Photography

Marilyn Szabo

Maria Callas

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Maria Callas VI “Watching Maria on television, she moves cautiously, hands hung, slowly bringing her hands to her chest. She closes her eyes, seeing the days’ visions, the morning’s practice, Aristotle’s face. Losing the day, losing the past, forgetting the future, dreaming of a different life; instantly concentrating, losing all reality. The voice, strong, controlled, moves out in front - her body is gone. The voice becomes the only truth. There is no Maria Callas with an inefficient body, with unfulfilled wants. She becomes a new entity. Each times the source of rebirth, no other interferences, freedom. Maria wants the stage to go on, never to leave, never to enter daily life. Her eyes are lined with black coal, her face a series of lines, no middle tones, a death mask. Maria dies alone in her beautiful empty Paris apartment. She walked to the window early in the day, watching the absently minded couple pulling the child along, remembering the long hours of exhaustion, when did the singing begin? Lying in her bed, she scans the beautiful room, the flowers, the stillness, but I am alone. I am so rich, so talented, so wonderful but I am alone. There is no warmth beside me. I must go into each day remembering only the day’s constant for my special memories. Each night, each night, no change.”