of a well-chosen word.
