Claire Mulberry

Sundays. Sinatra. And the siren.

Preparing Sunday dinner with the wonder, BB.
Los Angeles, California. Come fly with me - DK

Implode (To Drink the Great Lady)

Though his taste was world renown, she was uncertain when he chose the 2009 Pingus, a Spanish vintage, to pair with the caviar urchin. The supple texture of the roe demanded the voracity of a crisp, premier crus, whilst the initial burst of flavour required the acidity found along the northern slopes of Champagne. And though he conceded that the selection was indeed unconventional, its complexity, he offered, was bold enough to withstand the profundity of the roe, yet sophisticated enough to console the bare palate, once such an amorous affair had come to its end.

Claire Mulberry considered the presentation of the sommelier, with careful note. The Austrian savant, celebrated for his palate, was well aware of her culinary pedigree and it would be a feat, he surmised, were he able to persuade the astute chef to his viticultural guidance. And just as a slight smile had begun to develop upon his lips, it was her husband, the builder of dreams, who would request a bottle of the 1998 Veuve Cliquot La Grand Dame Rosé, as he arrived at the table within the French eatery.

And though the breadth of his smile would not be realised, he could take refuge in the knowledge that the architect was a connoisseur of the rarest sort, as acknowledged in his second concession of the day.

"Excellent choice, Mr. Mulberry."

Implode. Part LXXIII - DK

Implode (The Counsel of Dreams)

It was all very familiar.

Like the air at 44° North, 6° East.

He drew another determined breath deep into his lungs.

And just as he prepared to forgo his search for truth, she personified herself in amber Chanel, balanced delicately on the heels of Louboutin.

Benjamin parted with thoughts of rebirth and lush tropical enclosures and followed her gait, as she continued her conversation with the director of the specialized gallery.

The de Gris Laurent heir, his noir Gucci pea coat saturated by the somber sky, arose from the stone rest.

And uttered the only prayer he knew.

"Lucy."

The Hellenic beauty turned, to find him soaked from the efforts of the rain.

"Ben!" Lucy began.

He smiled, whilst she turned toward her colleague, to request a moment alone with the nomadic stranger. And yet, just as she returned to bestow the affections of her attention upon him, there he was, before her.

"Ben," the desirable curator offered in a soft whisper. "What are you doing here?"

And for a moment, he decided to forgo air. To inhale her.

"Ben?" she continued.

He blinked, preventing the rain from obscuring his vision.

"I was told Saint Lawrence is here. I came to see him."

"Lawrence of Rome!" Lucy beamed.

Benjamin observed, careful to absorb every moment. As her capillaries exploded, causing her cheeks to flush red, he was reminded of sunsets on the Mediterranean, sailing with Max Mulberry and Etienne Rousseau.

Meanwhile, Lucy was pleased to be discussing her passion with an individual outside the realm of work.

And one of like mind.

"Well, there's the stained glass here," she began. "It's a beautiful work, attributed to Canterbury, Kent, located in the Early Gothic Hall," she said. "There's also an Austrian-Salzburg work at the museum on Fifth. It’s part of an altarpiece from the late 15th century," she continued.

Benjamin maintained his gaze.

"Though, I admit. I am partial to the stained window."

And though he wanted to convey his affection for her, there were no words.

"It's absolutely glorious at midday,” she mused.

Still, when your dream speaks to you, there is an obligation to respond, as Benjamin did, whilst observing the parting of her mouth,

And concurred.

“When the light is brilliant."

Implode. Part LXXII - DK

Implode (Through the Pane of Saint Lawrence)

The truth is, he had exceptional views… the world over.

Paris.

London.

The unpublished two-storey penthouse, at The Mandarin Oriental, Tokyo.

Geneva.

Rome.

The extensive palatial villa, well-appointed by his debonair friend, secluded within the whimsical bluffs of Saint-Tropez.

And yet, on this day, he sat within the quartered solace of medieval abbeys, appropriated from the faithful villages of France, now solemnly restructured above the weathered granite of the Hudson River. Though his manner and philosophical core were far removed from those of the Order of Saint Benedict, his devotion was no less pious than the principled celibacy of his religious predecessors, whose solemn monks would occupy the same stone slab, in devout contemplation, twelve centuries earlier.

Amongst hart’s tongues and quince trees, the de Gris Laurent heir would seek an audience with ethereal sages, though try as he may, would only encounter the persistent shadow of his current self. As the rain continued its baptismal descent over his person, Benjamin would adjust the wool coverage upon his neck, provided by the collar of his Gucci pea coat. Though the Masala chai had cooled some while ago, his thoughts remained on the Indian subcontinent, where he suffered the furies of love and sought in vain for the Triple Gem. Despite a return, devoid of its treasures, his lachrymose frame maintained the posture of hope, supplicated upon the antiquated bench.


And though he was not a religious man, the veritable aura of his Gothic enclosure evoked a moment of humility, and the quiet hope of a tangible peace.


Implode. Part LXXI - DK

Virtue

Because even a building, can be honest.

The virtuous facade of an 18th century Venetian abode.
Venice, Italy. Truth - DK

With You

Life, as it should be.

Poolside at The Mondrian.
Los Angeles, California. Love your woman - DK

Del Mar

Because some roads lead to the sea.

The semblance of vehicular rush, on Catalina Island.
Avalon, California. Rilassare- DK

Implode (The Affections of Calliope)

As he navigated the subdued corridors, his tempered stride unhurried above the muted flooring of the prosperous publisher’s Midtown post, he was greeted with an infectious enthusiasm, usually reserved for premières of state, the celebrated, and those rarified individuals, whose social cachet can only be countered by the weight of their fortunes.

“Mulberry,” Neil would exclaim from his leather perch. “Have a seat!”

The architect took his place at the desk of Neil Horowitz, allowing his patient frame to halt within the sturdy embrace of the nondescript office chair. Strewn about the desk in similarly non-sequential order, were the rose petal pages of his broken friend’s travels.

“So, I’ve been going through this journal…”

Neil took hold of a page leaf, reclining comfortably in the leather chaise, to reference the linen document.

“Actually, it was my wife who read through the entire thing. She loves it.”

The artisan fancier lowered his gaze momentarily.

“I mean, absolutely loves it!” Neil beamed. “And you know Lucy. She hates everything I publish.”

Maxwell raised his acute vision, to observe the media mogul once more.

“From what I can tell, the man’s done everything,” Neil asserted. “Been everywhere.”

Maxwell listened, his navy blue Tom Ford ensemble as quiet as his demeanor. And though his thoughts did amble from global marketing plans to dinner tables fashioned in onyx stone, he afforded the publishing mogul his continued attention, who was generous in his admiration of the quixotic exploits of the de Gris Laurent heir.

“I mean, this is great Max. This is really fucking great! To think! A gazillionaire! Who knows how much money this guy has, right? Completely vanishes off the face of the Earth, donates his fortune to charity, travels to some god-awful, third world countries, lives off the land, I mean…”

Maxwell observed, as Neil found it difficult to reserve his delirium.

“I can get the studios to back a film,” Neil said. “I’ve already got Avi Levine on a plane back to New York to work on a global marketing push!”

Despite the publisher’s enthusiasm, Maxwell knew that defined certainty, in relation to several years of unanswered questions, remained with a man, who at this time, most likely held court on the Côte d'Azur.

The architect began to rise from the anonymous seat, and begged the forgiveness of his exasperated host.

“My apologies,” Maxwell began. “If you will excuse me.”

“Where are you going?” the publisher insisted.

The Platonist architect observed his contemporary once more, before returning the chair to its original post.

“Cap d’Antibes.”

Implode. Part LXX - DK

Isola di Mele

Perhaps you too, will be restored.

The vibrancy of the marina, at Catalina Island.
Avalon, California. Apples - DK

Implode (To My Friend, HRH)

Although they beseeched those who would wish them well, within the vaulted echoes of Westminster Abbey, to forgo the betrothal of gifts, in exchange for the promise of charity, he thought it would be remiss of his nature, to abstain from offering a modest token of his regard for the future king.

It was a gilded Mulberry creation of pure iridium, forged and crafted by the artisan himself, and presented in nearly as much confidence as the bride’s immaculate gown. Etched within the four sterling posts was a phrase, attributed to the sovereign's ancestor, and inscribed by his careful hand in the original Old English:

Þæt is nu hraðost to secganne, þæt ic wilnode weorðfullice to libbanne þa hwile þe ic lifede, and æfter minum life þæm monnum to læfanne þe æfter me wæren min gemyndig on godum weorcum

The calligraphic representation of his regal lineage revolved into a magnificent convolution throughout the gleaming frame, until the millennial phrase met at the apex of the distinctive piece, which was crowned by a radiant, round-brilliant, amber sapphire, the breadth of which could only be comprehended in myth. The stone, mined from the abysmal depths of a former colony, belonging to HRH, was fortified within a decorative platinum pedestal and hoisted at a determined angle, best suited to accommodate the sun, as well as the fluorescent embers of moonlight.

It was the second bed he had ever made.

Implode. Part LXVIX - DK

Rapture

There was a time, when her heartbeat was my own.

Il Palazzo Ducale, Venezia.
Venice, Italy. Crimson - DK

Implode (The Tutelage of Matsumoto)

It was necessary.

The hurt.

The disappointment.

If we recall, creation is not tranquil.

It is violent.

Maniacal.

Marred in awe.

That day was no exception.

As the Earth moved, a legion disheveled by its tempered rage, her thoughts wandered toward that small fishing village in Hokkaido, where she learned to ply her trade.

Where she learned to become patient.

That day,

When the Earth moved,

She remembered the sea.

Implode. Part LXVIII - DK

Admiration

The influence of Rome.

Roman arches, adorning The Mercer.
SoHo, New York City. Rispetto - DK

Implode (A View of Spring)

There was an impalpable moisture, permeating the air. It was subtle and lithe, like the Ferragamo scarf that adorned her neck. As she rode aft the yellow coach, the halcyon gale a soft whisper against her porcelain skin, she basked in the somber lull of the morning solitude. And whilst the ashen cumulus of a foreboding sky would revel in its gray coup of the sun, Claire appeared in bliss, ensconced beneath the veil of a tranquil dawn.

She adored the spring. Particularly in New York City.

Her delicate feet and their modest Coach soles met the pavement at the prestigious edge of Central Park South, where the iconic lodge, whose fabled exterior fashioned in Second Empire Baroque, has beaconed the discerning wayfarer for 100 years. As she approached the noted auberge, an attentive doorman would encounter the lady Mulberry curbside, umbrella in tote, and accompany her toward the revered steps, where the venerable Italian and his affable pup idled beneath the storied awning.

“Buongiorno, signora.” Giancarlo greeted from a distance.

“Buongiorno, Giancarlo,” Claire would offer. “Mi dispiace, I…”

“Non freta, signora,” Giancarlo interjected. “Tutto bene?”

“Si, tutto bene,” She replied, before kneeling to relay her fondness for the well-mannered pup. “Have you been waiting long?” She inquired.

“Not long. We take the walk to the park.”

“That’s wonderful!” Claire exclaimed. “I was going to suggest as much. It’s the perfect day for a stroll, particularly during birding season.”

As she stroked his sable fur, the chocolate Sussex spaniel mirrored the au fait chef’s enthusiasm, its tail a wag.

“Did you encounter any Ceruleans?” She inquired. “Or perhaps a Golden-winged Warbler?”

Giancarlo thought momentarily.

“No, signora.”

He took a moment, in search of the words.

“We met a man who lost his heart.”

Implode. Part LXVII - DK

Encounter

Storied corners. Memorable loves.

The veritable Via Della Croce.
Rome, Italy. Promise - DK

Implode (The Mulberry Limited)

It was his mother, a nurturing siren of Scandinavian blood, who instilled in him the virtues of charity, the axiom of patience, and the imperative of grace. Though the details of his own hereditary origins were complex and decidedly obscure, she loved and reared the aspiring creator, as though he were the scion of her own womb.

“Be selfless, Maxwell,” she would say.

And though the polished Ceylon ebony, which caressed the aromatic interior of the German sedan, bore the indulgence synonymous with his signature, his principles were not compromised.

The preponderance of his professional duties and personal obligations caused the breadth of his person to collapse into the adept comfort of the Swiss leather, selected with his meticulous care. He had been approached by the German car manufacturer, who would beseech the Platonist architect to employ his skill in the creation of an ultimate edition of their crown vehicle, which it would term The Mulberry Limited. The engagement of German engineering and Mulberry design would spawn the creation of three such rarified sedans, of mythical comfort.

Now, thoroughly immersed in the full-grain embrace of Braunvieh hide from the mountainous pastures of Neuheim, he allowed himself a moment of pause, whilst the muted images of midtown whisked past the sedated windows.

Implode. Part LXVI - DK

Implode (With Certainty)

Despite the inclement conditions, the clouded mist, and a subtle chill within the urban woodland, their conversation continued beneath the muted sky for some while. And though there was an assuredness, still lacking within his storied form, his resolve was steadfast, like the workmanship of his Ralph Lauren denim. He sat forward slightly, shifting his weight in the rugged trousers, the dark textiles mirroring the context of his heart.

His charitable guest remained still, gaze forward, as he swilled the contents of momentous confession. All the while, quartered patiently along the saturated earth, the chocolate Sussex spaniel observed both men, somewhat bemused, unable to determine the length of the feast delay.

“Is it not enough to be a good man?” The venerable Italian pondered.

Benjamin observed him, as though seeking quantifiable truths.

“Surely, this is enough.” Giancarlo continued.

He reached into a pocket within his auburn cardigan, and removed a trite biscuit for his beloved canine. Benjamin observed, whilst the energetic pup tended to the gourmet wafer.

As Benjamin maintained a watchful gaze over the enthusiastic pup, Giancarlo relieved his hand of the remnants of the biscuit, and turned toward the ailing titan once more.

“The only truth is love. É vero?”

Benjamin abandoned his gaze to observe the learned man.

Giancarlo, still in reflection with his own muse, turned away briefly, and took a moment before nodding to himself. He then returned his gaze toward the de Gris Laurent heir, and spoke in certain terms.

“Love is truth. You will love again.”

Implode. Part LXV - DK

Anew

To begin again.

My muse, the wondrous Norwegian, AA.
Los Angeles, California. Auld lang syne - DK