Implode (Thunderstorms)

The pall of darkness that befell the Upper East Side was sudden, its embrace absolute, like Vesuvius over Pompeii. There was an explosion in the sky, the platinum charge illuminating the heavens with its electric brilliance. A convergence of obsidian clouds gathered below the stratosphere, like impending doom, over 64^th and Madison. Their moisture laden curves pulsated, radiating the residuals of white heat.

The taxi splashed up alongside the curb, bringing itself to a halt in front of an austere brownstone. A bare, slender leg was the first to dispatch from the yellow coach. She allowed the licorice heel and its bleeding sole to make peace with the pavement, now saturated with Eros’ regret.

Benjamin idled behind, his black Gucci trench pelted by the drizzle.

“Benjamin, hurry! You’ll catch cold.”

Lucy bolted for the door.

Benjamin paused, his breathing turbulent, like the cumulus above. He turned toward the idling taxi, its congested vapors whispered into the afternoon gale. The darkness was furious now and Benjamin observed, as confounded pedestrians hailed the yellow coaches in a feverish, collective effort, to escape the post meridian downpour.

“Ben!”

The rescuing vehicles took flight, erubescent trails in their wake, like scattered rubies through blurred vision.

He turned to Lucy, peering through the same pane of liquid globules, and smiled.

She returned his cheer with a beaming ivory smile of her own.

“Benjamin!” she shouted.

He continued to smile, still submerged in the rainstorm.

“You’re incredible!”

Implode. Part XLIV - DK

Oz

Indeed. There is no place like home.

The bejeweled moccasins of the fair Austrailian, AF.
Los Angeles, California. Intoxicatingly cheerful. Sufficiently reclined - DK

Victor

Because longing, can slay its desire.

Perseus with the Head of Medusa, by Benvenuto Cellini.
Florence, Italy. Victorious - DK

Implode (The Fortitude of Love)

On the southern tip of the island, Maxwell and Claire Mulberry endured in their work. It was the first time, in some while, that they had shared a space alone. Claire gazed up from her Macbook Pro and observed her husband, through the subtleness of Gucci frames, and smiled. It was a nondescript indulgence, though it delighted her nonetheless, that her husband was seated across from her, in the same room.

“There was an engaging article on Mr. Chernov in Vanity Fair.”

Maxwell paused, to gaze up at his wife.

“Interesting fellow.” She continued.

“Terribly so.”

He continued in his work.

Claire smiled, though her heart was filled with melancholy.

“How long, Max?”

Maxwell stopped, and looked up at his wife.

“I’m not certain, dear. Though I’ve started on some sketches for the gentleman’s residence on 68th and…”

“No, Max. I mean…”

She sighed.

“How long?”

It required several moments, though he eventually coalesced with her thoughts. He siphoned a considerable amount of air into his lungs, before exhaling deeply. The hints of Tahitian vanilla tickled his nose, yet before he could reply, Claire offered a multitude of theories for her inquisition.

“It’s just…”

She stumbled.

“The restaurant requires a significant effort. You’re well aware.”

He listened.

“The preparation, the travel involved, the particular nature of the endeavor…”

A sigh.

“I miss you. I miss us…”

There was difficulty in the words.

“You’ve done more, than anyone else would have thought to do. For a friend.”

He sat still, absorbing her efforts.

“You’re a good man.”

Another sigh. He beheld his wife.

“The situation, as it stands Maxwell, has tested my fortitude.”

The artisan fancier surveyed the expanse of the room, kindled by the two o’clock sun, submerged in the leather vis-à-vis of his making. He tightened his mouth, imbibed with the sincerity of his wife’s emotions.

After some while, he nodded in comprehension and spoke.

“Do you love me?”

The question puzzled her.

“Very much so.”

Maxwell consumed his wife in a glare that enflamed her.

“Love him also.”

Implode. Part XLIII - DK

Perspective

Through rose coloured glass,
Or ornate windows?
How do you view the world?

The canal, as viewed through a portal in the gallery home of Peggy Guggenheim.
Venice, Italy. Breathing - DK

Implode (146 Central Park West)

The doorman alerted Mrs. Horowitz to his presence, despite insistence that he be allowed access to the residence without notification.

“Ben!”

She parted with the elevator into a lobby of classical design. She wore a skirt of maroon and black, by Miuccia Prada. The blushing silk blouse and black stockings were courtesy of Jean Paul Gaultier. However, the beaming white smile and flush red lips were all her own.

She placed a small, rouge kiss, onto his cheek.

“Lucy.”

“What a pleasant surprise!”

The doorman, suited in an evergreen ensemble, smiled pleasantly. Still, he was vigilant.

“I hope I haven’t disturbed you.”

“Not at all! As a matter of fact, I was hoping I’d see you.”

The comment piqued Benjamin's interest, as well as the doorman’s.

“You were?”

“I…”

She paused.

“Renaldo, a taxi please.”

The doorman arose from his perch.

“Yes, Mrs. Horowitz.”

And proceeded for the door.

“You’re a doll.”

The doorman smiled, which ventured on a blush, though he maintained his professional demeanor. He exited onto Central Park West in pursuit of a coach, leaving the paradoxical pair to its amatory quagmire.

Lucy turned to Benjamin.

“There’s something that I have to show you!”

Implode. Part XLII - DK

Implode (Saturdays)

The weekends were reserved for sailboats, midday martinis, and the quiet accoutrements of leisure. Under normal circumstances, they would not be working now. However, Madison would be unveiled next week, with an intimate gathering to precede the illustrious affair. It was a great deal to undertake and though personal assistants and public relations groups had been dispatched in the work, it was their own. So they lounged at home, laptops perched atop the armrests of sofas, dutifully pressed espresso beans encouraging them forward.

“Max?”

The architect looked up at his friend. Claire also looked up from her work.

“I was thinking maybe we could go to the park.”

Claire observed Benjamin, confused. She then peered at her husband, through the clarity of Gucci frames.

“The park?”

Though she was not addressed with a glance, he knew his wife’s glare. It was tangible.

“Ben, I would love to.”

He could also feel the mechanism of her breath.

“However, there is a great deal that needs to be done, prior to next week’s festivities.”

“Madison.” Benjamin proclaimed.

He turned.

“Congratulations, Claire.”

Claire, spectacles at the tip of her nose, allowed her gaze to thaw, and smiled.

“Thank you, Ben.”

Maxwell smiled as well.

“Let’s grab noodles this afternoon, in the East Village.” He said.

“Sure thing, Max.”

Claire smiled once more, before returning to her work. Her husband did the same.

Benjamin observed the couple, simultaneous in their affairs, before gazing through the large picturesque portal, which supplied magnificent views of Manhattan.

His attention veered westward.

Implode. Part XLI - DK

Calm

The allure of home.

The calm of the Italian countryside.
Venice, Italy. En route to Rimini - DK

Implode (Château Mulberry)

Today, she tried on a dress.
Extravagant by her standards.
Stunning, nonetheless.

It was a flowing collage of wispy amber and lucent Swarovski beads. The strapless garment absorbed her frame into an ebullient stitch prior to collapsing in adulation at her feet, into a pool of silk.

It was quintessential Givenchy.

She stood in the midst of the room, in accord with her reflection. They embraced each other in the currency of glances, one appraising the other. She turned to view her back and only then did her husband see what Michelangelo must have saw, prior to waving his hand in broad strokes across the Sistine Chapel.

“Have I told you how much I love you?”

Claire turned in start.

“Maxwell.”

He smiled at the canary princess, to whom he professed his love with a gem of the same hue.

However, she seemed down trodden.

“I want to go home.” she said.

Maxwell set down his leather tote, while his stately wife consumed him in her glare.

“I miss Rome. I miss Wales. I miss the Côte d’Azur.”

Her heart began to race, while her breathing attempted to keep pace.

“I want to go home.”

Maxwell sighed.
New York City was home.
Her tears engaged her mascara in a permanency bid for the dress,
Like the ink on their passports.

How could he deny her?

Still, New York City was home.
Yet, they were citizens of the world,
And she longed for alternate scenery.

He stared at his wife, whose mouth had begun to tremble. He decided not to discuss the town that played host to both their dreams.

Though he did have a question.

“Which one?”

Implode. Part XL - DK

Apollo

Sometimes, there are no words.

The splendor of the sun god, aloft in his realm.
Milos, Greece. As absorbed by SH - DK

Implode (Conversations with the Editor)

His demeanor was patient,

As the nature of his work.

He allowed his hand to travel the breadth of his parcel and its parchment contents, awaiting the publisher’s ear.

“Sorry about that.”

Neil returned the receiver to its base.

“Lehman is trying to convince me to keep this stock. Says the Fed will cut interest rates tomorrow by a quarter point.”

Maxwell nodded, though his attention resided on the opposite side of the window.

“Who do you invest with?”

“Gray.”

Neil paused momentarily, and raised his brow.

“That’s serious capital. They won’t even speak with you unless you have…”

Maxwell interrupted.

“Please don’t speak to me about money. It’s vulgar.”

Neil laughed.

“And so are your rates!”

Maxwell smiled and retorted.

“Ever since Ben stopped advising me, my portfolio...”

Neil was confused.

“He was in finances?”

Maxwell observed his colleague.

“He is finances.”

The response only confounded Neil further.

“We need to tell his story, Neil.”

He placed the documents onto the desk, and in a deliberate motion, slid the rose petal pages closer, toward the editor.

Neil observed the pages, without touching them. And though he did not speak, he simmered. He still harbored ill memories of their first encounter at Jean Georges.

“It’s out of the question.”

“Neil…”

“No, Mulberry! The guy made a pass at my wife!”

“It wasn’t a pass, Neil. He just…”

Neil gave him a moment to state his case, though Maxwell stumbled.

“He just sees things differently. He speaks a different kind of truth.”

Again, Neil rumpled his brow.

“What does that mean?”

Maxwell sighed.

“His truth is not ours. That’s all.”

Neil beheld him for a moment longer, before reaching for the documents and taking them in his grasp. He placed his Gucci spectacles onto his face, though still squinted in perusing the document.

“Star fruit?”

Implode. Part XXXIX - DK

Implode (Taste)

He observed in reverence, his gaze its own solar system, as Helios made his final descent across the sky. Aloft in his fire chariot, Maxwell beheld as the Sun god ushered in the twilight, blushing embers diffused in his wake.

It took some while, though he was eventually led toward the president’s office. Once inside, the kind brunette invited the distinguishing architect to make himself comfortable within a contoured chair, at the prosperous publisher’s desk.

“Mulberry! Have a seat.”

He continued his conversation into the astute sable device, its receiver pressed against his ear.

Maxwell observed the room. There were large windows and more art deco prints along the walls. There was a competent green fern atop a side table and a non-specific shrub idling in a corner, next to his golf clubs and faux putting green. The desk was muddled, abandoned beneath books, contracts, and other occupational documents. Maxwell reclined in the chair, nonplused.

And wondered how the office would look, if he took the chisel.

Implode. Part XXXVIII - DK

Implode (Millbrook Publishing)

The windows were monumental. He stood near the cinematic glass overlooking the activity of Midtown from the 52nd floor. It was just after six in the evening, though the sun poured in over him, like a cascade of warmth from Apollo’s chest. He stood motionless, hands buried deep into the pockets of his Tom Ford trousers, abask in the amber wave.

It was a contemporary space, minimal in nature. There were black leather sofas, art deco prints in thin metal casings, and matching black tables of an unknown metal. The floor was a beige coat of muted carpet, while the Apple Walnut wall behind the receptionist’s quarters served as a reminder that the space was indeed Millbrook Publishing. He observed the surroundings, and though the accoutrements were not his own, he thought Neil was too modest when he spoke.

He was much more than a simple man.

Implode. Part XXXVII - DK

Bliss

Your body and its immaculate breadth.

The blissful nature of Milos.

Milos, Greece. Through the eyes of Sarah Hanna - DK

(This constitutes the first in a series of photographs that I hope to share, through the eyes of SH - DK)

Implode (Purple Heart)

The influence of Roman architecture was evident in the arches of the large picturesque windows behind her desk. It allowed for abundant sunlight, which spilled throughout, its brilliance shimmering along the oyster shell walls. In addition to Rome, the composition reminded her of her husband, whom had sent her flowers today. She sat in her office on the second floor, whose bright and airy interior was in stark contrast to the ambience of the restaurant below. Though consumed in work, the bouquet of purple roses called for her attention, their violet aura bleeding against the ivory interior, like the sender’s heart that beat for her.

Several blocks southwest, Max Mulberry reclined behind a desk of his own, the tales of his friend’s travels strewn before him. He had several appointments today, including one with his colleague, Neil Horowitz. The sun was in vigorous spirits and more often than not, he sought the space beyond his window for inspiration. This caused the Sumatran espresso to cool considerably. He was in the midst of a sketch, composed for a Russian industrialist, who was to purchase a sizable structure on 68th Street and Madison Avenue. The gentleman sought out the Platonist architect after spending considerable moments in his furniture’s embrace at the London apartment of his mistress, heiress to a Scandinavian crown.

And from the drift of the Thames to the liquid corridors of his office, his own version of Swedish royalty entered in the form of Ms. Olsson.

“Mr. Mulberry,”

Maxwell looked up from his work.

“Mr. Gray is here to see you.”

“Thank you, Ms. Olsson.”

As the slender siren turned to part, Benjamin entered the harmonious enclosure.

“Mr. Gray.”

Benjamin smiled.

“Max.”

His crisp Tom Ford shirt collar was attentive at his neck. He was in good spirits.

“I was under the impression we were having noodles in the East Village.”

Benjamin conquered a chair at his friend’s desk.

“You were correct. The error was my own.”

He paused.

“I…”

He seemed too excited to speak. This piqued Maxwell’s interest.

“I had tea with Lucy Horowitz.”

The abundance of light had dimmed, as heavy gray clouds began to fell the sun. The occurrence was sudden, in the same manner as when the Roman senate accosted Julius Caesar on its marble floor.

The light had also disappeared from Maxwell’s eyes.

“Tea, you say?”

Benjamin nodded and smiled.

“Where did you go?”

“Oh, well it was uh…”

He stumbled.

“She had just acquired it from China, so she invited me over to her place.”

And with each moment, Maxwell and the sun seemed farther away.

“Da Hong Pao,” Benjamin continued. “Do you know it?”

Maxwell breathed a deep sigh.

“It’s exceptional.”

Implode. Part XXXVI - DK

Implode (The Intimacy of Solitude)

His study was an intimate collage of rarity, stolen moments, and some of his favorite things. There were bookcases of Mansonia wood, as high as the ceiling, whose rarified womb housed ancient schematics, Renaissance letters, and monophonic liturgical texts composed in the 13th century. There were whimsical paintings in exquisite frames that had not been mounted. While light prevailed in his work, the enclosure was solemn and muted. A miniature lamp presided at the edge of the Mulberry Thornbjörg. A colorful shade, kaleidoscopic in nature, further silenced the light. Claire purchased the lamp for him as a gift in Thessaloniki.

Among the items atop the black licorice desk were the handwritten, transcribed accounts of their conversations. They were quixotic tales of sunset treks across the Himalayas, twilight swims with starfish, and midnight trains to Luxor. Maxwell reclined in the leather sapphire chair of his making and pondered.

The only factor more extraordinary than the adventures, was the man who told the tale.

He massaged his brow.
Neil would have to publish Benjamin’s story.

Implode. Part XXXV - DK

Amore

Because the conflicted loves, too.

The likeness of Benevenuto Cellini and the physical semblance of love in the form of locks, fastened to the Ponte Vecchio.
Florence, Italy. In love - DK

Pretty

Everything she entailed, told a tale.

Michael Van Clarke of London ceramic iron, interlaced with the adorable necklace beads of EM.
New York City. Sometime ago - DK

Implode (Elafonissos)

The first article of note was the canvas that spanned a considerable length of the Victorian wall. Perched against an albino surface, it was a window onto an ocean of amber hues, emerald tones, and ivory splashes of paint, seemingly composed on a summer’s wind. The work was encased in a significant frame of solid gold, affected by a skilled hand, the enclosure bearing masterful motifs, which were carved into its precious exterior.

Benjamin found himself enamored by the leisure marine vessel in the midst of the composition.

“Elafonissos.”

He turned, to find the damsel of the amber tresses and the scarlet mouth.

“That’s where I bought it.”

He continued to stare.

“It’s a quaint little island in Greece. Magnificent beaches.”

Her body was wrapped in a vintage ivory blouse by Chanel. She loved Chanel.

“Magnificent.”

Benjamin blinked once.

“Thank you for having me.”

She smiled.

“Thank you for being here. I mean, in my home!”

Benjamin was uncertain, as evidenced in the contortion of his brow.

Lucy placed a slender hand, over a feigned look of start.

“How scandalous.”

Implode. Part XXXIV - DK