Mimes.
The only person I know who admittedly loves mimes is my mother. They crack her up. It's their silliness (and probably the fact that they don't talk- enough chatter having had eight kids) that gets her. I have a great picture of a mime curled up on a wall nestled next to my mother at the Arc du Carrousel near the Louvre. He must have sensed her appreciation of the art form and it was his way of saying "thanks". There is a big smile on her face.
Does she know that Marcel Marceau passed on to an even quieter existence? She will be crushed. 84 years old he was. Sixty years of saying nothing, and yet speaking to people wordlwide through the language of laughter.
Adieu, Marcel, et Merci.
4 comments:
Did they bury him in a glass box?
Will the scatter his ashes in a non-existent wind?
. . . as he climbs that long, invisible ladder to heaven?
Shhhhhhh!
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