Akhirnya aku menemukan foto ini. Pertama kali aku melihatnya di majalah Vouge dan langsung membuatku berkomentar: "Gila ini foto keren banget!" aku suka banget sama suasana dan warnanya. Ganjil. Jack White disini pas banget dengan kostum putih dan pisau dapur di tangannya. Sementara Meg White sebagai sasaran tembak, tersenyum innocent. Menurutku Annie Leibovitz pas banget mendeskripsikan karakter The White Stripes di foto ini yang seksi misterius dan bisa jadi bebahaya, penuh kejutan tapi semuanya terkontrol. Latar belakang yang sepertinya menggambarkan daerah industri, seperti menjadi metafor Detroit yang industrial, keras, murung, serius dan menyimpan kisah pahit yang lama-lama mengental bersama asap dan debu southwest Detroit. Itu sebabnya menurutku warna merah yang ditampilkan disini lebih untuk menggambarkan 'kekentalan itu' (makanya bukan merah terang, tapi lebih murung dan gelap). Warna putih justu menambah dramatis pucatnya kulit Jack, seperti menegaskan rasa dingin dan murung itu. Forgotten but not forgiven.
Oya aku posting juga puisi Jack tentang Detroit, kota kelahirannya yang akhirnya dia tinggalkan karena tidak lagi kondusif sebagai tempatnya berkarya.
three miles an hour or so,
through Highland Park, Heidelberg, and the
Cass Corridor.
I've hopped on the Michigan,
and transferred to the Woodward,
and heard the good word blaring from an
a.m. radio.
I love the worn-through tracks of trolley
trains breaking through their
concrete vaults,
As I ride the Fort Street or the Baker,
just making my way home.
I sneak through an iron gate, and fish
rock bass out of the strait,
watching the mail boat with
its tugboat gait,
hauling words I'll never know.
The water letter carrier,
bringing prose to lonely sailors,
treading the big lakes with their trailers,
floats in blue green chopping waters,
above long-lost sunken failures,
awaiting exhumation iron whalers,
holding gold we'll never know.
I've slid on Belle Isle,
and rowed inside of it for miles.
Seeing white deer running alongside
While I glide, in a canoe.
I've walked down Caniff holding a glass
Atlas root beer bottle in my hands
And I've entered closets of coney islands
early in the morning too.
I've taken malt from Stroh's and Sanders,
felt the black powder of abandoned
embers,
And smelled the sawdust from wood cut
to rehabilitate the fallen edifice.
I've walked to the rhythm of mariachis,
down junctions and back alleys,
Breathing fresh-baked fumes of culture
nurtured of the Latin and the
Middle East.
I've fallen down on public ice,
and skated in my own delight,
and slid again on metal crutches
into trafficked avenues.
Three motors moved us forward,
Leaving smaller engines to wither,
the aluminum, and torpedo,
Monuments to unclaimed dreaming.
Foundry's piston tempest captured,
Forward pushing workers raptured,
Frescoed families strife fractured,
Encased by factory's glass ceiling.
Detroit, you hold what one's been seeking,
Holding off the coward-armies weakling,
Always rising from the ashes
not returning to the earth.
I so love your heart that burns
That in your people's body yearns
To perpetuate,
and permeate,
the lonely dream that does encapsulate,
Your spirit, that God insulates,
With courageous dream's concern.
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