Okay, apologies for entering the new year in such a dormant state. Blame the mulled wine (who knew? add cinnamon and oranges, it's really tasty). Unfortunately, the projects at hand cannot be blogged about. Mysterious, I know; they also taught me a secret handshake. Let me rassle up some poetry hijinks and get back to you after the weekend. Tonight: jazz at HR-57.
If nothing else, I'll try to assemble my thoughts on the Edward Hopper show at the National Gallery. If you can go this weekend, then go. The painting above is called "11 A.M.," which if you think about it is a kind of embedded narrative. What circumstances bring a girl to still be in that pose at mid-morning?