Sunday

There is No Greater Story Than Ours

I’ve gone long stretches where I’ve really liked Sundays. When I was younger I would wake up— take a walk to Soho. Mostly to people watch. Walk off a hang over.

Afterwards, I’d often wander in to Dean & Deluca. It was in an old bank on Broadway.

Towering high ceilings. Great light and lighting. Beautiful for a grocery store. At the front there were high top long tables. They lined the massive windows facing the street. You could post up, have a snack. Watch the shoppers pass by.

I thought about this Yoshitaka Amano I saw Lomex Gallery showed at Art Basel Paris.

Throughout the week— I try to stack plans. Squeeze every available minute. I never wanted to miss a day. An hour.

As the weekend approaches— I create an unnecessary pressure cooker. I live in New York. I want to get what I came for.

Sunday lands. Pressure is off.

The last few years I’ve found myself uptown on Sundays. It made me think of this Fairfield Porter I saw online yesterday. Looks like 5th Avenue. Maybe near the Met. Like sketches of a dream. Faces and details abstract. Snippets of passing memories. Cropped together.

I thought about Paris on a Sunday. Where most places are closed. It’s quiet.

But Le Petit Lutetia is open. It’s in the 1st. I remembered this Duncan Hannah collage. I saw it at Kasmin on my birthday. I was born on a Friday. Same day it fell on this year. I walked the 30 blocks to and from the show.

Which reminded me of a Marie Hazard piece I saw. She makes these on a loom.

A quiet sunday made me think of California. Going to the beach. Which is always empty in LA. I used to have a ritual when I landed at LAX.

Drive to Venice. Park. Walk to the ocean. I thought about this Katrien de Blauwer collage. RoseGallery has a show up now of her work. It’s a bit assemblage like. The way the Fairfield Porter felt. But made from found objects. Old magazines.

Last newsletter I sent out mentioned Rome. Gagosian is showing this Cy Gavin there. I saw it in an email and thought— that’s how I’m feeling lately.

Floating through it. That Sunday is more in the suburb of my mind.

The collage, Cy Gavin and California reminded me of a picture I took off the Santa Monica pier. In 2017. Rainy days are less common in LA. They throw you off. But at times I find it comforting. Especially on a Sunday. The way it is here today in New York.

I saw something at Art Basel Miami that I really liked. It made me think about my photograph above. A triptych Anne Imhof painting . 110x216 inches. I’d like it behind my bed. Covering the entire wall.

I can’t remember where I saw this Albert Watson picture. It’s from Scotland. Isle of Skye. I’ve always wanted to travel there. It looks painterly. Bob Ross ish? I can kinda hear the sideways brush strokes. Of the leaves on the tree. He must have mic’d up the canvas. Google it. You’ll see what I mean. The photograph came to mind when I saw the Imhof.

The Watson also reminded me of another painting I saw at Basel when I was walking around with Ben. A Frank Walter. Xavier Hufkens showed it. I like small paintings like this. 13.5 x 7.5 inches. A little abstract. Imperfect. How it’s framed. Floating. A small painting is like a poem. A tremendous amount of depth and information. In a small amount of time and space.

Trees— massive living things. Existing in silence around you. Growing for many years. Branches jut out in several directions. The roots— together below the surface. The Walter painting reminded me of a picture I saw. In a book I bought recently at Dashwood. Meisa Fujishiro. I liked how the paper smelled. Like new sneakers.

The book, trees, Sundays. Clair de Lune started playing in my head. Which led me to C’mon C’mon. It plays throughout the movie. Which is beautifully shot. All in black and white. I saw it in the theater. About two years ago. On a Sunday. Sometimes I’ll watch it on the plane. With the sound off. And think about one of my best days.

Now, instead of Dean & Deluca I’ll sit at the bar at Pastis. Late afternoon. Split a burger. Half is just the right amount.

Then walk home in time for the sunset. I remembered a Ferrari Sheppard painting. Jamie sent it in my art text chain.

The view looks like the one I have in my apartment. Facing south. Down 7th Avenue. I take a picture of it every other day. To remind me how lucky I am.

In these moments I think about Seamus Heaney. The great Irish poet.

I had my existence. I was there.
Me in place and the place in me.

After I watch the traffic slowly coast by. I get in bed. Maybe fall asleep to the first 30 minutes of Wim Wenders Wings of Desire. It was made right before the Berlin Wall fell. Shot by Henri Alekan. Dream like. From the outside looking in. Hearing passing thoughts of fears and hopes.

I hope your Sunday was good. Wherever you are. Whomever you are with. Think I’ll end this one here. With a line from Wings of Desire.

“There is no greater story than ours.”