Café

"Sometimes, I would bring her almond croissants from the brasserie at the corner."

The endemic charm of a Parisian café.
Paris, France. Blueberry - DK

Implode (The Weight of Currency)

He sulked near the large Palladian windows, seated on an elevated perch of iridium, gazing over the luminous expanse of New York City. The Macallan Scotch and a similarly brilliant moon were his only company, save for the golden coin that hypnotically traversed the breadth of his fingers, in a mesmeric account of transient time.

The recessed lighting was sedative and warm, like the single malt perfection that scorched his chest. The hour was nearly four, though there were no attempts on the intricately carved handle of the handcrafted door. Maxwell returned his gaze toward the night and the distant motion of red and white light below.

He took a breath and inhaled the solitude. Claire was sound asleep. And though her unconscious respiratory resembled the Celtic gale, Maxwell could still hear her breathing from his perch in the outer room. This knowledge calmed his faculties and slowed the rotation of the forbidden currency.

He sat forward, placing the crystal tumbler onto the windowsill. He observed the weighted coinage and the damsel of the billowing gown surrounded by glory, torch aflame. He observed its reverse, where a bald eagle took flight, also serenaded by excellence, the country of issuance imprinted in the sky.

Maxwell continued to circulate the mythical coin in his grasp, still uncertain of why Marston Gray entrusted it to his coffers.

Implode. Part LI - DK

Implode (Under the Indigo Moon)

The burgundy cream was soft on his tongue. The gourmet pudding settled into the recesses of his glands, as the evening tide washes the Ibiza shore. The immersion with the subtle wafers of chocolate, hints of vanilla, and delectable strawberries, proved exceedingly more intoxicating than the sophistication of the Cognac, carefully utilized in the custard’s absorption.

“Tell me a story, Ben.” Lucy would say. A content glass of Château Mouton-Rothschild idled in her delicate grasp. “I love your tales.”

They lounged on handmade sofas within an enclosed glass structure off the English Baroque balcony. It was here, at the Upper West Side penthouse of Neil and Lucy Horowitz, adequately lit by a pale indigo moon, that Benjamin would begin to debrief.

“I lived in Paris.”

Lucy’s brow contorted in surprise.

“You don’t say.”

“Off Rue Saint-Dominique.”

Benjamin’s gaze fell toward his Cognac.

“On Saturday mornings, we would have brunch beneath the Eiffel Tower.”

Lucy, thoroughly seduced by Dionysus, blinked a sedated look of confusion.

“We?”

Benjamin beheld his glass.

“Sometimes, I would bring her almond croissants from the brasserie at the corner.”

He looked up.

“You know the Renoir painting? The one of the girl combing her hair?”

Lucy observed him, speechless.

“That’s what she looked like. Only darker hair.”

He paused momentarily, to consult his drink.

“Her hair was darker. Definitely darker.”

He took a sip. The aged spirit spread confusion throughout his chest.

“It was black.”

He swirled the Frapin Cuvée in the crystal sifter. Lucy continued to observe him in awe.

“People of quality know everything, without ever having learned anything.”

His breathing became rapid.

“That’s Molière.”

Tears began to complicate his vision.

“You asked me whether I’ve ever loved.”

Lucy regained her dancer’s posture, propping her inebriated person onto the arm of the Mulberry sofa, thoroughly engaged.

Benjamin consumed the burnt wine.

“I have.”

Implode. Part L - DK

Gallivant

Walk with me.

A stroll above the Seine.
Paris, France. Robust - DK

Implode (Cuvée and Lucy)

Further north, the Mishima had been grilled to an appropriate 55 degrees Celsius and garnished with Portobello mushrooms and wild arugula, from the rocky coasts of Portugal. The venerated carcass had been ceremoniously devoured by the enlightened carnivores and suitably digested with a vintage Château Mouton-Rothschild.

Lucy swirled the rouge spirit in her glass.

“Satisfied. Completely satisfied.”

Benjamin observed the culinary remnants of his plate.

“It was a very delicious meal. Thank you.”

Lucy smiled.

“Well, I hope it wasn’t too painful. I’m just a curator, who dabbles occasionally. Living with Claire Mulberry, your palate must be absolutely intoxicated.”

Benjamin responded, in kind.

“Edesia smiles on you as well.”

Lucy blushed, despite efforts to conceal such displays. However, Benjamin’s affections were drawn toward the sizeable painting in the outer room.

“Is that The Boulevard Montmartre at Night?”

Lucy followed his gaze.

“It is, though it’s only a print. The original is being held hostage at the National Gallery in London.”

She consumed the stimulating beverage.

“Those silly people refuse to let it go.”

“It’s fascinating.”

Lucy completed her wine.

“Another drink before dessert?”

Benjamin stared at the celestial siren.

“What’s for dessert?”

“Strawberry mousse!” Lucy beamed. “Though I’ve never attempted it before, so if it’s inedible, you mustn’t be cross with me.”

Benjamin smiled.

“In that case, I’ll have a brandy.”

Lucy paused momentarily.

“Cuvée ’88?”

Benjamin smiled.

“I remember being a child in ’88 and having my father take me to FAO Schwartz where I spent the entire afternoon frolicking on that massive piano from the film, which was released in that same year.”

And now Lucy smiled.

“1888.”

Implode. Part XLIX - DK

Implode (Red)

It was the color of love.
A Santa Monica sunset.
The lush panorama of Lucy’s mouth.

It was a play at 252 West 45th Street. Claire Mulberry sat center orchestra, her debonair husband by her side, and beheld the stage. An obsidian tale of Givenchy fallen o’er her porcelain frame, the immaculate profile gravitated forward, liquescent ruby stones attuned to her ear.

Though the operatic dramaturgy of Rothko proved enthralling, Maxwell could not deter his gaze from his wife. Her hair was pulled back, the sable fibers stretched into ascension, exposing her pallid neck. Along the song of her collarbone strode 181 briolette, round brilliant, and pear-shaped diamonds, composed in calm by Harry Winston. A purveyor of opulence, a cynosure of gems, and the only other man allowed access to her body.

His gaze fell toward his hands. The ivory hint of his Charvet cuffs peered curiously over the bespoke sleeve of his Henry Poole dinner coat. He observed the leather strap of his Franck Muller timepiece and its platinum clasp, which found itself drawn toward the Bvlgari cufflinks administering the sleeved union.

Maxwell gazed up, though not at the stage, but at the performance of his wife. He observed, as she found herself ensconced in the complexity of a man’s work, similarly marveled at the complexity of the self.

He reached out, until her slender, placid palm met his own.

She turned to him for the first time, and smiled, before returning her attention toward the stage.

Maxwell sighed a content breath, securing the hand merged in his grasp. He then joined her gaze in the theatre of abstraction.

Implode. Part XLVIII - DK

Habitat

Remnants of home.

A chimerical abode upon a Venetian canal.
Venice, Italy. Soon - DK

Roma

A view from the Spanish Steps.

Del Scalinata della Trinita dei Monti.
Rome, Italy. On the horizon - DK

Implode (Wagyū and Portobellos)

The pungent whiff of Auvergne brioche and wagyū filets seduced the air, enticing their appetites toward the table of indulgence. They perused the isles of Dean & DeLuca in pursuit of chervil, yellow mustard seeds, and French tarragon, to be engaged in the execution of dinner for two. And though she was not Claire Mulberry, Lucy spoke gourmet, her palate extensively versed in the victual language of exquisite fare.

They arrived at the fresh harvest aisle on the heels of the shopping trolley and Christian Louboutin.

Lucy accosted a cherry.

“Oh, these are to die for.”

She placed the ruby morsel into her mouth, allowing the delectable modicum to meld with her rouge lips, before subjecting the berry to its piercing end.

Benjamin watched enamored, as Lucy savored the moment.

“Claire introduced me to the most wonderful cherries in France,” she said. “Only now, I cannot recall their name.”

Her lips pursed, whilst the juices absorbed into the recesses of her glands.

Benjamin continued to stare. He then spoke.

“I was fortunate enough to encounter a Rambutan tree during my travels. It produces a miniscule fruit, similar to a cherry, though its consistency possessed more in common with a Concord grape”

Lucy observed him, engaged.

“The fruit is only revealed through the most complicated coat of red. It exists, as though it were aflame.”

Lucy’s crimson mouth fell agape.

“Splendid, really.”

She continued to stare, whilst Benjamin surveyed the store.

“Though I don’t suspect they have any here.”

Lucy blinked, shunning her inebriation.

“How long were you away?”

Benjamin observed the contents of the grocery basket.

“I’m not quite certain.”

A patron interrupted their number, begging passage. Lucy and Benjamin parted, allowing the lady to navigate through. They subsequently resumed their excursion along the gastronomical corridor.

“I understand you were a titan of business.”

Benjamin considered her words.

“I understood commodities. I was able to define value and negotiate worth. I appreciated the relationship that existed between perception and desire.”

“So, you did love the Pissarro!”

He smiled.

“Why did you leave?”

Benjamin paused, his jaw tightening. Lucy blushed.

“Forgive me. I’m terribly rude.”

He wanted to respond though, despite his best efforts, he was unable.

“Let’s leave it be, shall we?” she continued. “Sorrow is unsuitable before dinner.”

She guided the trolley toward a display of Portobello mushrooms. Benjamin observed as she moved.

Lucy accosted a toadstool in her grasp.

“These will compliment the Mishima perfectly.”

She turned toward Benjamin, referencing the delicacy.

“Have you ever been in love?”

Implode. Part XLVII - DK

Athena

Constant vigilance.

The Cour Carrèe, through the prism of the Louvre.
Paris, France. Safe - DK

Welcome

Munificence and warmth.

The inspired generosity of Ms. Guggenheim's ivy wrought gates.
Venice, Italy. Vibrancy - DK

Implode (Thompson & Bleecker)

It was the first apartment they shared. It was a quaint lodging, located on a tree-lined street, near the intersection of Thompson & Bleecker. There was an Italian restaurant across the way, a delicatessen, and a dry cleaner, conveniently located along the same queue. Maxwell had taken a course in structural engineering at NYU, whilst Claire was studying with the renowned Thomas Keller, who was on the cusp of unveiling Per Se in Columbus Circle. When one course became another in environmentally sustainable design, their summer haunt would become the genesis of home.

Maxwell stood in the doorway, harbored beneath the arch of the portal’s frame. He idled pensively, hands submerged into the depths of his bespoke trousers. Though they had not inhabited the residence in some while, he could not bear to let it go. Claire thought her husband too sentimental and suggested a sublease arrangement, however the thought of unfamiliar persons occupying the dwelling where he made functional art and love to his wife, seemed out of order.

And so, the residence at Thompson & Bleecker lay dormant, functioning solely as a storage space for his earlier conceptual works. There were titanium lamps married to sunstone, ornate sofas, and walnut desks, fused with jasper.

He thought of the travel.

Of the commitment required to create such pieces.

Mostly, he thought of his wife.

Maxwell stood, absorbing the makeshift museum that he meticulously sustained, for his cerebral benefit.

And considered how it might benefit another.

Implode. Part XLVI - DK

Implode (Afternoons at the Wildenstein)

The depravity of optimum aura was not confined to the auspices of the exterior, as they now found themselves ensconced in the solemnity of the space. The recessed lighting was warm, like the intimate corridor and its mahogany walls. She smiled, her feet caressed by Louboutin, the heels finding their way into the meticulous weaving of the carpet. Her breathing was vibrant, though patient, as she awaited the wanderer’s ear, as he brought himself into cohesion from the rain.

He dispersed the water from his person, like a saturated dog.

“Just a bit further.”

Benjamin glanced at the Hellenic beauty, who smiled, encouraging him forward.

Through a labyrinth of dusk quilted corridors, his attention was drawn toward the mammoth lengths of Impressionist works, affected by skilled brushes, thoroughly immersed in exalted frames. From Antoine Vollon to Jean-Baptiste-Camille Corot, the stories were emblematic and familiar. Familial, even.

His affections were enraptured. Such was their enchantment, that he failed the take note of the explosion of light at the corridor’s end.

His mouth fell agape.

“So what do you think?”

Benjamin stood motionless, without words. Lucy beheld him and smiled. She pivoted toward one side of the arch, allowing him to step into the luminous expanse. It was a personal interior, gracious in its muted splendor of French elegance. The walls and their arbor heritage bore the resplendent works of Albert Marquet, Camille Pissarro, and Claude Monet, all washed in the frosted equinox of effet de neige.

Benjamin stood, mesmerized. And though the scenes of winter were masterfully imbued into the venerable canvases, there was a visible chill on his breath.

He turned to Lucy, speechless. She smiled.

“You said you liked the snow.”

Implode. Part XLV - DK

SoHo

Lunch with Mulberry.

An afternoon stroll along Mercer.
South of Houston, New York City. The origin of detail - DK

Victory

Hellenistic brillance.

The Winged Victory of Samothrace, as she stands in the Louvre.
Paris, France. Aloft in the gale - DK