Libreria Acqua Alta in Venice, Italy
A customer came in yesterday evening, a woman - in her 40’s, 50’s? - with blue eyes and a silk scarf to match. I told her how lovely her eyes and scarf looked together and she smiled and said, ‘Thank you, baby. I’m on the road, having an adventure, and I’m trying to look good. As if the road cares.’ I pointed out that you never know what you’ll run to on an adventure, so it’s best to be prepared. That made her laugh. “You couldn’t be more right,” she said. I wished her safe travels and watched as she climbed into her car and drove off, thinking that is who I want to be decades from now. Intrepid and sharply dressed, adventuring alone, braving the night with an easy smile.
If every stranger that has inspired me was aware of the impression they had left, I wonder what they’d think or if they’d think of it at all. A tiny, traceless mark, like a figurative fingerprint. Each brief encounter has changed my life by a small degree, mostly unconsciously, mostly in a way of no consequence, but collectively, they have shaped me into someone I might not otherwise be. So thank you, strangers. Thank you, unknown persons, for informing my general existence. It’s been wonderful.
“I was deeply interested in conveying what is a deeply felt conviction of my own. This is simply to suggest that human beings must involve themselves in the anguish of other human beings. This, I submit to you, is not a political thesis at all. It is simply an expression of what I would hope might be ultimately a simple humanity for humanity’s sake.”
- Rod Serling
1. Les Boulevards, Pierre Bonnard (1900)
2. Le Verger (The Orchard), Pierre Bonnard (1898)
1. Les Attitudes Sont Faciles et Chastes (The Poses Are Easy and Innocent) (1898)
2. Mother With a Child At a Window (1900)
3. Ce Fut Un Religieux Mystère (It Was A Religious Mystery) (1898)
In the thralls of a Maurice Denis bender.
Art by Maira Kalman
"I’ll Never Be Hungry Again"
This morning was the first time I’ve ever seen rain at dawn, the cloudless kind that seems to fall from nowhere. What little grey there was crouched in the sky’s corners, framing the horizon in a way that made it unreal, stiff as a set piece. The whole scene echoed Old Hollywood - painted backdrops lit just so, unseen hands sprinkling water from the studio rafters. The sun spilled its most gorgeous stains in months and I watched with my eyes half-open, vision blurred with sleep, the colors blurred by wind-whipped rain, as rose and gold and china blue tangled; my mind fumbled with a faint memory - Scarlett O’Hara struggling to her feet under orange clouds, orchestral swells - before fading back into a dream.