The human face is a work of art. There is a multitude of fantastic arrangements. Those perfect lines, rich with stories and suffering. A woman a few rows from me looks up at the screen. The skin below her chin rests on her manubrium, wobbles in rhythm with the movement of her worried eyes. The small, bespectacled man beside her whispers something and a dimple appears in his right cheek. Her generous neck lifts momentarily and her eyes brighten. Her expression comes alive with the secret.
I sit in the Boston airport right now, waiting to board. I fly into Amsterdam and then on to Vilnius. I admire the expressions around me, wondering about the lines that will someday speak of my experiences before I have a chance to articulate them. We fear wrinkles, the betrayl of our inner world and histories. We fail to celebrate their honesty. Wrinkles are tools for truthsayers, artists of vulnerability.
I especially love the weary face. It shines in airports, sewn into the traveler's composition. Sometimes excitement is there, often it communicates the long day. Here, at gate A14 the European face is showcased. It is an older crowd, so the story lines are abundant. This particular countenance is rich with history. It seems to me the depth of ancient culture can be read in the weathered facial features of Europe's elders.
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