She was painted white, and she stood in the streets near Covent Gardens. I would have thought she was a sculpture, if there hadn’t been a crowd gathered around her little platform made of wood. This snowy-robed diva didn’t move or bat an eyelid for five entire minutes. It seemed like eternity. Then slowly, meticulously, she moved a forefinger, a wrist, a shoulder, an elbow: a statue turned slow-motion goddess. Since that time, I’ve seen similar performances in the streets of New York and Buenos Aires. But none were as good as that year, 1989: my first solo trip, an Easter break from my studies in Seville, Spain.
Today, for the first time since my university years, I returned to the magic of Covent Gardens: the street musicians and traveling troubadours; the performance artists, the clowns, and the dancers. I don’t know where the white lady went; a silver man with pointed ears and a brass man with a bike stood in her stead.