No longer finding that writing is such an arduous experiece. The hours fly by as I am hauled up in my little office. It is gray and very bitter outside, a bit of snow today, scattered among the rooftops as smoke billows from the chimneys. The joy of holding a book so old that it is nearly falling apart in my hands, where every page is a revelation, a story, every item provokes a question. Vasari's Lives Of The Most Eminent Artists Volume One Lives of the Painters. There is Cimabue,Duccio and Giotto. Italy and I am reminded that I want to travel, and painfully aware of being strapped for cash while I persue an ever extending graduate degree. Nothing exists today except stories and lives. Accounts foretold in an edition not much changed since 1568. Strong coffee, cold air leaking through the window the joy of steam heat. I am lost in my research, I want to stay engrossed in my books for hours on end. I never want to sit in an office, sit in my cubicle and contribute to building somebody elses business model. It doesn't matter when faced with art. today no CNN no election, no telephone, no fax machine, no year 2000. me, my mac my coffee, book, dog...ahhhh! yes simplicity and just enjoying this very cold winter day.
3:49 PM :
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