Lloyd and I watched the documentary "Inner Voice" tonight, about the great artist (and dear friend) Meredith Monk. The film is as clear as the New Mexico light, as calm as the image of Meredith sitting on her porch at her studio in Canones. Her work has been a beacon to me for over thirty-four years, since I met her at Naropa in 1976. The film is calm and delicate... there is Meredith looking into the eyes of her dying mother, there she is in rehearsal with her singers, at her piano composing, lighting a candle for her partner Mieke van Hook-- who died too young, talking to her longtime collaborator Lanny Harrison. There are excerpts from "Quarry" and the opera "Atlas," and stunning images from the recent Voices of Ascension. This is a film about confronting fear, about what death teaches us, about holding on to a vision, about listening deeply to one's inner voice.
I saw Meredith last week when I was in NYC. We had breakfast at a downtown greasy spoon and attempted to catch each other up on our lives. We walked back to her loft via the dry cleaners where she left off a costume that needed cleaning. Ahmet the dry cleaner is a Persian poet, a handsome man. He remembered standing in front of his shop on W. Broadway and seeing the twin towers fall. Afterwards, we went up to Meredith's loft and I took her picture with her tortoise Neutron, who's been around awhile. Permanence. Impermanence.