Implode (The Occasion of You)

He recalled the festive vigor of those winter months, the brisk caress of Nordic winds, the clamor of revelers, inebriated with holiday cheer, and a towering ceremonial spruce, bedazzled in light, standing majestic amidst Rockefeller Center.

His driver would taxi the obsidian Maybach curbside at 20 Rockefeller Plaza, where Maxwell would exit into the sea of crimson and evergreen hues of the season. As the tips of his sable leather, cap-toed Berluti shoes met the pavement, he would be similarly encountered by a dashing representative of Christie’s, eager to escort the visionary architect into the storied salesrooms of the revered auction house.

It would be some while before he would emerge with La Pie, by Claude Monet. It was a surprise gift for his wife to celebrate the season. The impressionist work of effet de neige is now exhibited within their sitting room, at their country cottage, in the somnolent village of Beddgelert, Wales.

Now, as the Maybach idled curbside at 718 Fifth Avenue, its courtly chauffeur standing in wait for the accoutrement artisan to emerge, there was no occasion in particular to spur the acquisition of the platinum and diamond necklace, adorned with 25 carats of oval and pear-shaped mandarin garnets, all for the wonder that is Claire Mulberry.

Today, he did it just because.

Implode. Part LXIV - DK

Luce

Season of light.

Illuminated candles, perched upon a wooden mantle, within the festive ambience of a palatial estate.

Somewhere along the Pacific Ocean. Starlight - DK

Implode (The Encounter at Azalea Pond)

The deficiency of luster was apparent in the curvature of his shoulders. He sat disheartened, his memory absconded, along with the compass of vast and ubiquitous sums. As morning approached noon, Benjamin found himself upon a weathered bench within the arbor refuge of Central Park. Along the roseate circumference of a tranquil pond, he intended to forgo obtrusive thoughts, and partake in an uninterrupted view of the sky.

And though his intention was to seek consolation within the pink solace of azaleas, a chocolate Sussex spaniel sought similar reassurance at his feet.

“Andiamo, Rocco.” A sagacious voice called.

The personable canine looked up, curiously, as did the de Gris Laurent heir.

“Andiamo, mangiare.” The voice called again.

The clever pup now stood attentively, its tail a wag.

Benjamin turned toward the ivory-haired gentleman as he approached.

“Mi dispiace,” the older gentleman would say.

“Non scusa necessario.” Benjamin interjected.

Though the gentleman evoked his native tongue out of habit, he was accosted unawares by the sullen gentleman’s linguistic astuteness.

“Grazie,” the gentleman would say. He knelt to affix a sable leash onto Rocco’s collar. “Tu sei Italiano?” He inquired.

“Americano,” Benjamin replied. “Though with French blood.”

Rocco sat attentively, gaze affixed upon its master, anticipating the promised feast.

“Our blood is the same,” the gentleman responded, with a smile.

“Is that so?” Benjamin inquired. He reached down to stroke the affable pup.

“The family of my grandfather,” The gentleman began. “From the hills of Provence.”

“I have 237,000 acres there.” Benjamin replied, in a casual manner. For the first time in some while, there was a smile in his eyes. His thoughts assuaged by the chocolate pup.

And though the gentleman was alert, he did not understand. However Benjamin succumbed to his sophic guest, turning his attention toward the Italian stranger.

“Benjamin.” He said, extending his hand.

“Piacere. Sono Giancarlo.”

Implode. Part LXIII - DK

Jardin

Our love will grow.

The whimsical facades of artful flower pots, astride a boutique, along the Rue Boissy d'Anglas.

Paris, France. Rosé - DK

Luna

Tropical fantasy.

A conversation with the moon, as it traverses amongst the palm trees on a warm, lucent evening, in Southern California.

Los Angeles, California. Dream - DK

Implode (A Giant's Perspective)

He was gracious by nature, extending his Edwardian courtesy curbside, where two black Land Rovers, termed Discovery 4, idled in the downpour. The sport utility vehicles were accompanied by an onyx Maybach 62, patiently attended by a courtly chauffeur, anticipating the oligarch’s approach.

Viktor Aleksy Chernov arrived at the luxurious German sedan, invigorated by the initial business of the day. Though they wielded influence in different spheres, Mr. Chernov viewed the Platonist architect as his contemporary. As the breadth of his contingent entered the awaiting vehicles, Mr. Chernov turned toward his affable host.

“In myth, giants are perceived as monsters. However, giants are not…” the energy maven paused, before turning to Desya for assistance with the words. He inquired, in Russian, with the adept apprentice.

Desya, speaking in his native tongue, provided the nuclear patriarch with the specific phrasing for his thoughts.

Mr. Chernov, reassured in his contemplation, continued, “Unreasonable creatures.”

He paused, momentarily, attempting to translate his next thought for the postmodern prince, though it was Maxwell who interpreted the mogul’s unspoken words.

“They’re just unable to see eye-to-eye, with ordinary men.”

Viktor smiled. He observed the artful virtuoso once more, before entering the idling Maybach. The attentive chauffeur secured the door, before tending to his vehicular perch.

Maxwell observed, the wool fibers of his Tom Ford ensemble repelling the efforts of the rain, as the Russian convoy fled the aquatic corridors of SoHo.

Implode. Part LXII – DK

Vivacity

The sun will shine again.

The spirited accord of The Grand Canal, as viewed from the Ponte di Rialto.
Venice, Italy. Anew.

Implode (An Accurate Account)

There were serial ledgers, numbered accounts, and weighted bundles of paper currency, profuse in their abundance, entrusted to iron repositories, buried within the reinforced certainty of penthouse walls. Such undertakings were necessary, for there was a plan to escape. Yet, an equally chartered plan, should the need to return arise.

He stood outside the towering glass structure at 590 Madison Avenue, the collar on his Gucci pea coat affected by the slight wind. He idled in the morning drizzle, a hot cup of Masala chai idling similarly within his grasp. As the transient legion of pedestrians traversed the liquefied pavement, Benjamin remained unmoved in the midst of the promenade, attempting a truce with his thoughts.

There were numbered accounts.

And paper currency.

He was certain of it.

His thoughts wandered.

There were documented ledgers.

Several by his recollection.

Meticulous in their keep.

Though two years of vagrancy, compounded by heartbreak, and a purposeful forsaking of Mnemosyne, impeded his cognition.

And he could not remember them all.

Implode. Part LXI - DK

Implode (The Worth of Complication)

It was not a question of desire.

Of unbridled volition.

Or parables of choice.

Instead, their extraordinary passions and the execution thereof, were the result of divination, long ago. The Mulberry affinity with art and the Chernov disposition with power were composed of purposeful inclination and proceedings in augury, by those who fashioned the nebulas. And now, as Desya parted company to realign with the waiting Russian contingent, patiently ensconced within the liquid elegance of the courtesy lounge, Viktor Aleksy Chernov would speak, in private, with the postmodern prince.

“Apologies,” the energy maven would begin. “English…”

He struggled with the words.

“No apology necessary.” Maxwell would say.

Viktor responded, in kind.

“I am in the habit of conducting business in Russian.”

Though there was a slight pause in his speech, Maxwell surmised, through intuit, that the energy patriarch had not completed his thought.

And so, he listened.

“Have you been?” Mr. Chernov would say, “Have you been to my Russia?”

Maxwell observed the oligarch.

“More than once, Mr. Chernov.”

“Please,” the Russian mogul would begin, “Call me Viktor.”

Maxwell nodded, respectfully.

“We have a complicated history,” Mr. Chernov began.

There was another pause and a sudden, rapacious desire for air, which the energy giant drew deep into his lungs.

“Very complicated.” he continued.

He lowered his head, ensconced within the nurturing embrace of the Mulberry Bjarg, the resplendent office chair compliment to the Mulberry Forseti, composed of titanium and flexible, accommodating alloys, which allowed the denizen to breathe. As he considered his own obscure history and the complexity of its path, he allowed his hand to travel the breadth of the gilded armrest, sculpted by the artisan, who was to implore the same tenets in the design of his New York abode.

As the rain continued to blur the panoramic views of SoHo, Maxwell observed the nuclear mogul, and attempted to assuage the ambiguity of the past.

“With respect, Viktor, complication is yet another tool for design. I believe it to be integral, particularly in fashioning greatness.”

Mr. Chernov beheld the visionary architect, spellbound.

“I understand you are a man of note. Of integrity. In Russia, this is more valuable than currency. Tell me, have you found this in your travels to my beloved land?”

Maxwell allowed his gaze to fall, upon the titanium base of the translucent conference table.

“The Ural Mountains have been kind to me.”

Implode. Part LX - DK

Revel

Dance with me.

The festive sculptures of Medici Venus and Dancing Fawn, by Pietro Cipriani, as they stand at the Getty Center.
Los Angeles, California. Revelry - DK

Implode (A Question of Quality)

The collar was a felicitous one and three-quarters of woven Egyptian broadcloth upon his neck. He stood at the conference table of translucent glass from the Mulberry Niflheim Collection, decidedly transfixed upon a scale model of the home he was to design within an opulent enclave, of the Upper East Side. The aqueous panoramas of SoHo played behind as he illustrated the architectural specifications, in detail, to the Russian industrial behemoth. Gesturing indicatively with his tempered, manicured hands, the Bvgari cufflinks accommodated the light as he spoke.

“Beyond the primary entrance, I’ve imagined an unadulterated space, thus highlighting the grandeur of the main stairway. The interior will be sculpted in Cuban mahogany and massaged with tsavorite, just through the portico.”

Viktor Aleksy Chernov, the Byzantine founder of Chernov Energy, the global nuclear consulting engine, headquartered along the broad Nevsky Prospekt in St. Petersburg, observed the demonstration with careful note, whilst his assistant, Desya Pachkaev, translated in accord.

Mr. Chernov nodded, gaze affixed upon the model.

He then turned to Desya, speaking forcefully in his native tongue. The young man, educated in the United States and throughout Europe, acknowledged his mentor before addressing the Platonist architect.

“What is this, Cuban mahogany?” Desya began. “Is it of superior quality to other mahogany?”

Maxwell observed the young apprentice, bemused.

“This same wood exists in my home in Madeira.”

Desya rumpled his brow, uncertain. Maxwell graciously expounded.

“Off Portugal.”

Implode. Part LVIX - DK

Symmetry

The poetry in lines.

A courtesy lounge, upon entering the impressionist wing of the Getty Center.
Los Angeles, California. By design - DK

Implode (Of Ichorous & Men)

It was horological genius, crafted by hand at 61 Strand and 34 Royal Exchange, London. It was called Elizabeth, by the enduring skill that crafted the great clock, harbored at the Palace of Westminster, as well as a timepiece for the last emperor of Russia. And though his namesake towered steadfast in the midst of London, Benjamin could not persuade his person to arise from the comforts of the Mulberry Vor, a circular divan, composed of handcrafted Macassar ebony and amber citrine, appropriated from the depths of Rio Grande Do Sul.

The liquid globules continued to pelt the French glass. He briefly considered a halt of his breathing, within the silken pause of the king goose down pillows. For the world beyond the deftly crafted windows did not mirror the comforts of the artisan’s guest quarters.

Instead, he turned to observe the rarified Dent clock once more.

9:54 am.

And now, a torrential assault accosted the solitude of the window pane. Benjamin sat forward, his gaze fallen out onto the saturated corridors of SoHo. It would drizzle this way in the rainforest. A continual emulsion, comparable to contrition in ichorous, beneath the nurturing shade of emerald canopies for days on end. He remained still, his gaze continued on the city, which was once his fiefdom.

Perhaps today, he would have it back.

Implode. Part LVIII - DK

Polo

The sport of kings.

Nacho Figueras and his team, Black Watch, in vigorous pursuits above the Pacific Ocean.
Pacific Palisades, California. Classic - DK

La Cena

Buon Appetito.

Israeli cous cous, blue catfish, and organic basil.
Los Angeles, California. Satitated - DK

Lady

Where would I be, without you?

Juno, Venus, and Minerva, as sculpted by Jospeh Nollekens, displayed at the Getty Center.
Los Angeles, California. Breathe - DK

Implode (Artisans & Alligators)

He stood at the northwest corner of Mercer and Prince, beneath the somnolent embrace of a turbulent sky. The licorice alligator tote, tamed by Bottega Veneta, idled at his tranquil side, whilst the similarly nectarous cap-toed shoes paused over the saturated curb, awaiting favorable conditions to proceed toward the adjacent lane.

As a black sedan swept along the aqueous SoHo way, Maxwell tarried patiently, the brisk morning air in a fancy with his lungs. Despite the slight drizzle, his navy blue single-breasted, Prince of Wales suit, composed of light wool, along with a blue French-cuffed, high-collared Houndstooth patterned shirt, fastened by an amber silk tie, replete with floral prints, all imagined by Tom Ford, provided silken solace from the aquatic onslaught.

There was a considerable delay between the traffic and pedestrian signals, which allowed him to contemplate the endeavors of the day. He was to encounter the Russian industrialist, Viktor Aleksy Chernov, at the offices of Mulberry Design to discuss a series of concepts for the gentleman’s recently purchased New York residence at 68^th Street , between Park and Madison Avenues. He was also scheduled to meet with Neil Horowitz, though the details of this encounter were far less determined. There would be lunch with his wife at Le Bernardin, which would also provide refuge from the culinary toil and endless entertaining of her own, with the benevolent Giancarlo Franceschi in town.

A lucent raindrop, attracted to his aureate cheekbone, redirected his thoughts, imploring him to the now.

With the IWC Schaffhausen Yacht Club Chronograph at his wrist, Maxwell observed the intricacies of the hour, his leather cap-toed moccasins delicately tempered above the crevices of Mercer Street, awaiting passage.

Implode. Part LVII - DK

Dolce

Delicious windows.

A delectable bake shoppe upon a Venetian way.
Venice, Italy. The embers of spring - DK

Truth

God save the Queen.

EM.
New York City. Sometime ago - DK

Implode (Morning Drizzle)

She stood beneath a venerable awning, along the august promenade of Central Park West. The air was autumn, though her ensemble was vibrant and invariably spring. Her accoutrements were ivory and amber hues of Chanel, the ruffles on her blouse tickled by the slight wind. The air was brisk, its temperature betrayed by the visible breath on her ruby lips. She was still, her posture stoic, like the valued statues of antiquity she pursued the world over.

Neil Horowitz was escorted from the yellow coach by the ardent doorman, who braved the somberness of a melancholy sky to assist with the Louis Vuitton portage. A slight drizzle began to fall and now Renaldo unsheathed the licorice umbrella, to shield Mr. Horowitz from the rain.

He approached his wife, esteemed luggage in tow.

“Welcome home, dear.” She would allow between raindrops.

Neil mumbled, incoherently. He appeared irritable, unable to abandon the discomfort of his recent journey. As he unzipped a particular tote and began to rummage through its articles, Lucy brandished a familiar smile. It was a mood with which she was well acquainted.

“And how are the Chinese?” she continued.

“Loaded,” he spouted, “And very stubborn.”

The doorman, shrouded beneath the umbrella, waited patiently beside the coach, idling in the rain.

“Here.”

Neil held a small onyx box within his outstretched reach.

Lucy gazed at her husband, puzzled, before accepting the sable coffer. As she began to open the diminutive chest, Neil reached into his pocket, removed a hundred dollar bill, and handed the currency to Renaldo.

“Be sure to get my change.”

The doorman acknowledged, dutifully, moving toward the driver to pay the fare.

Meanwhile, Lucy was awestricken by the amber pendant attached to a necklace of diamonds, encased in platinum. The fossilized gemstone, relative dated at two million years, was once a trinket of Wu Zetian, the sole Empress Regnant of China.

Lucy took leave of the precious pendant, to gaze at her husband once more.

“I don’t understand.”

Neil observed the financial transaction at the taxi, simultaneously addressing his wife.

“I don’t know what it is, but it’s very expensive. I thought you should have it.”

Lucy remained motionless, without words. She returned her attention toward the auburn pendant, as Renaldo returned with the remnants of the hundred dollar bill.

It was Monday morning. 7:47 am.

Neil was ready for rest. His wife was prepared for work.

“And your weekend?” He inquired.

Her thoughts still fastened on the pendant, now wandered toward the sullen hues of an ashen sky.

She sighed.

“Uneventful.”

Implode. Part LVI - DK

Immortal

Because love is eternal.

The immortal city of Rome.
Rome, Italy. Enchanted - DK

Crown

Because one golden circle, deserves another.

A golden wreath from Greek antiquity, aloft on a cliff at the Getty Villa.
Malibu, California. Submerged in purple - DK

Implode (Cercle d'Or)

It was unadulterated vanilla, whisked into a buoyant crème, nourished within a thin, diaphanous wafer of the same Tahitian orchid. It was showered with raspberries and intricate slices of kiwifruit, whilst an orange slice and Valrhona chocolate provided delectable pageantry for the indulgent affair.

She called it Cercle d’Or.

For its richness.

For its ambrosial heft on the tongue.

For Monaco.

She laughed, heartily.

“Do you like it?!”

The palatable dessert was coupled with a tawny Niepoort, allowed to bask in a barrel of oak for twenty years. Giancarlo nibbled quietly, in a contemplative manner, returning the partial morsel to the ivory plate. He was patient in his consumption of the delicate confection, as evidenced in his deliberate and careful mastication. The vanilla crème sufficiently imbued within his glands, Giancarlo tended to the corners of his mouth with a linen napkin, of Italian ilk.

He sat momentarily, without words.

“È ambizioso.”

“Si.” She conceded.

He paused momentarily, still contemplating the creamy indulgence.

“Come…” he began, “Un baccio fragile.”

Claire formed a breathless smile, her heart submerged in relief.

“Grazie,” she said. “Sei molto gentile.”

Giancarlo raised the glass of port to his lips, rinsing his gratified palate with the aged beverage.

They occupied a bare cocobolo table near the large, picturesque windows, whose views fell out onto the cobblestoned streets of Mercer. The panoramic scenes were dictated by a late vernal equinox, where sundresses, replete with floral prints, strode along the sidewalks in flowing revelry.

Claire partook in an espresso.

“And your journey?” She inquired. “I trust you were comfortable.”

He prepared to speak again, before a pause.

“It was my first trip on an airplane with a sofa. Like a house in the sky.”

Claire smiled.

“I’m pleased.”

She brandished a faint smile, before becoming lost in the contents of her cup. The sagacious Italian, adorned in woven linen and a cardigan of auburn hues, observed the lady Mulberry, who appeared sullen, despite the vestiges of success surrounding her.

“In the winter of 1944, I marched through a path in the Alps, vincino Ossola. My regiment were pursuing the Fascists through the apli a Milano, con vigore!”

Claire listened, intently.

“Burdened with a man’s weight in gear and supplies and having depleted our fuel, we became stranded in several meters of snow, with more accumulating each minute.”

He sighed.

“I was still a boy. Ventidue anni. Il comandante, he said to me…”

He paused.

“Do not fret.”

As another summer dress fluttered by the jeweled window, Claire Mulberry stared at the ivory-haired warrior poet, and smiled.

“Thank you for being here with me.”

Implode. Part LV - DK

Arcade

Artful commerce.

The arcade of shoppes within the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele.
Milan, Italy. Ensconsed in you - DK

Fantasy

Because the gods blush, too.

The wonder above, upon entering the Bellagio.
Las Vegas, Nevada. Mereviglia - DK

Nocturnal

Because some creatures, only exist at night.

The nocturnal frenzy of the city.
New York City. Revitalized - DK

Implode (795 Meadow Lane, Southampton)

He stood in the shaded midst of 795 Meadow Lane, Southampton. It was a New England kitchen, traditional in nature, playing beneath the somber luminescence of a coastal dawn. It was her cathedral, and the initial space to swoon for his appraisal. Satisfied with the resplendent marble floors, his gaze rose toward the atrium. The charcoal gray two-button suit, imagined by the renowned designer who lived across the way, demurred the light spilling onto his indubitable frame.

A collection of documents littered his purposeful grasp. He continued to roll the financial offer, in a contemplative manner, into modern scrolls.

Benjamin occupied the arm of a muted sofa.

“Don’t go more than seventeen”, he advised.

Maxwell parted with his trance momentarily, to gaze at his friend.

“It’s worth twenty-five.”

“It’s worth forty,” Benjamin replied confidently. “Go twenty-five if you have to. If you absolutely must. But seventeen is the number.”

Maxwell considered his friend’s counsel, nodding appreciatively. It had been some while since he had spoken in such certain terms.

He responded in kind.

“Then seventeen it shall be.”

He started for his Blackberry.

“She’s wonderful, Max.”

Maxwell paused and turned toward his friend, who sulked in his own charcoal Tom Ford ensemble.

“Spectacular, even.”

He looked up.

“Did you know that she loves art? I mean, absolutely loves art!”

Maxwell sighed, still harbored beneath the somber caress of the opening above.

“She’s a curator, Ben.”

“I know,” he said with a smile. “She took me to the Wildenstein.”

He sat, reminiscently, his thoughts reverting toward an aquatic Saturday afternoon.

“She should be a dealer. She’d make a great dealer.”

With his head lowered and his posture similarly demure, Maxwell aborted his appraisal of the two-storey Palladian home and listened, whilst the Atlantic Ocean played alongside the surrounding bays.

“I can help her with that,” he continued. “She’s exquisite, really.”

He continued to smile, alone in his thoughts.

“She’s a married woman, Benjamin.”

Benjamin glared at the demiurgic architect. It was a specific glance, ruinous to spectacular fortunes, gross domestic products, and similarly ambitious men. And though a reactionary stare, he bore no such ill will toward his benevolent friend. As immediate as its arrival, the icy chill would thaw, his thoughts returning toward the exceptional Mrs. Horowitz.

“She’s fascinating.”

“She’s a married woman, Ben.”

Benjamin pondered momentarily.

“Yeah”, he sighed. “But that isn’t love.”

Though his demeanor remained poised, Maxwell appeared disappointed in his friend’s amorous judgment. He was particularly dismayed by his current fancy. His jaw tightened, as he prepared to engage a question avoided since the philanthropist wanderer’s sudden disappearance.

“What about Isabella?”

Benjamin's gaze fell through the Palladian windows out onto the sea.

“What about Isabella, Ben?”

Still, Benjamin idled on the armrest of the sofa, gaze attuned toward the sea. He appeared at peace, his face serene.

Maxwell sighed.

"I do not know what you've suffered. I cannot know how she confounded your heart."

Benjamin remained still, lost on the song of the ocean.

"Against my better judgment, and the inclinations of my wife, I am prepared to support your endeavors. Including the precipitous one, on which you now embark. I will set you up, financially. You may have the place on Thompson & Bleecker. There are no bounds to my munificence."

Benjamin maintained his tranquil poise.

"My only request, is that you not abandoned us again. You are my dearest friend."

Benjamin blinked once, inhaling deeply. He took a moment to visually explore the expansive oceanside estate, before addressing his friend.

“How about the house?”

Maxwell appeared perplexed. A combination of his intimidating stare and evasive conversational tactics reminded the architect of a man from a distant past.

“Do you like it?” he continued. “The house?”

Maxwell, too, took a moment to inhale the space.

“Very much so,” he contended. “I’m going to make an offer.”

Benjamin maintained his watch over the meticulous property and its muted interiors.

“Let me get it for you.”

The statement further confounded the architectural virtuoso, who observed his friend, without words. Though in this instance, Benjamin provided clarification for his altruistic offer.

“I didn’t give it all away.”

Implode. Part LIV - DK