The artist smoked cigars—one on his porch with a glass of mescal, another during an evening stroll through the neighborhood. One cigar a day, maybe two. "Nice cigars," he said.
The Ghost of Philip Guston
A Bushy Mustache and a Tight Pair of Jeans
He was on a student visa from Switzerland learning English. I helped him with slang, and he taught me French.
Disappearance
I come down to breakfast at 6 a.m. You stand in your blue terry cloth robe, cinched at the waist holding a cup of green tea in hands that are freckled, slender fingers around the cup. You hair falls on your shoulders, curling perfectly at the ends like those commercials for Clairol shampoo.
Reading and The Red Shoes
The love of reading is an infinite pursuit.
In My Brother’s Bedroom
I'm slowly clearing out my brother's small bedroom (the smallest in the house.) to use for storage.
A Compliment’s a Compliment
Even in late 90s Kent, gay nightclubs were secreted away as if shameful. There was no Manchester canal street where everyone was allowed to be out and proud. This nightclub was set back in some woods. Hidden from the road, you had to know it was there. Built like a large cabin, only its pink neon sign gave it away. ‘Flamingos’ a strange choice I reflected given its very English setting.