Antiquity

Because beauty does not recognize time.

The corridors of il Colosseo.
Rome, Italy. Timeless - DK

Implode (Forever)

Without the accolades.
The acclaim.
The global admiration.
Or the reverent regard, of prince and pauper alike.

Without the homes.
The exotic carriages.
The wind swept villas, situated high above ocean cliffs,
Or the English Baroque castles, to which his name was betrothed.

Without the caviar.
The masterpiece canvasses.
The marble antiquities.
Or the 500 year-old bottles of wine.

Without the gems.
The vestiges of gold.
Valentino couture.
Or the Bvlgari trinkets.

And without the warmth of sunlight.

She would love him still.

For he would still be Max Mulberry.

Implode. Part LXXXI - DK

Il Mio Cuore

When I was in London...

The entrance at Hyde Park.
London, England. Always - DK

Implode (Balearic Sunsets)

Following a rigorous morning of 18 holes, the remainder of the day would find them at sea, sailing from Valencia to Deià. Maxwell and Etienne had watched their friend birdie the final three holes of the course at El Saler, for a score of six under par. It was an exceptional performance and one that was later celebrated at Can Lluc, with seared sea bass and a 1962 Dom Pérignon. And though the Frenchman was particular in his pursuit of rare tenderloin and a 1982 Château Margaux, no such luxuries were to be found on the island. With the skiff moored at seashore's edge and Maxwell and Benjamin sufficiently imbibed, Etienne found himself alone in his quest for the type of sustenance that would satiate an enlightened carnivore. Defeated, he succumbed to his alternate motto of When in Rome and made an entreaty for the fresh water lobster. It was lightly peppered, salted, and sautéed in a raw cream butter sauce, per his request.

And as they lounged within the outdoor comfort of the Balearic brasserie, surrounded by the clear water cove and ocean jutting cliffs, Maxwell, Benjamin, and Etienne, along with their fellow diners, would revel in the dinner theatre of the setting sun. It was a calming spectacle, the red embers casting a somnolent glow over the medieval town. And though the cosmic spectacle left the gallery of beach goers in awe, Benjamin's attention was accosted by the Spaniard beauty, seated on the beach below.

"Sir?"

 Benjamin blinked, returning to the island of Manhattan, where then sun was preparing to set once more.

"I'm sorry," the taxi driver interrupted. "Which street was it again?"

Benjamin blinked again, attempting to acquaint himself with his current surroundings. However, the redolence of his past and the crimson haze, now spilling over the city, had proved too much to bear.

"Do you remember?" the gruff cabbie continued.

Benjamin sighed.

"That's all I do."

Implode. Part LXXX - DK

Implode (Prêt-à-Porter)

Since they would encounter again at Columbus Circle, in the place where he had confessed truth, unbridled admiration, and his first faux pas, Benjamin would make his way south, to seek out the architect, for his well-renown insight into the social arts.

As he made his approach in the burnished calfskin boot, from the modernity of the elevator, onto the serenity of the Burmese floors, he was met by the mesmeric allure of the Scandinavian beauty, Ms. Olsson. She paused in her work, to observe the evolving figure, over wire-framed spectacles. She took note of his Gucci pea coat, which was appropriate over a tee-shirt and jeans, made possible by Ralph Lauren. Gone was the woolly beard and unkempt hair. His manner was calm and deliberate. And though he was not the same disheveled creature of their first encounter, he had yet to become himself.

"Mr. Grey," She began with a smile.

"Ben," He insisted. "Just Ben is fine."

Ms. Olsson took note of his preferential designation with an acknowledging bow. She then began to rise from the titanium swivel, which was reluctant to part with her person, and made her way toward the opposite side of the loft. And though her gait warranted the captivation of an audience, Benjamin allowed his thoughts to be otherwise concerned by the harmonious accord of the SoHo loft, meticulously crafted by his well-mannered friend. He became lost in the appointments and the seemingly effortless manner by which they were composed. As he continued his cerebral circumvention of the space, his demeanor was overtaken by a sensational calm. He closed his eyes and for a moment, the details of his current persona or those of his former self, were insignificant.

Ms. Olsson, having arrived at the other side of the loft, turned to observe the noble wanderer, who was now suspended in a dream.

"He should have been a conductor."

Benjamin opened his eyes.

"Pardon?" Ms. Olsson wondered aloud.

"Max." Ben continued. "The way he puts things together. The way he orchestrates. He should have been..."

He was unable to find the words. Ms. Olsson rescued him.

"I see."

Benjamin, still lost in his thoughts, though content with his assertion, smiled.

"Is he here?"

"Mr. Mulberry is away at the moment. However, he wanted to be certain that you wanted for nothing in his absence."

Ms. Olsson stood beside metallic clothing trestle, where two garment totes idled patiently. The exquisite apprentice pivoted in her Christian Louboutin heels, toward the de Gris Laurent heir, to provide him with the breadth of her attention.

Benjamin appeared uncertain.

"I don't understand."

"This is for going out..."

Ms. Olsson unzipped the first of the two garment totes, both emblazoned with the Tom Ford moniker, across the portage. Ensconced within was the black Wetherby jacket, accompanied by a black classic tailored pant, both of silk and linen. There were also black crocodile shoes to match.

"This, for staying in..."

She unleashed the second, to reveal a flower dressing gown of charcoal and cream chine. It was plush, complete with piping details. The leisurely robe was accompanied by a white evening shirt with French cuffs and jeweled links by Deakin & Francis. Also within the garment tote was the ivory twill, fluid-linen pant. And though provided...

"Mr. Mulberry said that the white suede espadrilles were optional."

Benjamin diverted his attention from the silk trove of gifts to behold Ms. Olsson, who smiled. As he attempted to comprehend the uncanny foresight of his friend's generosity, the viking beauty made a return to the Bolivian desk. She opened a compartment on the handcrafted table and removed an envelope of midnight blue. The velvety stationary, embossed in 24 karat gold trim and soft to the touch, bore the architect's personal emblem.

"And this."

She presented the signature stationary to the de Gris Laurent heir, in an outstretched hand.

Benjamin observed the envelope carefully, befiore inspecting the Swedish siren once more, He then accepted the ornate parcel, tearing it open, to reveal an onyx American Express Centurion Card.

Benjamin held the anotized titanium card within his bewildered grasp, turning to behold the Scandinavian muse once more.

"And this?" He inquired.

She smiled.

"As you like."

Implode. Part LXXIV - DK

Momento

Patience, as a virtue.

An anonymous statue holding court aloft the parquet floors of The Louvre.
Paris, France. Waiting - DK

Implode (The Architect)

Though a requirement for most, it it tarried within his Hermès tote as a reminder of the diplomatic understanding between nations, that allowed men to venture into those varied and exotic landscapes. More than a ledger, it was an invitation to foster a dialogue in culture, discovery, and inspiration. That the stamps themselves had long since overwhelmed the document, was of no concern. It remained a part of his tote, nonetheless, as a symbol of possibility.

As a symbol of wonder.

And yet, it was not a necessity for him.

Not for entry.

Because the architect did not need a passport.

For his name was known, the world over.

And in those places, where the syllables were not sufficient to pronounce,

But whose inhabitants knew well, the influence of Rome

And its artistic ingenuity in shaping the world,

In those places,

He was simply referred to as, Il Bravo.

Implode. Part LXXVIII - DK

Forza

Because someday, you may be called upon.

Hercules and Cacus, by Baccio Bandinelli, as it stands at the Palazzo Vecchio.
Florence, Italy. Endure - DK

Implode (The Embrace of Titans)

As much as it would have pleased him to do so, the number of days in the Gregorian calendar were not sufficient to appease the inundation of requests for his audience. And though the affluent patrons were generous in their offers of unadulterated travel, lofty accommodation, and all manner of excess, the rigors of his schedule would not allow for such a diversion from the particular nature of his work. Ms. Olsson, his diligent muse, would keep a detailed ledger of the various luminaries, dignitaries, and other such individuals of note, accustomed to the urgency inherent in their name, and placed them into an organized queue for archival.

And yes, it was true.
The architect did have appointments today.
Some, with those famous monikers.

Yet, it was this moment, that was his most important.

He observed, quietly amused by her uncharacteristic response to the novelty of the cuisine and the Veuve Clicquot, in particular. It was unrelenting, the bubbles of the champagne tickling the brim of her button nose. She set the crystal flute onto the tablecloth and continued to grin, her cheeks as rosy as the 1998 vintage that now satiated her palate.

"I was contemplating the du Cap." Maxwell would say.

Claire Mulberry, her famous poise now enraptured by a quiet joy, blushed as she observed her husband, and smiled.

"And the confiture de citron?" She inquired bashfully.

"And the confiture de citron, of course."Her husband confirmed, with a playful smile of his own.

The au fait chef continued to blush, returning her attention toward the sustenance of her plate. It had been some while since she had possessed the entirety of his attention.

And she was grateful.

"Well," Claire began, "Summer's almost here. And like every summer, I look forward to..."

"Perhaps this weekend." Maxwell would insist.

Claire observed him, without words.

"It's been some while since I've held you..."

His wife continued to observe him, spellbound.

"Properly."

Implode. Part LXXVII - DK

Mulberry

A moment of pause.

Somewhere along the Pacific Coast. The artisan - DK

Implode (The Lull of Aphrodite)

In his youth, he allowed his agile frame to descend the jagged ledge of Mesa Vuono into the cerulean depths of Poseidon's realm. Submerged beneath the crystal blue sanctum, the burgeoning architect could not envision an indulgence more stellar than the warmth of the Mediterranean sun upon his face, the eternity of black sand beaches surrounding him, and the temperate solace of his aquatic Greek enclosure. His friend, who had not yet been accosted by the furies of love, maintained their post on that onyx sand, enduring the afternoon heat, accompanied on either side by the tanned, long-limbed, supple denizens of the island, renown throughout history for their uncompromising grace and beauty. They addressed the pangs of hunger with smoked bass. And quelled their thirst with Campari.

Similar days would follow. And in his youthful opinion, nothing could compare.

Now, as he lunched on the westside of Manhattan, gazing across the table at his wife, the Scottish-born culinary savant, Maxwell had arrived at an unequivocal truth:

There was nothing more magical.
More alluring,
More deserving of his meticulous attention,

Than the splendor of her smile.

Implode. Part LXXVI - DK

Shimmer

Because some floors are composed of marble. And stars.

The terra firma of the René Caovilla boutique.
Milan, Italy. Brilliance - DK

Implode (When the Moon Follows the Sun)

He knew that the question itself breeched social decorum. Still, he needed to know.

"What are you doing later?"

Lucy was taken aback by the inquisition. His charred, hazelnut eyes interrogating her resolve.

"I'm..."

She was unsure of how to respond.

"Well, I..."

There was truth.

"I have to prepare for the Sotheby's auction in London. I fly tomorrow."

And then there was the truth.

"Though perhaps we could..."

She paused. Benjamin was patient.

"Jean Georges at eight?"

Implode. Part LXXV - DK

Implode (The Resplendence of Oysters)

Though they were decidedly ashore, serenaded by the amber glow of the renowned French eatery, appropriately situated within the epicenter of Manhattan, he still found himself lost along the song of the ocean. And though the arrangement was to regale at midday, feasting with his wife, it was a spectacular swell that captured his fancy, the aquatic cascade awash along the length of the golden wall. Maxwell sat, engulfed in the image, his navy blue Tom Ford ensemble insulating him from the imaginary winds.

"Max?"

He returned to West 51st Street.

"You haven't touched your oysters."

The architect observed his wife, longingly, though his glassy gaze indicated that he was still adrift upon the illusory wave. It was not so long ago that he manned the sail, chartering the effervescent waters of the Mediterranean sea. He recalled the splendor of the Iberian sunshine and the demeanor of Benjamin Grey, who was haughtier in those days, as well as the grandiose Etienne Rousseau, also aboard the skiff. And though their course was never determined, the Rugby friends would always arrive on schedule, at the most appropriate ports along the peninsula.

"Max?"

The architect returned once more. He sighed heavily, before capitulating to his wife, turning his attention toward the molluscs on his plate.

"My apologies."

Claire observed him, concerned.

"Is there something wrong?"

Maxwell reassured her.

"Forgive me, my love. I was far away."

Claire continued to observe as the gentleman builder carefully removed the delectable morsel from its savory shell. She smiled.

"The last time you had oysters..."

"We were in Cancale." He replied.

And as he brought the maritime sustenance to his mouth, the Bvlgari cufflinks peering from the edge of his custom sleeve, the Lady Mulberry continued to observe her beloved. She then took a considerable amount of air into her lungs, before exhaling in her own longing sigh. Content to allow him a moment of pause, the delicate chef observed him a moment longer, before reaching for the crystal flute of rosé notes.

Indeed. He was far away.

Implode. Part LXXIV - DK

Première

Because you will always be first.

Brunch with BB.
Los Angeles, California. Bonne Année - DK