Borrowed: From hh's studio, that day we were doing a shoot, Duane Michals's book of portraits, Album. Not so much reading but looking, studying, remembering. Flipping throught the book, I was instantly transported back to the early 1990s in New York, when I went to see an exhibition of Michals's works. The same black and white pictures, the same artistic scribbles. Light, yet profound, in the end, romantic. From Aunty, Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress, which he didn't like. Aunty has very specific tastes. Also rather unexpected ones. Then for a bit of cheering up, I'm reading Bridget Jones's Diary, by Helen Fielding. It is ever so loosely based on a Jane Austen work, where the mother is an evil monster and the prince has a lush, expensive propeety. It's hilarious, and I find this comfortingly mindless, empty calories for the soul, not chicken soup, more like a tall glass of iced Ribena and Cadbury chocolate.
I need this at the moment.
Don't ask, don't tell.
(Photo: Who Am I, Duane Michals)