The photographs of N.P. Thompson


Reed Hall in winter


Mary Brown’s china

“…sometimes the law does not do what it should, and something being legal does not make it right.” — Stacey Abrams

The late Mary Brown was a close relative whom I scarcely knew: my grandfather’s sister. A country girl who married into money, she was a Southern grande dame, as extravagant as she was aloof.

She died from cancer (the treatments, not the disease) when I was in my early teens. Despite geographical proximity, I only saw Mary a couple of times in the single digits of my youth, and unlike other doting aunts and vying uncles, eager to be endearing, who courted me with candy bars and bakery treats, she never zeroed in on my presence. (Perhaps she disapproved of my mother’s status as a divorced woman, although Mrs. Brown had, seemingly, no qualms about her only daughter being married off to an eminently presentable gangster. That’s how things were in the Deep South back then.)

2 or 3 things I remember about her: Read the rest of this page »


the company of flowers

In memory of P.J.S. on her sixty-second birthday.

blue curtains

the skater’s waltz

At Rockefeller Center on a cold night, some years ago…

eye on Midtown

Summer 2015


Place on Broad

violin lessons

lining the pool

Cather’s colour

“…for me you are the only real poet of the sea, whereas you claim that it is only the ship itself you wanted to exalt… I don’t think you ever took my obsession with the sea seriously…in fact, because of my birth, childhood, and ancient insular atavism on a small Caribbean island, the sea is to me something absolutely basic, mingled with my very blood; and without my noticing, it has spread to every part of my being.

…one cannot stray far from the sea except by straying from oneself.”

Saint-Leger Leger, in a letter to Joseph Conrad, February 1921

kaleidoscope without colors

Originally posted August 24, 2011

walk-in closet – an epic

Circa Spring ’17.

See also:

turn of the waltz

golf American – a Wonderland

Let us go then, you and I…

soft tissue


drive-by lunch



and I don’t believe Dylan Farrow. No victim of abuse could be as gleefully antagonistic as she is, as pleased with herself and so disingenuously proud of her own violence. She exploits the all-too-easily exploitable “Me,Too” to her dubious advantage.

To Hell with Dylan Farrow’s stage-managed lies, and to Hell with the mob hysteria she cultivates. Chalamet, Sorvino, Gerwig, the equine Rebecca Hall, et al. should live to be rightfully embarrassed by their PC absurdities.

Why aren’t these counterfeit liberals protesting America’s Kremlin-owned “president” and the Russian agent’s enablers within a complicit Republican Congress? Is it less of a risk for young (or middle-aged) white hipsters to attack an octogenarian Jewish man whose aesthetic doesn’t compute with the social media on their smartphones? It isn’t much of a stretch to see Woody Allen’s detractors for what they are: racists.


how to stay in a fine hotel


For a peaceful Christmas…

Originally posted December 20, 2010

appearing nitely

Centuries Since the Day celebrates the return of The Santa Clones, a Yuletide tradition and installation piece by Chris Willis, on view for the holiday season at the corner of Broadway & Morrison.

shadowed return