Little things. London does that to you. I carry a tiny tin pill box I got there in over 25 years ago with a sleeping jaguar sculpted on the top. Paint all worn off. Still latches solidly.
Driving wherever the road took us, we stopped in a shop in Baccarat one afternoon in the spring of 1984. Cufflinks like little flower-filled paperweights caught my attention, and I had a hard time deciding between red and blue. "You don't need both sets," my other half said. It's 40 years now. Mr. Bernstein has his girl from the ferry, with a white dress and parasol; I have the blue buttons I left behind. The last eight years have sharpened the regret.
Nothing like a quiet Sunday afternoon to reminisce.
Many years ago, when I was in law school, I happened to be in P-town. In the window of a gallery there was an exquisite miniature bust of Athena--probably the size of your miniature pharaoh--and I wanted it very much. But it was $300 and I was a broke law student and I didn't buy it. Every now and then, I think about it and wish I'd just bought it anyway. Since then, I've made it a habit to buy a small something every place I visit, if I can.
I have a small sculpture of "The Thinker" rendered in glossy red. It was a joke gift, given to me on a very bad day; it is objectively horrific, and I love it and shall always love it. In another vein entirely, please accept my thanks for "Dreyer's English" (I don't know how to ital/underline here). I bought it a week ago, have read most of it, and find it entirely delightful and functional. I'm also a big fan of the blowjob joke (which I puzzled over for far too long instead of simply reading one additional line), the genial snark, and the silly and joyful, well, dad jokes. Thank you for the company of the last several days. For reasons having to do with the chaos of the cultural moment, I've been very, very grateful to turn to you and to the joys of language. Not least, my latest revision is stronger and tighter than I could ever have made it without you.
What a lovely message to receive on this huge and tumultuous day, and I’m really grateful for every word. Thank you! (And I love to think of you loving your objectively horrific little sculpture!)
I still regret not buying a "Doonesbury" original at a Women's Political Caucus fundraiser in DC in the mid-70's because of limited funds. I hope I know better now.
I loved this story: especially since I have regretted not buying something. In my case not buying glicee prints from a poster store. Now these same posters are out of print. They were Kandinsky works.
We have fish. Some 30 years ago when I was stationed in Latvia and long-distance-falling for the man who is now my spouse, I searched for a birthday present for him. In an art gallery in Riga, I found a garish drawing of a bright pink fish with pointy teeth. Why not.
In the ensuing years, we have bought fish art on our travels together. Lithographs, oils large and small, pencil drawings, ceramics, stone sculptures, watercolors, Chinese ink on rice paper, wooden carvings.
Each one has a good story to it: where it came from, who was the artist, how did we choose it. And in some cases, how did we get it here.
No regrets. The eternal lie.
Little things. London does that to you. I carry a tiny tin pill box I got there in over 25 years ago with a sleeping jaguar sculpted on the top. Paint all worn off. Still latches solidly.
Oh, that sounds delightful.
❤️❤️❤️
Picking up Ann Wroe’s Pontius Pilate asap. And maybe a little trinket on my head-clearing museum trip tomorrow. Thanks.
Everything Ann writes is marvelous, but one thing at a time. (Though, OK, her book about Perkin Warbeck—The Perfect Prince—is another great favorite.)
I’m in Dreyer University.
wow
It adds good things to life when one collects trinkets and stories.
Driving wherever the road took us, we stopped in a shop in Baccarat one afternoon in the spring of 1984. Cufflinks like little flower-filled paperweights caught my attention, and I had a hard time deciding between red and blue. "You don't need both sets," my other half said. It's 40 years now. Mr. Bernstein has his girl from the ferry, with a white dress and parasol; I have the blue buttons I left behind. The last eight years have sharpened the regret.
I have to say, I generally prefer your non-copyediting essays.
Not sure if this counts as a confession (I'm not Catholic, but it is a Sunday).
This is, of course, not to say I am not grateful for the copyediting brilliance you generously share in these posts.
Nothing like a quiet Sunday afternoon to reminisce.
Many years ago, when I was in law school, I happened to be in P-town. In the window of a gallery there was an exquisite miniature bust of Athena--probably the size of your miniature pharaoh--and I wanted it very much. But it was $300 and I was a broke law student and I didn't buy it. Every now and then, I think about it and wish I'd just bought it anyway. Since then, I've made it a habit to buy a small something every place I visit, if I can.
What a cool thing to do (every visit, that is)!
I have a small sculpture of "The Thinker" rendered in glossy red. It was a joke gift, given to me on a very bad day; it is objectively horrific, and I love it and shall always love it. In another vein entirely, please accept my thanks for "Dreyer's English" (I don't know how to ital/underline here). I bought it a week ago, have read most of it, and find it entirely delightful and functional. I'm also a big fan of the blowjob joke (which I puzzled over for far too long instead of simply reading one additional line), the genial snark, and the silly and joyful, well, dad jokes. Thank you for the company of the last several days. For reasons having to do with the chaos of the cultural moment, I've been very, very grateful to turn to you and to the joys of language. Not least, my latest revision is stronger and tighter than I could ever have made it without you.
What a lovely message to receive on this huge and tumultuous day, and I’m really grateful for every word. Thank you! (And I love to think of you loving your objectively horrific little sculpture!)
I still regret not buying a "Doonesbury" original at a Women's Political Caucus fundraiser in DC in the mid-70's because of limited funds. I hope I know better now.
I loved this story: especially since I have regretted not buying something. In my case not buying glicee prints from a poster store. Now these same posters are out of print. They were Kandinsky works.
We have fish. Some 30 years ago when I was stationed in Latvia and long-distance-falling for the man who is now my spouse, I searched for a birthday present for him. In an art gallery in Riga, I found a garish drawing of a bright pink fish with pointy teeth. Why not.
In the ensuing years, we have bought fish art on our travels together. Lithographs, oils large and small, pencil drawings, ceramics, stone sculptures, watercolors, Chinese ink on rice paper, wooden carvings.
Each one has a good story to it: where it came from, who was the artist, how did we choose it. And in some cases, how did we get it here.
Perhaps one day I will write them down.