Implode (Prelude to Tea)

Skaõi was in the air. Her frigid essence engulfed his senses, biting his face. He turned up the collar on his black Gucci trench, the wool fibers soothing against her kiss. He inhaled the artic air and raised his head toward the sky. Though he searched, he could not locate Apollo, as the sun was engaged in a masquerade with determined clouds, creating a hue synonymous with his name.

Still, the answers he sought were upward, including the apex of a residential structure at the corner of 75^th and Central Park West. As he scanned the architectural landscape, a scarlet tanager caught his attention.

Benjamin observed the songbird, perched regally on a tree limb. His auburn gaze affixed on the urban forest across the way, he smiled as the creature, draped in its own splendid coat of rouge, responded to an unseasonable gust cold air.

Benjamin lowered his head.

Yes, it was spring.

Still, winter found it hard to part with New York.

Sometimes, it’s hard to let go.

He nodded and raised his head again, where Lucy Horowitz awaited his presence in the sky.

Implode. Part XXXIII - DK

Castello

The marriage of art, function, and skill.

The beauty of Venetian architecture.
Venice, Italy. Spellbound - DK

Jewel

Agrarian treasure.

The Arno River and surrounding Florence, as viewed from the Ponte Vecchio.
Florence, Italy. Searching, still - DK

Schoonheid

We will meet again.

The solitude of a morning stroll, along a promenade in Amsterdam.
Amsterdam, Netherlands. Not enough time - DK

Implode (Isabella)

Despite the current poverty of his newfound state, he still possessed the currency of his name. The eponym held palatial estates in France, considerable holdings in Spain, and coastal acreage along the Amalfi, conceded by the Italians in the complex business dealings of 1781.

He remembered a summer night when they flew to Paris, unannounced. Absent itinerary and luggage, alongside Maxwell and Claire, he arrived in the city of lights upon a chartered Gulfstream, where they reveled irresponsibly on the Champs-Élysées.

You see, they were a trio then.

He remembered the decadence of Man Ray. The overflow of Gran Patrón, Stolichnaya Elit, and intoxicating grapes, coerced into sparkling wines, from the vineyards of kings. He remembered the ambience of the light and its sedative nature. He recollected the pulsating beat and the stifling humidity of the air, which caused her Emanuel Ungaro dress to become synonymous with her person. He remembered the infectious rhythm and the manner in which her pelvis engaged his own. He was privy to the rose lace beneath her ensemble, while his denim was privy to all the tales Victoria held in confidence.

He recalled her breath.

Her jet-black hair.

The way it clung to her body.

Her energy.

Her mouth.

Only now, he could not recall her name.

“Tell me about the forest, Benjamin.”

He turned to his debonair friend, bemused.

“Not today.”

Implode. Part XXXII - DK

Allure

Like the saturated canvas of a Daubigny painting.

The alluring hillsides of Florence.
Florence, Italy. Finding my way home - DK

Implode (Blue Blood)

His great-great grandfather was bookkeeper and confidant of the venerable Duke of Èvreux. An unassuming man, Charles de Gris Laurent oversaw the horse stables, crop harvesting, mill production, and the tax revenues of his noble employer, whom often found himself at Versailles, on the ear of Louis XV. The son of peasant farmers, Charles possessed a natural gift for the accounting of things. Whether the commodity was a chicken, an ear of corn, or a nugget of gold, Monsieur de Gris Laurent maintained an accurate inventory and estimation of anything that held value.

As the Duke’s affairs limited his ability to oversee the fiefdom, Charles was increasingly entrusted with all things attributed to the manor, including the Château de Aubagne, a palatial estate on the coast near Marseilles. It was here, during a quarterly excursion of tax collecting, that Charles de Gris Laurent encountered a farmer, who was not able to reconcile his debts. Of humble origins himself, Charles did not wish to see the father of two infants and one toddler girl, evicted from the land. Though his duty was to the noble, to aggregate the necessary revenue of the season, Monsieur de Gris Laurent agreed to lend the man the required sum, from his own purse, under the agreement that the man would repay the loaned amount on the third month of the following visit, at an increased rate. The farmer, who was without options but was grateful that one was available, found the repayment terms agreeable. When Charles de Gris Laurent returned the following quarter, his loan had accrued in value.

Charles de Gris Laurent, free from the watchful eye of his employer, began making reasonable loans from the coffers of his employer, at a considerable rate of interest. The loans were always repaid and Charles began to amass a small fortune from the interest rates, which he stored in a newly rented apartment in Paris. His entrepreneurial endeavors never diverted from the work of his employ, but rather increased his bookkeeping acumen. He had begun to find himself indispensable to the Duke, who even sought his thoughts on negotiable terms for the Treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle, over a cognac at the Château in Èvreux.

Forty-four years later, his son, Jean-Luc de Gris Laurent would finance the overthrow of the monarchy and establish the first private bank of De Gris Laurent in Paris. In addition to financing Napoleonic wars, Jean-Luc would lend capital to the governments of Austria and neighboring Prussia, two countries at war with one another. Regardless of the outcome, Jean-Luc was satisfied that the revenue accrued by the victor would far outweigh the financial losses sustained by the fallen. His son, Philippe de Gris Laurent would ply his father’s financial acumen in North America, establishing the private bank of De Gris Laurent in New York. It was at the behest of Philippe and his business associates, who were considerably invested in war related affairs, that Mr. Roosevelt engaged The United States into World War II. His son, Marston de Gris Laurent, who later assumed the English version of the family name, though discarding Laurent altogether, completely restructured the private banking activities of De Gris Laurent, beginning with its name, Gray Investments.

Benjamin arose before the sun this morning, lording over a counter in the Mulberry kitchen. He hovered over an espresso and smiled.

Maxwell entered in his plush onyx robe, surprised to see him.

“Someone’s up early.”

Maxwell opened the metallic refrigerator and perused its contents.

Benjamin continued staring into the abyss of the espresso.

“I’ve got a feeling…”

He paused. Maxwell turned to his friend, intrigued.

“That today is going to be great.”

He brought the espresso cup to his lips. Maxwell smiled, still idling at the sub zero cooler.

“Greatness is in your blood.”

Implode. Part XXXI - DK

Secrets

Only kings and their lessers knew what transpired here.

Beneath the sand of the Colosseum.
Rome, Italy. On a jaunt through antiquity - DK

Power

Prodezza, merito, e resistenza.


Il Fontana di Trevi.
Rome, Italy. In awe - DK

Implode (The Definitive Work)

It was a sweltering day, in the month dedicated to Caesar. Even with the rain, the sweat beads poured down his brow. They had flown into Perú and taken a boat down the Amazon, though the hike was still several kilometers from the mudded dock. His linen shirt was nearly indistinguishable from his skin, clinging to the contours of his person. He stood, reveling up at the majestic Rosewood, taken aback by its beauty. He moved toward the massive timber and placed his body against it. With his hands pressed against its trunk, his head lowered in supplication, and a small team of three idling in the downpour, Maxwell listened.

He listened to the Mayans.
To the Aztecs.
To the Incas.

He listened to the rainforest. He wanted their permission.

Their consent.

He wanted this tree to consecrate their love and to hold it, through all eternity.

It was the only bed he had ever constructed. It was a four poster cathedral of Brazilian Rosewood, black rose petals, and lapis lazuli. It was erected for the woman he intended to worship for the whole of his life.

Now, as he watched over her as she slept,
Her skin as soft as the silk linens they shared,
He remembered what it was to be humble before beauty,
And so again, he listened.
This time, to her breath.
And lowered his head in supplication.
Thankful, that she chose him.

Implode. Part XXX - DK

Slumber

Peaceful and serene. How perfect you are.

La Table aux Amours, by Lorenzo Bartolini at The Metropolitan Museum of Art.

New York City. Astride in winter - DK

Implode (Classical Jaunts)

They sauntered along, unrushed. The notable sidewalks, quaint foliage, and privileged solitude guided their way toward 945 Madison Avenue. Prestigious residential structures lined their way and Lucy found herself fond of the kind uniformed gentlemen, courteous in their wake, standing attentive and loyal to the storied dwellings and their occupants.

Several more kilometers would find them standing in front of Cosmos, by Marsden Hartley. It was an oil work of ivory, auburn, and indigo hues, artfully massaged into a woodland landscape. Benjamin stood transfixed, immersed in the synthesis of oils. He appeared overwhelmed, his person affected by the snowcapped peaks, while the evergreen timber wading in the foreground bore the redolence of a not too distant past.

Lucy stared at him, and smiled.

“So what do you think?”

Benjamin blinked once, before nodding in approval.

“I like it.”

She laughed.

“No! You must describe it. What is it about the piece, that moves you?”

Benjamin pondered. It had been some while since someone accosted him for his thoughts.

He took note of the painting once more.

“I walked along the Kali Gandaki toward Potala Palace in Tibet. As afternoon approached twilight, the sun would introduce itself to the Earth, lowering astride the mountain peaks with such vigor and vividness, in such a manner…”

Lucy waited in a daze, her candy apple lips agape in anticipation.

“You knew you were alive.”

Lucy continued to inhale him, unable to speak.

“This painting reminds me of that afternoon.”

He turned to her.

“Do you ski?”

Lucy blinked, several times, attempting to shun her pictorial inebriation.

“I… Yes, I do.”

“I love winter,” he continued. “The snow in the Himalayas was difficult to traverse, though necessary to reach Lhasa.”

His demeanor was calm.
His speech, unhurried.
And though she did not tell him, she trembled inside.
As she did the night they met.

“I have to get back to work.”

“Do you work here?” He inquired.

“No. I…”

He stared, and she needed a moment.

“I’m a curator at The Met.”

Like his friend, Mr. Mulberry, Benjamin was an excellent listener. He absorbed information and swilled its contents.

He continued to stare and Lucy was not constructed of the same resolve.

“I have to go.”

She stole one more glance, before pivoting in Christian Louboutin, toward the exit. Benjamin stood, unmoved, for a moment longer, before returning his efforts toward the painting.

Lucy stopped.

“Would you like to have tea tomorrow?”

Benjamin turned to her.

“I’ve just acquired a partial kilo of first generation Da Hong Pao. It’s exceptional.”

He stared, and now, she was uncertain.

It would be the second time he fell in love within these walls.

Implode. Part XXIX - DK

Implode (Layers)

Today he partook of the Viennese hospitality on 86^th Street and 5^th Avenue, comfortably seated at a central table within Café Sabarsky. The Arabica beans had been encouraged by the barista to achieve their full potential and now their buttery residuals lay content along the recesses of his mug and more appropriately, along the petal of his palate. As he sat, The New York Times strewn before him, the café’s aroma warmed his face, rising pointedly from the cup, like subtle whispers of the thing he was supposed to be.

The collar of his auburn jacket was turned up, shielding his neck. Though it was spring, the bitter of winter found it hard to part with New York. The combination of his wool garment and accompanying sweater would be ample materials to keep him warm, as the Amaretto inspired café spread its wings throughout his chest.

It was all very familiar. It was beginning to become familiar.

The sadness was almost gone.

He had not read the paper in some while, though he remembered the arts section. His family had long been patrons and he had enjoyed the ethereal sciences immensely. It was his intention to visit the museum directly after.

His fellow occupants were similarly immersed in tales expressed through verse or conversation. He only diverted from his reading once, though when he began to approach the business section, he knew the time had come to depart. He gathered his items, a black scarf among them, and began tidying up a bit. He pushed his chair closer into the table and wanted to say his farewells to the barista, whose attention to her craft he greatly appreciated. Yet, a blonde bun impeded his sight.

As the barista caught his eye and smiled, he attempted to maneuver around the patron whom was placing her order.

And then Lucy turned.

“It’s you!” she stammered.

Benjamin stared at the Nordic beauty, unsure of what to say.

Implode. Part XXVIII - DK

Tranquil

As the beat of your heart.

The hypnotic lull of a Venetian canal.
Venice, Italy. Twilight - DK

Biscotto

This cookie,
Was shared
With a girl named Federica
On a brisk weekday morning
In Milan.

I cannot divulge the contents of that encounter,
Suffice it to say
She scribbled her details onto this napkin
And gallivanted back toward Dolce & Gabbana
On the Corso Venezia.

I embarked on a conversation
With the biscotto at our table.
And I still recall her laugh
As she sauntered away.

An anonymous confection, at a quaint bake shoppe in Milan.
Milan, Italy. 8:24 am - DK

Tangerine

Because cuff links can be delicious.

The work of Thomas Pink.
Los Angeles, California. Pioggia - DK

Implode (The Necessity of Columns)

The columns were dual translucent pillars of glass, rising several triumphant meters into the air. They were orange and green, respectively, born of industrial plastics and engineered crystals. The vibrant towers, like luminescent ice, rose from the crabapple floors into an expanse of ivory brick. The flooding of one post meridiem sunlight through magnificent windows, was the peak of a grand affair.

Though Neil gazed up at the ceiling, uncertain.

“It’s too much.”

Maxwell observed his colleague, and then followed his gaze.

“How so?”

Neil seemed irritable and unable to coalesce with the modern surroundings. He continued to stare at the colorful glass.

“I know you’re the architectural second-coming and all, but I just can’t see how all this is necessary.”

He turned to his contemporary.

“Is this necessary?”

Maxwell contemplated his inquiry, still smitten by the crystal columns.

“Very much so.”

Neil observed him a moment longer, before consulting the contents of his glass. He then found his way toward the powdery Mulberry Iõunn, one of seven sofas in existence composed of literal Mulberry silk and Angora wool.

He set the Ardbeg Scotch on the glass Höõr. Another Mulberry design.

“This is all my wife.”

He removed his wire framed glasses and began cleaning them with the cloth of his shirt.

“She needs all this. I don't even stay here. I’m a simple man.”

He placed the glasses back onto a disgruntled face.

“Spending millions of dollars on an apartment renovation. It was perfectly fine as it was.”

Maxwell listened. He excelled at listening.

“I mean, it was... It was…”

He thought for a moment.

“What’s the word?”

Maxwell chimed in.

“Weathered?”

“No, no! It was… Rustic!”

For the first time during their visit, Neil seemed pleased. Albeit, with himself.

“It had character.”

He raised his glass and took a moment to inhale the massive penthouse on Hudson and Worth Street.

“Why is all this necessary?”

Maxwell considered his words. He then replied.

“How else will they know we were here?”

Implode. Part XXVII - DK

Implode (Statuesque)

He was an older gentleman.
Of noble birth.
You could tell.
Ancient Roman.
He was well-heeled.
Chiseled and somber.
Certainly no later than Migration era.
It was evident in the marble.
Flavian Dynasty, perhaps.
He was strong.
And handsome.
Formidable, even.
Though his arm was missing.
His nose was chipped.
And his heart was broken.

How she was privy to the latter, a connoisseur could not know.

“I’ll have it.”

And with that, Lucy Horowitz purchased a classical sculpture born of antiquity from a private collector. With the Sotheby auction in London fast approaching, it would be her third such acquisition this week. Though, despite her fatigue, each piece she absorbed neared the museum’s collection toward completion.

And as she stood,
Drenched in Miuccia Prada,
Gazing curiously at the stoic figure of the desolate glare,

She could not help but be reminded of another.

Implode. Part XXVI - DK

Gallery

The spiral galleries of inspiration.

The Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum.
New York City. With love - DK

Modesty

Your modesty.

Selfless.

Harboring the beauty within.

Il Galleria dell'Accademia.

Florence, Italy. Lost anew - DK

Implode (Letters)

3 April 2010

My Dearest Giancarlo,

May this correspondence find you (and your beloved Rocco) lithe in body, vigorous in mind, and jubilant in spirit.

The worst of winter is over.

Spring has arrived, and along with it, the delectable tips of venerable asparagus from the Vale of Evesham. I’ve been experimenting with an appetizer, sautéing the crowns in an orange butter sauce, replete with scallops and fresh ginger. There is an immediate sensation of taste. The butter nourishes the asparagus, absorbing the stem in an exuberant embrace, whilst the scallops, sautéed in blood orange and slightly salted butter, compliment with a piquancy that can only be termed as rage. It is an interesting dish, and though flavorful, I cannot include it on the menu, as I cannot help but feel that something is amiss.

Though everything seems amiss. Everything is changing.

As you know, we have been diligently at work with Madison and I am pleased to announce that our doors will be opening in the following weeks. There will be a private dinner for friends and family next Friday and I would be honored if you would attend as my noble guest. All arrangements would be made on your behalf.

Please give Rocco my love.

With Warmest Regards,

Claire Mulberry

Implode. Part XXV - DK

Padrone

I have questions.

The House of Caovilla.
Milan, Italy. Still searching - DK