Splendor

Because her feet, should never touch the ground.

The artistry of Reneè Caovilla.

Milan, Italy. On another morning jaunt, on the heels of inspiration - DK

Implode (Hello, Lucy)

It was complicated.
The relationship with the foie gras.
Particularly Mr. Vongeritchen’s creation.
The coffee colored brûlée, adorned in a dress of sour cherries, pistachio accompaniment, and white port gelée, was culinary refinement.

Too extraordinary for mortal consumption.
Too profound for a mere man.

And though the caramelized organ, jubilantly absorbed in the recesses of his glands, the process of gavage troubled him.

Yet, they were all gorged.
Even the lighting was tired.
And so they lounged within the opulence of a dim dining room, vacated by guests, their three courses and dessert washed down by a Château Lafite Rothschild.

Claire listened to Neil, swirling rouge wine in her glass, as he told a tale that required the use of large hand gestures.

Maxwell observed his wife, adoringly.

“That is the last time I publish a book that has anything to do with icebergs, penguins, or Antarctica.”

They all laugh.

Though Benjamin could not deter his gaze from Lucy.

Neil turned to him.

“I understand you’ve done some traveling yourself.”

Benjamin, neatly shaven and clothed in materials mended by Tom Ford, rejoined the conversation.

“I’ve seen some places.”

“It’d be hard not to, consorting with these two.”

The Mulberry’s smile. Maxwell strokes his wife’s hair.

“Indulge me.”

“Malaysia. Thailand. New Delhi.”

He paused.

“The Vedda still hunt and gather their own food, but are increasingly being driven from the land.”

Lucy was intrigued. Her full, red lips, contorting into a smile.

Her husband was curious as well.

“The most magnificent thing you’ve ever seen.”

Benjamin turned toward the blonde siren with the scarlet mouth.

“Your wife.”

Implode. Part XIII - DK

Innocence

Because everything is magic when you're young.

An aspiring princess holding court at the Piazza di San Marco.

Venice, Italy. On an aftternoon, when time stood still - DK

Implode (To Dine at Jean Georges)

His face had begun to itch.

It was uncomfortable now.

The chestnut whiskers had run their course.

Two years. And counting.

Still, he could not bring himself to eradicate the hairs from his person.

Instead, he found himself mesmerized by the platinum and jasper pendulum Claire had bartered for in Shanghai.

Fascinated, even.

He followed the globule’s synchronized movement with his hazelnut eyes.

Claire observed, whilst drying a lime colored ceramic bowl with a tangerine cloth. She was hospitable, by nature.

But she was still disappointed in Maxwell.

Unbeknownst to her, she was in his thoughts a few blocks away, reclined in the Mulberry Forseti, as the sun washed in through the large French windows of his office.

Neil Horowitz sat across from the Platonist architect, awaiting his next vision.

“His name is Ben. He’s been away for some time.”

Neil, his contemporary spectacles in harmonious accord with his face, listened attentively.

“Apparently, before he left, he parted with his finances.”

Neil digested his colleague’s story.

“And he’s staying with you?”

“I’m going to help him piece together a dialogue of his travels.”

“Interesting. There may be a book there.”

Maxwell focused on the assortment of customized pens on his desk.

“What are you doing tonight?” Neil continued.

“I have some sketches to complete. As well as some paperwork for the restaurant.”

“Brilliant. When does she want to open?”

“Soon. Very soon.”

Neil stood and prepared to exit.

“Lucy and I are going to Jean Georges at seven. You and Claire should join us.”

Maxwell thought momentarily.

“I’d love to. But Ben…”

“Bring him along. I’d love to meet him.”

Implode. Part XII - DK

Milano

Have we talked about Milan?

The beauty and architecture of the fashion capital of the world.
Milan, Italy. On a leisurely morning stroll - DK

Magic

Because nothing in the world, should be so beautiful.

Carousel illuminating the Piazza della Repubblica.
Florence, Italy. On a warm and magical evening - DK

Implode (The Art of Patience)

"Let me tell you a story..."

And that was how Claire Mulberry learned to filet a fish, as Kaito Matsumoto intricately demonstrated the art his family had plied for 5,000 years. On a Bluefin, captured in the subarctic waters of the Tsugaru Strait, the master chef was patient and skillful in his craft.

"Remember the sea.” he told her.

His incisions were precise and executed with deftness.

“Because everything is significant.”

The incised cuts of meat were lucid. Nearly impalpable.

“Even the urchin.”

His hands were soft, peaceful, devoid of malice. The juxtaposition with their rapacious nature, bewildered.

“Do not seek glory. Seek instead to become one with all…”

Claire observed, attentive to the culinary sage.

“Glory will find you.”

And from the small fishing village in Hokkaido, to the large loft in the village of SoHo, Claire was finding it difficult to become unanimous with her surroundings, though the black grouper was a skillful 2 cm. filet, by her own hand.

“Maxwell, I am disappointed in you.” she said in a soft whisper.

Their guest had yet to remove his coat. His boots remained an aberration to their floor.

Maxwell stood close to his wife, his eyes fixed on the simmering filets.

“He has no family. No place to go…”

Claire lavished the grouper with Italian parsley and flavorful spices, evocative of carnival in its native Brazil.

She pouted, which Maxwell found deliciously irresistible.

"Claire Madison..."

"You don't even know where he's been! What kind of person disappears for two years?"

Maxwell observed his wife, who maintained a steady pace in her work. She removed the filets from the heat and prepared to lather them in a white truffle cream dressing.

He sighed.

“What would you have me do?”

No words.

"What should I have done?"

Claire stopped and looked at her husband.

“You should have spoken with me!”

She gathered herself.

“And besides... he does have family.”

Aware of her uncharacteristic volume, both Claire and her husband turn, to find their guest, now standing in their kitchen.

Maxwell consulted his drink.

Claire inhaled deeply.

“I just have one question.”

Benjamin was patient.

“Do you like truffle?”

Implode. Part XI - DK

Sorrow

Perhaps he can make amends.

Lovers on steps... sul Via Alessandro Manzoni.

Milan, Italy. On a Tuesday morning, in pursuit of inspiration - DK

Implode (Impetuosity)

They were both artists.

Both gifted, at the manipulation of a thing.

Of transforming the modest into magnificence.

But he was better.

“Claire, you remember Ben.”

As evidenced in her inability to protest, for there he was. She turned to the wooly-haired gentleman, whose boots had sullied her immaculate floor.

“Ben!”

She did not know what to say. She was not skilled at idle chatter. She was not thrilled.

Maxwell looked at his wife, her face glowing pink, en route to rouge.

“Ben’s going to be staying with us for awhile, dear.”

She was angry. In their three years of friendship, four years of dating, and one year of marriage, he had never made a decision so impetuously.

So swift.

It was the first time, in her recollection, that he had not considered her.

Implode. Part X - DK

Implode (The Chef of Mulberry Street)

They were truffles.

White truffles.

From the Northern Italian countryside.

Giancarlo Franceschi, a farmer, poet, and ex-partisan of the Italian Resistance, met Claire and Maxwell on one of their excursions through Italy en route to Switzerland. Whilst sipping café classico at a quaint trattoria, a chocolate Sussex spaniel befriended the lady Mulberry, the allure of almonds and cocoa proving too much to bear. Giancarlo, in his tweed jacket, linen pants, shirt, twill cap, and oak walking stick, would arrive to find his beloved Rocco nibbling on an almond biscotto. Through Rocco’s discerning nose, Claire gained another purveyor of taste in Mr. Franceschi.

They corresponded through letters. Giancarlo did not subscribe to the advances of the technological world, choosing instead to believe in the character of a thing. They discussed spices, flavor combinations, soil types, gradient variations in terrain, and a host of other variables. Though she studied under Lenôtre, Claire’s conversations with the warrior-poet inspired and proved more useful than decades spent in a French kitchen.

It was upon a stroll through the hills of Alba that Giancarlo slew his quail dinner, but it was Rocco’s nose that unearthed the half-kilo truffle, harboring at the foot of an oak tree. Together, they embarked into town toward the post dispatch to ship the mushroom correspondence, though it was Rocco who signed the parcel.

Now, as the white truffle cream sauce simmered on the stovetop, Claire’s thoughts wandered to the travels of another.

“Where has he been?”

Maxwell introduced ice to his whiskey.

“I’m not certain.”

Claire extinguished the flame and removed the pan from the stove.

“I thought he was…”

She paused. Mindful of her husband’s affectivity.

She tried to rephrase, but could not find the words.

“Where is he staying?”

Maxwell looked up from his glass, his eyes bearing the traits of its contents, inhaling his wife through his gaze.

Claire knew that look.

She did not know that Benjamin stood patiently in the midnight foyer, admiring their chocolate walls.

Implode. Part IX - DK

La Colazione

Because everything, should contribute to taste.

Farmer's market on the Corso Umberto.
Venice, Italy. On a morning stroll through the labyrinth of corridors.

(I am particularly fond of the ivory haired gentleman in blue, who simply cannot decide...) - DK

Implode (Enlightenment)

The foyer told the tale of hunter-gatherers.

Of chaste monks.

Of Schwe Yin Aye.

Of limestone temples, dedicated to Buddha.

The teak was washed in blackberries and set on a grassy knoll to bask in the Mon kingdom sun. The onyx lumber was intricately carved into various shapes:

Elephant tusks.

Lotus flowers.

Endless knots.

The obsidian wood and its sculpted revelry was embalmed in mint and trimmed with gold. As he braced himself on the chocolate doorway, he was reminded of Kyaiktyo Pagoda.

Of Burmese craftsmanship.

Of U Wisara.

And so he removed his shoes upon entering his home, as a small step toward nirvana.

Maxwell set the calf-skin moccasins to the side. They were made-to-measure, courtesy of Tom Ford. And whilst a good portion of the light was consumed by the midnight interior, the shoes appeared to blush, perhaps reminiscing of its youth in Naples.

The mahogany floor was soothing against his feet. As he stepped into the expanse of the loft, the light would reign once more.

Claire Madison Mulberry stood at the kitchen island, chopping Italian parsley. The cutting board was once part of a sugar maple, felled by a bolt of lightening in a New England thunderstorm. Claire was of the opinion that everything contributed to taste.

And so she imported spices.

Became acquainted with grapes.

Consulted with farmers on the bovinian diet, so that the cheese would be appropriate.

Maxwell watched her from afar, leather tote idling in his grasp. The aroma of her creation simmering on the stove filled the SoHo air.

“My lady.”

Claire looked up from her work, and smiled.

“Welcome home.”

“It's good to be home.”

He strolled toward the sofa. The Mulberry Eir.

Claire reached for the basil.

“How was your day?”

Maxwell placed the tote onto the floor and brought his person to rest on the ruby chesterfield. However, something was amiss. The inquiry challenged the materials he so painstakingly chose for the design.

And so he stood up.

And approached the kitchen island, where a bottle of Scotch laid in wait. He removed a short glass from the cupboard.

“I ran into an old friend.”

He began a return to the Eir.

Claire took a moment.

The basil was patient.

She knew that Maxwell was a novice at cultivating personal relationships. She knew that Neil was the closest resemblance of a friend. And though they shared jovial moments over an occasional Scotch, he was a business associate, at best.

His oldest friend was work. A friend older than that?

She took the basil in her grasp.

“Really?”

Maxwell nodded, pouring himself an eighth of Scotch.

“Anyone I know?”

He brought the glass to his lips... and briefly considered a line of tableware.

“Benjamin Gray.”

He consumed the chestnut beverage.

Claire stood frozen.

The aromatic concoction continued to simmer.

Implode. Part VIII - DK

Excellence

One thousand years later... still taking her time.

A Venetian mask maker at Atelier Marega, meticulously plying her craft.
Venice, Italy. A brisk morning in spring.

(She was terribly gracious in allowing me to photograph her while she worked. Tomorrow's Amaretto will be raised, in her honor) - DK

Implode (My Brother's Keeper)

Benjamin allowed his person to be intruded upon by the aromatic leather contours of the Mulberry Hnoss. The leather chaise longue and its multiple degrees of comfort provided ample support for his knackered, Herculean frame.

Maxwell stared at his hands.

Beaten.
Calloused.
Textured.
Skin, assaulted by the sun.
The scrapes.
The bruised blood vessels.
The epidermal layer, burned by the wind.

Where had they been?

“So you married Claire.”

Maxwell returned to 88 Thompson Street.

“Last year. Small ceremony in Santorini.”

Benjamin, comfortably reclined, thought momentarily.

“Good. Good for you.”

Implode. Part VII - DK

Azure

In search of something, greater than ourselves...

The Rape of the Sabine Women by Giambologna, framed by the Loggia dei Lanzi along the Piazza della Signoria.

Florence, Italy. A warm evening, as the sky was falling - DK

Implode (Scars)

He composed a design, in the same manner that he held Claire.

Meticulously.
Attentive to every curve.
Each stroke, performed with care.

This is why the urgency of the heels, clattering in the corridor, did not resonate within his ear.

“Mr. Mulberry!”

He looked up from his work.

Benjamin mustered what strength he had left,
And sighed.

Maxwell sat, without words.

“It’s okay, Ms. Olsson”, he stated calmly. “It’s okay. Thank you.”

Ms. Olsson observed the two men, uncertain of how to proceed. Slowly, yet confident in her mentor, she took hold of the door handle and closed the glass portal behind her.

Maxwell, still wearing a veil of astonishment, stood up. He approached the bearded man, whose face was flush red though chestnut whiskers.

The boots.
The soot.
The beard.
The hair.

The tattered trench coat and similarly unfamiliar garb.

Maxwell observed his friend and Benjamin stared back.

Though his lips quivered.
His jaw tightened.
His eyes burned, blurring with water.

As Maxwell stared, Benjamin took a step back.

He opened his coat.

Maxwell was slightly concerned.

Benjamin proceeded to unbutton his shirt. He was unrushed and deliberate, which was consistent with a man, Maxwell once knew.

Benjamin unfastened another button, halting at his abdomen. He placed a hand on each side of the shirt and bore his chest.

An elongated scar, ran from his upper right collar bone...
Across his heart,
Diagonally toward his left rib cage.

He stared at Maxwell, a trembled rage filling his eyes.

Maxwell observed the scar and its two years of correspondence.

He beheld his troubled friend.

“Okay.”

Benjamin wanted to cry.
He wanted to expel an audible record of his sorrow.
He seemed to beseech his friend for his consent.

For his approval.

And Maxwell stared back.

“Okay.”

Implode. Part VI - DK

Implode (Ms. Olsson & The Stranger)

Light was a property of Mulberry Design.

This was evident in the harmoniously cut slates of glass that were erected and placed strategically throughout the loft. Icelandic water flowed between the thin slivers of each translucent surface, controlled by a fountain mechanism incorporated within the design. As the sun moved across the sky, its radiance would play along the lucid crystal interiors of the office.

Ms. Olsson sat at the center of her rosewood desk, black-rimmed glasses balanced at the tip of her nose. Her cherry-print skirt accentuated her lower form, ending its adulation at her knees. The berry inspired dress and Dior blouse were complimented by the ivory Lycra stockings and candy apple shoes, hidden just below the surface of the Bolivian table. Her platinum locks pulled tightly into a bun, Ms. Olsson tended diligently to the flat paneled monitor and the items on her desk, accompanied only by the light and the lull of ambient music.

When the metal doors slid open, the unkempt man with bristly hands and tousled hair startled her.

“Good afternoon”, she said.

Benjamin surveyed the room. Ms. Olsson was concerned.

“May I help you?”

Benjamin stepped off the elevator and placed his satchel onto the floor.

Ms. Olsson was frozen.

Benjamin took a moment and inhaled the space.

The tailored furniture.
The art along the walls.
The arrangement of flowers, which reminded him of afternoons in the rainforest.

This caused him to smile.

Ms. Olsson reached for the phone.

Benjamin surveyed the area once more, until he was certain that he was in the right place.

And then his eyes fell toward a silhouette, shrouded behind liquid glass.

He began to push forward.

“Sir!”

Ms. Olsson gave chase. Her apple heels accosting the Burmese floor.

Implode. Part V - DK

Implode (88 Mercer Street)

The two-thirty post meridian sun poured in through the large French windows behind his desk. The amber light tickled his fountain pen, which shivered in hints of platinum as he wrote.

Maxwell laid the pen on its side. He was Maxwell when signing financial documents, legal correspondence, and bearing the diatribes of an unhappy wife. The latter was a rare occurrence.

He leaned back in the ergonomic titanium chair and swiveled slightly. It was his design. The Mulberry Forseti. An executive chair built to nurture the dreams of a poet whilst supporting the weight of a titan. It was part of a larger seasonal collection of office accoutrements from the Mulberry Design catalog.

Downstairs, a bearded man with smudges of black soot marring his face, sat disheveled on the concrete step of 88 Mercer Street. He stared up weakly at a man, he assumed to be the savior.

Benjamin stared back, assuming the same.

Implode. Part IV - DK

Aqua Via

Repubblica.

Artisan.

Merchant.

Amorosa.

And still,

They do not comprehend you.

Una canale, nella Venezia... (Forgive my indulgence. I was overcome by the urge - DK)

Conversations with the Muse

You were art, in a realm of art.

Light, in the kingdom of the sun.

EM gallivanting through the spiral galleries of The Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum.

New York City... sometime ago.