martedì 9 dicembre 2014

The Story of Orchene

   Per ogni mia creazione, soprattutto se si tratta di one of a kind, faccio un certificato di autenticita'. Lo faccio nel modo molto perverso complicato, fornendo al collezionista le caratteristiche generali dell'oggetto come serie, collezione, dimensioni, materiali usati etc etc. Ma non finisce qui...La parte piu' interessante, piu' importante del mio certificato e' una storia che puo' trasmettere l'idea che ha la mia opera e le emozioni che puo' provocare... Purtroppo non sono molto brava a scrivere, percio' affido questo compito particolare al mio marito!:)) Con una piccola (ultimamente sempre piu' grande:)) storia lui riesce a descrivere il mondo intero della mia creazione, rendendola ancora piu' unica e speciale.
  Di solito queste storie sono riservate ai collezionisti, almeno fino al momento quando ricevono e aprono il pacco. Effetto sorpresa:) E finalmente oggi posso condividere con voi la storia di Orchêne, il mio ultimo orsacchiotto teddy, sapendo che lui e' gia' arrivato alla sua nuova casa. 
   Spero che vi piacera' tanto quanto a me...:)

   Для каждой своей работы, особенно если речь идет о единственном экземпляре, я всегда делаю сертификат подлинности, указывая коллекционеру общие характеристики, такие как серия, коллекция, размеры, материалы и т.д. и т.п. Но на этом не останавливаюсь (в результате чего сертификат представляет собой толстую книженцию:)))  Самая интересная и важная часть моего сертификата - это история, которая передает идею и эмоции, связанные с данной миниатюрой или мишкой тедди. К сожалению, я не одарена писательским талантом, поэтому это задание возложено на плечи моего мужа:)) Через маленький рассказ (в последнее время все длиннее и длиннее) он может передать весь внутренний мир моего "создания", которое от этого становится еще более уникальным и особенным.
   Обычно эти рассказы-истории доступны только коллекционерам, по крайней мере до момента получения посылки. Эффект сюрприза:) И наконец сегодня, зная что посылка уже добралась до получателя, я бы хотела поделиться с вами историей моего последнего мишки по имени Оршэн (с фр. "золотой дуб").. Надеюсь, она вам понравится:)

   As she entered the old house, she held her breath. She had not set foot there for a long time,  a very long time. Thirty years had passed since she opened the carved wooden door that led to her room. The warm light of the afternoon filtered through the window and cast a bright path that crossed the room, all the way to the shelves where she used to keep her books and the things she cherished the most, the objects she always wanted to have before herself, as a reminder of the joy life could bring even when that joy seemed only like a distant memory. She slowly walked to the bookcase, which was now covered with a white layer of dust, as thick as the silence that embraced that place, once filled with the playful voices of children, the fire cracking in the stove, her mother humming an old melody while sitting by the window with a book in her hands after a long day of work. She gently ran her fingers on the woodwork, touching those shapes she had once been so familiar with. She looked down and her attention was captured by an old photograph, which was lying on the floor, by the bookcase. She carefully picked it up. She tightened her lips as she looked into her own younger eyes, as if staring into a mirror. Her mother’s arm was resting around her shoulder, as if protecting her. Her father stood awkwardly by her side, visibly embarrassed, looking into the camera with that concerned look that people used to have in a time when photographs were still a rare commodity, an event that marked a special occasion, sometimes a once in a lifetime chance. She gasped as she finally looked at her younger hands. She was holding something. Something she had never forgotten. Something she had loved so much she could hardly part from it, even to take a picture.
   She remembered her father scolding her for insisting to take a picture with Orchene, a toy, he said. A toy. Orchene was her friend, a part of her family, and it was just about right that he was portrayed with all its members, she replied, holding it even more tightly.
   A golden oak grew behind the house, and she used to play there with her friends and her cousins, who lived down by the river. She spent countless hours sitting under that tree, leaning back against its trunk, with Orchene, dreaming of cities, of fancy dresses, of that modern life which her parents seemed to despise so much and which she knew only from the pictures in the magazines she sometimes browsed quickly at the store, down in the village. She imagined she would one day live in an elegant apartment in a big city, Orchene by her side. Usually her daydreaming would abruptly end as her mother called her for dinner. Then she would happily hop into the house where her father was already sitting at the table after returning from the fields. Her grandmother gave her Orchene, her last Christmas present. As the leaves of the big oak tickled the glass of the window in the light breeze of the evening, she looked around.
   Orchene. Where are you my dear Orchene? You would patiently wait for me to wake up every morning,  you would fall asleep with me every night, you waited for me to recover when I was sick, but you could not wait until I came back.
   Tears started to fill her eyes, as she recalled the night she fled with her mother, to escape the raging war that was destroying the countryside as the soldiers were advancing toward the capital. They had left everything behind. They left their home, they left their food, their clothes, they took only a handful of coins and a piece of bread for her. She sobbed in silence as she remembered her father by the door of their house, his shoulders curved under the burden of the events that were crushing his life, urging them to hurry, to go, saying he would meet them soon, saying he would find them. She saw the tears in his eyes in the flebile light of a candle and she knew she would not see him again.
   She could not remember anything else from that night, but a huge starry sky over them. A black deep night sky as they walked on. An endless dome, peaceful, quiet, indifferent to the madness men had created on earth. She remember she looked up to that myriad little shiny eyes and wondered if those stars would ever hear the laments of those desperate people.
   I promised you to come back for you. I did, but where are you my dear dear Orchene? The room was empty, after the looting, after years of abandonment, nothing was left but the furniture. What did she do, that night? She mechanically rose on her feet, as her mother screamed her name and called her frantically. She was still embracing Orchene as her father ran into her room and knelt down in front of her. You have to go. Now. Drop that toy, you and mom are leaving now, it is for your safety. He rose and hastily walked to the other room to help her mother and she was left uncertain and confused in her nightdress, standing by her bed, embracing Orchene.
   Her heart almost stopped as she saw herself crouching and reaching for a loose tile in the floor under her bed. She removed it, opening a little chamber where she used to keep things she did not want other people to see. Her treasures. She delicately put Orchene in the chamber, caressing his head. You will be safe here. Wait for me, we shall be back soon. Then she carefully placed the tile back into its place and when she was sure that no trace was visible she rose and ran to her mother.
   She turned to her bed. Is it possible? Is it really possible that nobody found it? She knelt down and looked under bed. She tasted the floor until she felt a groove between the tiles. She reached down with both hands and lifted the tile. She opened her mouth, unable to speak, as she felt soft fur under her fingers. She took the little thing and rose back to her feet, walking to the window, where the twilight was lighting everything with gold. Her lips trembled as she looked down to her hands. Everything came back to her, as if that chamber contained years of lost memories, contained everything she ever loved and cherished, her lost childhood, her family, everything she ever held dear.
   She could not restrain herself any longer and she started to cry. Two profound little eyes looked up at her. She cried for a long time, she cried of sorrow and she cried of joy, she cried for all the things she lost, she cried because one piece of the puzzle had found tis place, at last.
   It was little, but it had meant a lot to her, and not being able to fulfil her promise had haunted her for years.
   Closing her eyes, she said: Orchene, I have returned.



   Un abbraccio,

3 commenti:

  1. *sigh*..... Anna, what a beautiful, serene story, it felt like I was there in the room. Beautiful Orchêne, he has quite a life story....
    So, you have a wonderful talent for writing, wow, you can tell such beautiful stories :)!
    Thank you for sharing, especially that you have written it in English, that way I could read it all very well, thank you.
    Hugs, Ilona

  2. Dear Ilona, thank you for your beautiful comment! This story was written by my husband:)) He takes this little but important part in my creations! I wish I could write, but on the other hand I'm proud of my husband's talent and glad to give him an opportunity to develop it:))) (sometimes with insisting hard:ppp)

  3. Привет, Анюта!
    Очень милый получился малыш! Я обожаю твои дополнительные штрихи На этот раз желуди дуба) :):):)
    Рассказ очень трогательный. Твой муж очень одаренный!


Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...