I will always love books. The very thing-ness of them. The design, the way they age, their heft.
I miss those college days when I had time to sit on the floor of the used book store, combing through art books or scanning for paperbacks. I consistently had an appetite for books – pictures, places, words, possibilities – that exceeded the hours in a day.
I dream that someday I’ll have time for books again. Time to open the cover and disappear into the world of the story. Time to read the most beautiful words twice.
P.S. How do you like the new blog design? I wish the pics were bigger, but otherwise I dig it.
I always thought I wanted to be a painter. The colors and the physicality and the mess of it all. In Art History, I loved studying the painters best of all. But, if I was a painter, I think it would break my heart to sell my work, like handing off one of my children or trading on a precious memory. I’m glad my medium is reproducible. Still, I’ll take any excuse to hold a paint brush…
102/365: red paintbrush
If you’re in the mood, check out the poem, “Why I Am Not A Painter” my second-favorite poem by Frank O’Hara. It has nothing to do with why I am not a painter, but it’s a good poem. My favorite Frank O’Hara poem is “Having a Coke With You“. It’s really good.