When last we were together in this sort of month-in-review (month-in-preview), listicle way, it was the end of May. Hydrangeas were in bloom, tomatoes were still just tiny yellow flowers (if that), I was preparing for some big changes in my work-work, I had just re-booted Larksome Goods as a stationery and paper goods start-up, … Continue reading A few things: September 2018
When I was small and days were most often spent with just the two of us, my mother and me, filling time as we pleased, I spent countless hours in parks and museums, wandering aimlessly and looking at trees, art, and artifacts. Our most frequent haunt was the Brooks Museum, where my mother liked to … Continue reading How art might save the world.
There are few, if any, things as full of pure joy as the squeals of bubbly delight from a baby playing peek-a-boo. When my son was little, long before he could walk, this was an instant and endless source of entertainment, closing my hands over my face, opening them like doors, and saying, "peek-a-boo; I … Continue reading Look, now.
On Monday I had to put on my big girl pants, by which I mean quite literally the black stretchy pants with the wide and forgiving elastic waistband. I have done little but eat and drink with reckless abandon since November 10. On November 9 I was too depressed to eat. In the initial days … Continue reading I beg you: Art. Harder.
So, a photograph is a picture made with light, a sliver of an instant, frozen in time. Nothing more; nothing less. It's a split-second reaction between particles of light and some surface that catches them - film, coated paper, a digital board. Sometimes, the lucky times, the picture made with light captures something beyond a … Continue reading Work of heart.
Here's how I drilled a hole in my thumb: When Bernard walked into our bedroom, I was in the middle of saying: farewell, blue shirt; thank you for bringing out the blue in my eyes. And Bernard said: what the hell are you doing? And I said: I told you already; I'm going to spend … Continue reading The rest of the story.
Perhaps the real purpose of keeping a journal is for the assurance, at some later date, that one is still oneself - voice, hand, and eye as distinct as fingerprints. The years spanned are a blur, but each minute is frozen in crystalline precision. Only in time do the entries divulge what they always were: … Continue reading The beauty of an ordinary life.
Among my greatest fears is this: one of my well-educated, high-brow friends asks me what I'm reading. So today you'll be my confessor about my checkered life with junk books, and then we'll talk about the wisdom of PB&J for dinner. Understand, at the beginning of this confession, a notion that has been drilled into … Continue reading Seriously.