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Friday, January 14, 2011

The Old Carpet

The carpet is made of tiny strings, and all of them splash red, orange, brown multitude of colors. The pomegranate is red, and it bleeds. The lace can be white or it can be black. The lace can hide face, can hide eyes, can reveal feelings. The carpet can be colorful, can hang on the wall, can lie on the ground, can be covered with the pomegranates. And people can remember and people can forget, but some do remember.

Today, the carpet woke up in a dusty room. It was brought out. It was spread. It was covered with many, many pomegranates. The carpet was humble, and it minded the cameras. The carpet was humble, but it held many, many pomegranates.

Six years ago I decided that the more strings I weave, the more colorful carpet I’ll get. So, along with the university, I started taking lessons in Spanish, volunteered for the FLEX activities, continued my creative writing and debates, went to a modeling school and took some photography classes. One day, our photography teacher took us to watch how he was shooting a film. During the breaks, for the first time, he started discussing film and film photography with us. He said, Parajanov is genius, what he does in one shot, he only shows Chiaureli’s face with the white lace and it is the most beautiful shot in the film history.

This week, it was Parajanov's birthday. The day before, I watched “the Color of the Pomegranates”. Next day, I spent almost 30 minutes picking out the perfect pomegranate. I bought three different ones in three different markets. I wore red. I wore black gloves. I was no Chiaureli, but still, I wanted to feel special. I wanted to buy lace and wrap my pomegranate in it, but I spent so much time selecting the fruit that I couldn't. I had to hurry. 6 P.M., Bambis rigi, Parajanov’s monument.

There are people in this world that care about things. No, not me. People that actually do something. Those people want to have Parajanov's street in Tbilisi. They want to have a museum. They asked us to gather by his monument that evening and bring a pomegranate. They provided his pictures. They screened a film. They cared.

And then, TV cameras danced their little dance and the journalists mentioned everyone important. You know, the ministries and such.

The carpet was humble, and it minded the cameras. The carpet was humble, but it held many, many pomegranates. And after it was over, they took away the pomegranates and the carpet was put back in the dusty room. It was just an old rug, nothing fancy.