I wander through the rooms as if I were a ghost choosing this and that. What to take, what to leave what I will need, what holds meaning. But to me alone and not to those who follow. A book – read yesterday to read perhaps tomorrow. A book – the small child kept throughoutContinue reading “Moving 2018”
The more I look at the books crowding my shelves, the more I think of them as books spawning other books, endlessly. Like the zebra clams, where one clam can propagate thousands. One book, one word, can lead to countless other words, countless other books, which in turn multiply. So I look at you, myContinue reading “Books”
A mother and her child. I try to decipher her gaze and, entranced, have fallen under her spell.She could be a Madonna, holding a babe in swaddling clothes, safe inits mother’s arms and not yet aware of the world outside. What are those eyes and that enigmatic smile that lingers on her lipstrying to tellContinue reading “A Mother and Her Child”
In July of 1955 I boarded a steamer for Europe. This year abroad was documented in sketches, photographs, and many pages written on this Olivetti 22 portable typewriter, bought in Florence, Italy, a constant friend thanks to which I can now share with you Europe (and myself) of 1955-56, so keep reading. Inspiration is sometimesContinue reading “The Watcher”
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