The Founder
ROSENDA ARCIONI MEER | Dialogues | Books
Then came a time,
when stillness called;
at its threshold bloomed
scented flowers of service,
and in this garden of tender care,
I hold your hand,
as your creativity unfolds
authentic,
courageous,
real.
ROSENDA ARCIONI MEER, ANA’s founder, grew up in Italy, studied Philosophy in Hamburg Germany and Fashion Design at The Fashion Institute of Technology (F.I.T.) in New York USA.
She worked briefly in the fashion industry in Italy and moved to India where she taught at the National Institute of Fashion Technology (N.I.F.T) in New Delhi. There she studied India’s unique textile art, specializing in the weaves and embroideries of Kashmir. Her dedication gained the trust of Kashmiri master craftsmen, to whom she submitted her designs obtaining stunning results.
In 1994, in order to show their work, she created Le Cachemirien that became a renowned Indian textile gallery in the heart of Paris, sought after by a niche of connoisseurs and collectors.
LE CACHEMIRIEN
Her one-of-a-kind and made to measure clothes as well as her shawls and textiles found an attentive audience and her work was shown at Palais Galliera, le Musée de la mode de la Ville de Paris, in the group exhibition Le coton et la mode, mille ans d’histoire, (Cotton and Fashion, a thousand year history) and in a solo exhibition at the Town Hall of the sixth district in Paris.
A meaningful human and creative endeavour aimed at supporting the precious bond between craft and design, Le Cachemirien closed its doors in 2014, when Rosenda chose to explore further the mechanisms of the creative process.
Dialogues
Rosenda has explored expensively the depths of her inner world through body centered techniques, thus discovering ways to embrace creativity joyfully. She has worked on human energy fields with teachers from many corners of the world, furthering her knowledge of the philosophical and spiritual contents inherent in art, crafts and design.
She is a certified sophrologist and keeps up a regular practice of drawing, painting and poetry in the three languages that she uses constantly. To see some of her artwork and read her poems…
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Cum nexus
Bound together,
Tied together,
Fasten together.
Like the humble ox
That pulls the plough
Opening the earth
To her own fecundity,
You stand, ample and wide
Between protection and support.
Traversed by
The thin red line
That pierces through your feet,
You vibrate in unison
And like a nectar,
A gentle force travels within,
And powered by the heart
Gushes out
Your arms and hands
Showering the world around.
Enticing
Are the shapes and stories
The vital source conjures,
But often misleading.
It is the binding of
Cells and light,
Of oxygen and blood,
Of sound and bone
That fosters the transformation.
The gold that seeps back in,
Trough the soles of your
Nourishing steps,
Fertilises the earth
With seeds of joy
And you shine under the sun
Of your golden presence.
Your presence
Unique, necessary,
Essential,
Connected,
Bound to
The all sustaining,
The all nurturing,
The all-pacifying.
NATURA NATURANS
The blessing
of bare feet
on the warm earth.
The freedom
of the veiled sun
on skin thursty
for tenderness.
Stillness
broken
by the incessant
chatter,
and the African wind
sings
among the branches
of the olive trees.
The need
to protect
the gift of life,
to walk
gently,
to lend an ear
to that which seeks
to be born
and blossom.
The sacredness
of growing
alike,
yet never the same,
yearning for the sky,
it shifts and changes,
threatening at times,
yet full
of light.
If the forests
burn,
and hatred
sets fire
to a land
inhabited
by human dinosaurs,
oblivious to their own fragility,
won’t “natura naturans”
sweep away
this wretched Babylon?
Longing
for an ordering principle
to impose limits
on human hubris.
INCOMPATIBILITY STUDY
Flowing like
swollen rivers,
encounter
of the widly different.
Thin bridges
to cross over.
One cascades down,
a thik vein runs through,
the other,
blue electric,
sinuously
comes to term
with the obstacles.
Converging flames
thinning out
at the meeting points,
Earth kisses Water,
yet doesn’t melt.
So much energy
in the intersection but
no consensus,
no congenial combination,
no capacity to bear together.
A careful crisscrossing
of identitary paths,
incompatible,
yet so stunning together!
FEARLESS
An image,
at first glance
joyful,
surprisingly
imposes itself,
sorrowful mother
beneath a bloodstained
palm tree.
How to escape
the relentless
pounding?
Sorrow no longer has a face,
it arrives,
background noise
that tears at the soul.
I watch it
from the blue
of my privilege,
a dazed ant
so easy
to crush.
And so
let’s dance and draw,
sing and live,
that death
may find us standing,
FEARLESS.
THE LITTLE SHE GENIE
A dancing she genie
has appeared
from the billowing folds
of my soul.
When the body
comes to rest,
and thoughts fade away,
a crescent moon
settles
upon the heart.
Joyful colours
emerge
from beneath the rubble,
and the little blue she-genie
the witness,
heralds
a new day,
a new way,
another possibility,
PEACE.
THE BIRD AND THE FISH
The skys call,
an imperious call,
the migratory bird,
bound
to open his wings,
to fly away.
He loves the hights
and sites
teaming with life,
for meeting,
building, sharing.
The bird has mighty wings
and sharp eyesight,
his gaze embraces
the entire world.
An advocate of peace,
no one is a stranger to him.
The fish dwells
in the silent depths,
periodically hides
in the scented cave
of her inner world,
listening to
the waves’ sacred song.
When she follows
her school of fish,
far from familiar waters,
she longs to return
to solitude,
and the slow passing
of the day.
They met
on an island of light,
their souls recognized
each another,
and together
they built a life,
trapezists swinging
between the elements.
Their children learned
to fly and dive,
at ease
in every landscape,
creatures
of a better future.
Then,
life changed,
as it always does.
A potent wave
flooded their home
and a strong wind
blew them away.
The bird and the fish
still love each other,
but now,
where will they make
their nest?
MOTIVES
In the gigantic loom
of the world,
motifs emerge.
Intertwined threads
of different lengths,
wefts of life yearning
for peace,
warps
holding the sky.
The tree is
a portal
for the creative force
to dive
into the earth,
sheltered by
resonant wood.
The branches
hug the sky.
Suddenly,
the story appears.
A he
and a she,
wrapped in
colorful huts
tend
a garden of souls,
holding space.
In the garden,
light flourishes,
and the voice within
repeats:
“A world of love
is possible.”
TO LEAVE
Perhaps she is still there,
not yet of age,
on platform 4 of the train station
in her town.
A heavy woollen skirt
to face
the Teutonic cold,
and a large suitcase
full of stacked dreams,
wrapped up
in her passion
for philosophy.
Her heart is tight
for not to feel.
Her mother,
on the platform
shrouded in pain,
and an unshakeable
trust
in her daughter;
she lets her go
out of love.
And that insistent little voice
repeats:
“To leave is a bit like dying”.
TIME
Time is a river
we float on
in this miraculous vessel
of the body.
Navigation
on the rapids
requires a guide,
at times
we run aground,
at times
the river flows calmly
and cradles the days.
At last,
it reaches the ocean
and dissolves into eternity.
Some say
time is a circle,
like the clock,
it is a dance
of eternal return,
the day into the night,
into the day, into the night.
The ouroboros bites
its tail.
Good times
and bad times,
the fabric of illusions,
until awe covers,
like a mantle of snow,
the presumption
of comprehension.
And there I stand,
humbled,
under the starry sky,
an ebullient volcano
in the core of my being,
the wish is
to melt
in an eruption of joy.
SURE
Cascades of burning dust,
streams of matter
and soul,
numinous entanglements,
roads traveled
and left.
Thoughts and words
flow
into a dam
of light,
and shredded
they flow away,
orderly and
obedient molecules.
Where there is light,
there is shadow,
that little one
coiled up
around her pain,
eats to be loved.
“Look,” I tell her,
the joy
of a warm heart,
this body
kneaded with life,
it’s enough for love.”
“Sure?” she asks.
“Sure, sure,”
answers
the younger girl,
her hair loose,
dancing unchained
her twist.
IF I WERE
If I were
little, very little,
I would dive
into these emerald waters,
I would let myself be carried.
I would float
effortlessly
and flow
invisibly
to the great
sea,
the eternal mystery.
“In the end,
when these bones
are only bones,
it is all about
how much
we gave,
how much
we loved.”
If I were
little, very little,
I would enter
this dark
forest,
and make friends
with the shadows.
In the end,
when breath
becomes ether,
all that matters
is how much we
forgave,
how much we
loved.
If I were
little, very little,
I would accept
the fish in the desert
and the smoke
that becomes
a genius,
and I would let myself
be embraced.
In the end,
when
the
drum
of the heart
is silent,
all that matters
is how much
we have praised,
how much we have
loved.
RED EARTH
The red earth,
too bloody,
no longer absorbs.
The angel comforts Mary
with the first labor pains
under the palm tree:
“The Lord has placed
a spring at your feet,
shake the trunk of the palm tree,
it will cause fresh, ripe dates to fall on you.
Eat and drink then,
and may your eye
be happy.”
What mother
brings a child into the world
to make him a victim
or a murderer,
or the one who instigates massacres?
From a hardened heart
black smoke rises,
white shrouds
envelop
the entire humanity.
Holy Land,
mirror of cruelty
and hope.
Innocent souls,
driven
to swallow the sacred milk
of the queen of dates,
kneel
to drink the distant waters
of the afterlife.
Here, however,
Mother Earth burns,
trampled
by the virulent boots
of homo technologicus.
Lies with the feminine,
in every human,
the urgent duty to protect,
to slow down, to embrace,
to simply love.
THE SKY IS THE HOME OF THE WIND
She’s only three years old,
eyes of a Persian miniature,
like her father.
Soft curls
frame
the sweet oval of her face.
A laugh
that throws open
the doors of the heart.
Her little body
tensing
seeks
the next word,
repeating persistently
the previous one.
Heavy clouds
color
the late summer,
the air is still.
We feign fear,
when the children
suddenly come
out of hiding
going woof, not boo!
All of life
contained
in a circle of love,
demanding and powerful.
“The sky is the home of the wind,”
declares the little girl.
A distillation of poetry,
when the soul transpires.
Gratitude,
for this moment of eternity.
The sky is the home of the wind,
the earth is the home of water,
the heart, the home of humanity.
If the heart
dries up,
humanity has a home
no more.
THE ALIEN
I throw myself
eyes closed
into this new adventure
on the white sheet.
Laboriously,
I unroll
the precious sensing
of the world inside.
My hand grasps a color
without seeing,
I accept.
Unknown lines I trace,
only curiosity.
The pleasure,
discovering
what will emerge.
The soft pastels
make an imperceptible noise,
the cardboard
designed especially for them
resists the desire
to soften the contours
with my fingers,
it wants so much color.
When I open my eyes
I find a ribbon,
it comes down from the sky,
and intertwines and knots,
and becomes
a strange character.
An alien face
looks to the past,
a lit torch
sheds light.
The most beautiful journey,
in the mystery
taking shape
without my knowing
with these little hands
that knead life.
INTIMATE BESTIARIUM
SERPENTS, FROGS AND MILLIPEDES
The time I was alone,
there was space for
other creatures than humans.
The time I was alone,
in the countryside,
I woke up
greeting the sun
and thanking
Mother Earth.
The time I was alone,
the beating of my heart
became a symphony,
and the swing
of my breath
a subtle dance.
The time I was alone,
I made friends with Serpents, Frogs and Millipedes.
Maybe not really
with Millipedes,
they shine to be a bit autistic,
a diplopodologist
might not agree.
The way we change in life
can be revealed
by a handsome millipede
that comes along
dangerously approaching
your bitten apple
placed to rest on
a blue pottery plate
in the veranda.
The child you were
would have shouted and
ran for mom,
but here you are
imbued
with Gandhian principles,
taking a paper napkin
to wrap
the blind little fellow
and move it away.
————————————
The baby frog
looked at me
from the dashboard of my car,
while I was driving
through hilly roads.
Its tiny body in shining green
and eyes too big for her.
What makes me decide
it is a she?
A companion
to the Roman goddess
of love, Venus,
it seems so kind that
she should visit me.
In her silent stare
I read a message
from an ancient wisdom:
“Keep jumping
from earth to water,
from the known and sunny
to shadowy depths,
and back.
Keep on changing”.
I took her far away
from home and
she seemed fine,
but then she disappeared,
the same way she entered
the windshield of my vision,
like a whisper from beyond.
Never try to hold on
To a slippery frog.
————————————
Guardians of sacred spaces,
a pair of chthonic serpents entwined
appeared
in the sun of noon
on a wide alley
of the olive grove.
The glowing green of their bodies
matching the color of the grass,
emanating a mighty vibration.
I froze in awe,
coiled snakes,
like a dancing caducei,
enamoured creatures,
unification of polar opposites,
renewal of life.
Time stretched in my eyes
as I was witnessing
a miracle,
a powerful aura
around the two.
Then the hubris
entered my mind,
I should capture
this image
with my smart device.
But smart is not
intelligent,
And
in a blink of eye
they volatilised.
And I learned
that to cherish
is not to
capture.
LITHE
“OUTLINED BY UNDULATING, SOFT AND GENTLE CURVES”
Holding, held,
Sustaining, sustained,
Welcoming, welcomed,
Fluid exchange of breath and sound.
Breath knows profound ways,
Loosens the noose
Of the scaffolding,
Artificial structure,
Poor protection.
Up and down narrow stairways,
Distorted thoughts
Constrict the body,
Humble movement,
Vertiginous is freedom.
The lithe breath
Loosens and unscrews,
Unlaces the corset,
Tears down unnatural constructions
And flows unrestrained.
Thus, the body
Becomes sigh, and
gracious, malleable and sinuous
Accompanies visions
Of raptures and embraces.
A vital femininity
Weaves together
An inviting masculine,
In that inner dance
Whirls my heart.
Audacious,
Infuses my hands with
An eloquent hum,
Vital life force
That warms and heals.
It kneads
Color and light,
Leaves sweet loving traces,
Invites joy.
If you look
With eyes wide open
On a full moon night,
I wish you to feel.
FEMINA FABER, WOMAN THE MAKER
Never have I learned how to draw,
Never did I aim
At reproducing
The outer landscapes
Of my world.
Even my grandmother’s fluffy chicks
Became on paper
A string of yellow shapes
Messengers of a tenderness
That made my chest warm.
Colors, pencils,
Brushes and sheets,
Canvas, cloth, clay,
All exited me
And called me so
That nothing could
Stop me.
Not my mother’s perplexed gaze,
Nor judgments
On my untrained skills,
Nor the invitations
To pursue
More serious activities.
No one could silence the call.
The call comes
From a place within,
Where fullness appears
And the body submits
To the dance of making,
Graciously,
With bubbling excitement.
In the suspension
Of time and space,
Beyond good or bad,
“Femina Faber”,
Woman the maker,
Has dwelled in me,
Forever,
And dwells in you,
Even if you are a man,
Hidden in the folds
Of your heart.
I tend to her
As the precious gift
That enchants my life,
Leaving traces
Of my passing
Through the meanders
Of this earth.
Take up a tool,
Any tool,
That helps
Your soul reveal!
Homo faber,
The man who makes,
Gives shape
To his destiny;
Femina faber,
The woman who makes,
Gives shape
To her love,
Unencumbered.
”You have the energy of the sun in you,
But you keep it knotting at the base of your spine”
Rumi
LET ME GUIDE
It is
In the core of my being,
A dinosaur head,
Sleeping yet ready
To dance with me.
Then,
The sacrum
Takes me
To Chinatown,
In Frisco.
It is a dragon
Spitting fire
And undulating
In a night
Of celebration.
Red lanterns
And city lights
In the starry sky.
The ocean scent,
And sweaty skin.
The gleeful eyes
Of the child,
The dragon
Is held
By the leash.
Source of resurrection
In the afterlife,
Key stone,
Apex
Of my delight.
Carrying
Spine and pelvis,
It is
The launching pad
Of my spiritual power.
The sacrum
Is the temple,
It holds
Life giving
Organs.
The lower cross
Contains wisdom
And knowing,
Like a pendulum
Swings.
Between
Sky and earth,
It holds and creates,
The fire cannot destroy it
On the cremation pyre.
It takes me
Into a tribal dance,
A gut dance,
Peremptory it says:
“Let me guide”.
THIS BODY
What I bring to the circle of life
Is this body made of earth,
Is this body made of wood;
This body made of grass,
Made of air, made of fire;
This body made of tears,
Made of prayers, made of hope;
This body made of whispers,
Made of songs, made of cries.
What I bring to the circle of life
Is this life unique, eternal.
Once upon a time there was
A scattered geography of love,
I made it into an embroidered cloak
To envelope you all,
Tenderly.
DANCING HEART
The day came,
I was nobody’s child
Anymore.
No one to hold the sky above me,
No one to go back to
For Christmas.
The silver in my hair
Brought moonshine
In my thoughts,
The wrinkles of my face
Mapped the geography
Of my soul.
Then the day came,
I was called grandmother,
A mother so large
To contain the clearest of laughter,
The softest of cheeks,
The abandon
Of the sweetest embrace.
A mother so free
To rock in the longest of rhymes,
To meet foreheads in recognition,
To sing at the top of her voice, the crocodile
The one without overcoat,
To run on four
In the wildest of chases.
And when the day will come,
The wheel of life
Will move further,
And I’ll have a dancing heart,
Shining with gratitude
For this grand love
I have felt.
COMPASS
Just like a shooting star,
Or a spermatozoon
Fighting to reach
Its aim of life,
The idea crossed
My inner firmament
And I was set to go.
From the top of the world
Of a wiser age
I stand,
Clad in red,
Wondering
Where will
This winding road
Take me next.
Mother earth,
Fertile,
Kisses a sky,
Pregnant with golden promises.
The mighty star,
Not yet visible,
Spreads his hues
On his beloved,
Inviting her
To one more dance,
One more day.
If the destination
Of the winding road
Won’t be revealed,
A feisty compass
Will appear
Large and wide
Above my head.
And there I’ll stand,
Reassured,
That I won’t lose my bearings,
That the way home is clearly mapped,
That home is where
My heart sings of joy,
At the thought of you.
BODY IN THERAPY
When the barriers knocked down,
The fears calmed,
The centre unveiled,
The body in therapy
Becomes
A fluid entity of matter and
Light.
Perception of a fluffy
Density.
Breath that cradles and
Lulls.
Taste of eternity,
Music of the spheres,
Celestial fragrance,
Even terrestrial, at times.
Body in therapy
Traverses and attains,
Gathers and digresses,
Progresses, retreats,
Experiences and participates
In the subtle vibration
Of life’s mystery,
Humbly related to the whole.
MOTHER NOW
Mother now is no longer here
she goes where her mind takes her
and talks to those she meets there.
Maybe they know
her gibberish
and can understand.
At length she plays with the black belt
that straps her to the chair, a throne
she never asked for.
The only certainty,
no one will ever sit her
on a wheelchair.
When her neurons lighten up
on their usual path of pain
a tear cuts through her face.
At night she shouts:
“Grandmother,
come and take me!”
In the day she wants no teeth,
her hair candid white,
the only joy, the songs of her youth.
The woman who knows,
What irony, wears the veil,
my mother abhors.
Her days roll on identical,
her eyes riveted on the ceramic clock
hanging on the wall.
The clock has her name on it
And measures the passing of her identity.
Slowly she goes.
I fear standing in front of
her grief,
helpless to straighten her back.
I look for her then
in that ineffable density
where eternal hearts meet.
HOMECOMING
The time has come.
After wanderings and endless travels,
it’s time for home.
A new home,
The home of sunset.
Sunsets are gorgeous;
the sky tinted with wild hues of purple and pink,
now it is permitted to sit down and contemplate,
reminisce and relax.
A few steps to be accomplished,
yet so complicated.
Undercurrents of resistance and fear,
bursts of anger.
The refusal of letting go paralyses.
Letting go of the way we were,
High achieving surfers
on waves of cultural adaptability,
fluidly changing personas.
And now that cries of war roar
in the silent alleys of empty airports,
now that winds of change
blow away the pretty masks,
and impose identity-less ones,
illusory powers stripped away,
a fragile light within,
at home,
kneeling
into acceptance.
THE SHAPE OF WATER
Dumb with fear,
we go about
the scary lab of life,
sweeping and cleaning,
as if to make it neat.
When Love arrives,
the chained alien,
Compassion fires courage
and Soul, naked offered,
melts in a tender,
but fierce embrace,
oblivious of the world around.
In special conditions only,
does Love survive,
it needs the turquoise waters
of care and
the salts of wisdom;
it behaves in unacceptable ways.
It needs protection
from the dark shadow within,
the rabid hyena
hovers around,
ready to kill.
Its putrid breath the closest…
Faith, the loyal
friend, steps in
and sacrifices for
Love, the alien,
together with Soul,
to jump
in the waters of the unconscious,
united.
Miraculously,
Soul breaths
in the aquatic realm;
a new respiration
takes place
through the old wounds.
Melting in a sinuous embrace,
diving deep and deeper,
into bottomless waters,
Love and Soul,
sing in unison
with a new voice
the song of whales,
the mighty mammals
who trust and plunge.
REVERENCE
Reverence to the ritual and the sacredness.
Reverence to the love, lost and gained.
Reverence to the body, scarred but whole, knowing.
Reverence to the souls of Light that came to open the heart.
Reverence to the tears that wash and nourish.
Reverence to this woman of beauty,
This woman of courage,
This woman of truth.
Reverence to life.
RIPE
Measure of flowing time,
morning fragrance
fills belly and lungs
with the edible fruit of the road well-travelled,
full grown, ripe.
Ripe is always tinted in warm tones,
as if in the vacuum of the cells
the sun had leaked in
with incandescent light and
juicy vigor.
I observe diligently
everyone’s maturation,
warming with attention, listening and care,
sour fruits from trees forced in shadow and ice,
unaware of the possibility of spring.
I water arid roots
with the tender warmth of unmoving trust,
to see them sprout again, timidly at first
then thirsty of a fertile humus
made of new thoughts.
I fertilize the barren, dry earth,
with the pungent manure
of thorny questions,
capable to penetrate
in the nooks and crannies of the heart and revive it.
I envelop the entire plant
With an invisible veil,
and with a mellow voice I warm
the air it breathes, and I invite it
to dream of fair weather.
Then one day, unannounced,
Covered in dew,
Ripe is the fruit,
sweet metamorphosis,
witness of a completion.
Up to the ripe to chose
the best way to
offer oneself to life,
ready
for yet another transformation.
LONG LIVE ABAJI
When his frail body had consumed every inch of life,
He left with a gentle, inaudible sigh,
Surrounded by the love
He had tended carefully all along.
No one was left out,
Those far away were visited in dream
And in the density of prayer,
His vast heart had space for everyone.
Strangers of any kind landed
At the threshold of his world
And everyone was welcomed,
Fed and kept warm.
In the morning, he sat
With chai and grandchildren,
Always elegant in his checked lungi and skullcap,
Distributing zoot and “bonne maman” jam.
He never approved of my black coffee,
But always knew where I could find
“Mion samovar” the way he called
My Bialetti, testifier of identity.
When he dressed up for the market
He wore the karakul,
And echoes of the ottoman empire,
With the scent of roses.
In Delhi, he watched over
The strains of my creativity,
And the pulao he made for me
Will stay unmatched in my taste buds.
A young man still,
He ran after every elephant, shouting “hati hai”,
Melting at the joy
Of the astounded child in his arms.
When his beard had turned all white,
And hair had deserted his head,
I could dare to gently kiss his cheek,
He was by then, the only father I had.
Love was his path,
His philosophy, his religion,
No matter how tough at times,
He stood by it.
A true Sufi,
He revered the unseen,
The miraculous,
And the beauty of togetherness.
And if I don’t carry his name,
Nor even his blood,
I feel I carry his spiritual genes,
He inoculated me with in mysterious ways.
Abaji now walks the garden of heaven,
And the chambers of my heart,
Forever telling me stories
Of wondering holy men, in Baghdad.
Our dear father is no more,
The handsome young man was already no more.
The father of four children in a Chevrolet car,
No more.
The man planting trees
And tending his orchard, no more,
The merchant in the red market no more,
The devout sitting in the Asthan, no more.
The ultimate transformation has claimed
Our dear father now, but
Long live Abaji,
In the ripple of his kindness,
In the whisper of his values,
In the embrace of his care,
Long live ABAJI.
IT TAKES COURAGE
It takes courage to dive deep into the waters of our shadowed life.
It takes perseverance and determination,
It takes energy to let go of old household stories,
And the spectacles we inherited with the colour of our eyes.
It takes time to walk the way, as there is no destination,
But meaningful halts where we meet light in the inner journey,
Where major insights are revealed,
Where we gain strength for the pilgrimage ahead.
It takes a mighty heart to see the misery of the world and still believe.
It takes sticking to it and yet let go.
It takes much love, not romantic love,but the love of the soul
that reaches out to Him and says: “I am ready.”
I see you in the light, dears,
And call all blessings upon your heart
For you to find roaring joy
Upon your path.
THE ONE WHO VIBRATES
The drawing speaks:
“My voice is soft,
You can hear it in stillness,
Embodied in a circle of life,
Hands that hold and heal,
Energetic flows.
I testify
Of the skin’s permeability,
The merging of fluidity,
The enigma
Of the red sickle
That tastes like blood.
Green is the color of love.
Entwined in a sensual dance,
Fruitful emotions
From the time of togetherness,
When home was a retreat
From the furore of the world,
In the bosom of nature.
There is a fire at the heart of life,
In the rib-cage,
That is not a cage,
But a treasure chest,
It’s a drum
Nestled in breath.
When looking in the womb,
You can see life,
Vibrating constantly,
Through every season,
Recurrent and eternal.
Flourish!”
WOMAN
In the tepid waters
Of your hips,
You have met
The solid base
Of your desire.
While outside
The hurricane roars,
A membrane
Of hope
Protects your dreams,
Elastic and vaporous.
It covers the skin
With a veil of light,
Timid like
A winter dawn,
Wherever you go
It brightens the way.
A soft mist
Covers the horizon
Where the wave of breath
Crashes gently
And washes away
Menacing fears.
If the wisdom of your feet
Sustains you,
A center of life arises,
A primordial sound,
A voice
Archaic and surprising.
A sailboat
Your pelvis
Sways and contains
Prodigious music,
Voices of lived life
With a mysterious meaning.
In the vibration of song,
Light seeps into the core,
Ineffable spring,
Resplendent star,
And births
An explosion of joy.
Fruit of your womb,
woman,
This love that mocks
And wins
Over the terrors of the world
With tenderness.
Books
MEMOIRE, RÉCIT DE VOYAGE DANS L’ART TEXTILE DE L’INDE
For her solo exhibition in Paris in 2006, was launched “Mémoire, récit de voyage dans l’art textile de l’Inde”, in French with English and Italian translation.
“Memory, a journey into the textile art of India” is a large format book filled with impressions and reflections, photographs and poems, pertaining the author’s discovery of an ancient art, her meeting with the craftsmen who keep it alive and the delicate world at rue de Tournon, in Paris.
Through the pages of this artist book, the designer takes the readers beyond geographical frontiers in her relentless aesthetic and spiritual quest.
KASHIR
Published in 1999, by Actes Sud and Motta, Kashir is the fruit of a collaboration between the Photographer Jean-Noël de Soye and Rosenda Arcioni Meer.
A hymn to the beauty of the valley of Kashmir, called Kashir in the local language, this album is a collection of images and texts that suggest the indivisible relation between the splendour of a troubled land, the wealth of its philosophical heritage and its textile tradition that keeps producing the mythic Kashmir shawls.
These precious fabrics speak of an austere people that still believe beauty is the fruit of devotion
EVERYTHING IS PINK IN MY GARDEN
“Everything is Pink in my garden” is Raghu’s standard answer when asked, “how are you?” Raghu is one of the two hundred children who come to the Tushita Foundation every day after school.
A house of learning and empowerment, the Tushita Foundation with its local teachers, foreign volunteers and a large playground, offers the children of Amber an opportunity to grow in a joyful and creative environment.
This book tells the story of a special place, told by all those who are involved.
Published by Roli Books.
Connected
Cum nexus Bound together, Tied together, Fasten together.
Like the humble ox That pulls the plough Opening the earth To her own fecundity, You stand, ample and wide Between protection and support.
Traversed by The thin red line That pierces through your feet, You vibrate in unison And like a nectar, A gentle force travels within, And powered by the heart Gushes out