Dear friends, greetings from Corsica. Sitting in front of a secluded bay, this stretch of Mediterranean coastline is rugged and wild. I think what I usually think in these moments. That it’s hard to convey beauty. Yet the act of sharing something compelling is what moves us as writers.
Corsica’s landscape is made of rocks and caves in all shades of ochre and red, dotted with deep green, mossy bushes against a sea that goes from pastel blue to deep turquoise. It evokes wilderness and freedom, a desire to commune with nature. Maybe I say that because of the nudist beach right in front of me, but nowhere else do I feel so much in communion with it as when I’m in the water and I can still pretend I am one of the fish swirling around. Places like this make me fantasize about living a secluded life away from it all. What would it be like to stretch a summer forever?
It also makes me think that perhaps art is just an attempt to convey beauty and what it elicits in us. An attempt that somehow is always imperfect, always a bit less successful than what we envisioned. And so we keep searching, we keep trying. And what does it mean to try this in a world where so much is shared? In a world saturated with shared feeling, how can we lean into and express a feeling that is uniquely ours?
Until next time.
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