pierre huyghe : les grands ensembles

when my grandfather met you he called you pierre. because that is what all french men are called.

i left the bar. as i was leaving i looked through the window and saw him watching me leave and i waved. he smiled. walking to the metro, i kept thinking about regret. and how i didn't want to live with it.

but i still couldn't make a decision. so i bought a coffee and wrote him a little note. i can't remember what it said, but it had my number on it. and i went back.

i walked directly to him and thrust out my note and blurted out something about my number. he didn't understand, i was talking too fast. he stood close to me, showed me something he was writing in his notebook. words appeared on a page that i couldn't focus on. he explained he was writing me a note to leave with the bartender.

[i read that note so many times since he gave it to me i should have it memorized. it was stolen when all of my belongings were stolen in the Grand Vol of 2009.]

it said something about how i had smiled at him when he walked in with the door closing behind him and he knew that anything was possible in a city like new york. that i had a stain that was the exact twin of his on his chick ("cheek"). and then the note broke off because i had walked in the door.

he didn't have a phone number in new york, and so he gave me his internet address. i have that still. thankfully.

i was wearing my favorite shirt. it was march, and spring was in the air.

he sat at the bar, and pretended to write in his notebook (this much i learned later). a piece of paper dropped to the floor, and i saw my opportunity to talk to him.

with his "merci" i knew immediately that he wasn't from these parts.

a few more coy smiles, and i left without speaking to him.

 

two french guys walk into a bar.

i was at a bar in new york city,

when he walked in.

i looked up,

and smiled.

he smiled back.

(picture by him)

life is funny, innit

il y a 2.5 ans.

je souviens plus cette sourire
ou le moment.

c'est bizarre, quand même.

point it

teaching an old dog new tricks.

I used to have stars in my eyes. And I think I might have suffered some temporary blindness because of them. Sometimes the small, mean part of me wants to say merci pour rien, but I know it's not true.

the eleventh letter

The entries for the letter K in the French dictionary. 

Suprisingly few things to say beginning with this letter.  

(compared to the eight pages in the English dictionary)

Some words missing from this page:

kite

keep

kindred

And some things in common:

kangaroo/kangourou

kebab 

au Mexique

I've heard talk of this place, but I've never been.  I can't remember the last time I walked on a beach, and had to take off my shoes to shake the sand out afterward.  Probably because I hate sand in my shoes, and would never let that happen in the first place.

But then again, maybe San Miguel de Allende isn't even on the beach.

Color Stains Experimentations

Two lamps, one bed

We planned a vacation at the last minute. We slept in as many different beds as there were nights and carried our belongings from one place to the next. Each morning we ate yogurt, fruits, and croissants with house-made jam. Sometimes the coffee was good. Usually the beds were comfortable and we slept well.

Very Good Movie

La bourgogne, at last.

Oeufs au plat

Translation: Fried eggs.

I've been feeding dreams of one day opening a breakfast restaurant by painting my favorite foods. Especially because they don't exist in France. I've seen fried eggs on top of steaks (oeuf a cheval), and on top of a hot ham and cheese (croque madame), but never alone with their friends toast and bacon.

Room with a view

ce soir

Be there or be square. 48 rue de Lancry, Paris 10. Galerie Made. 7pm
Or see some here

Dancer in the Dark

The scene: A summer night on an industrial backstreet.

The stage: Dark, except for a single spotlight.

The dancers: You, me...

His and Hers

where do you want to go?

Sunshine and Shadow

This lighting situation could make for a very interesting tan line.

114 Willoughby, Friends Blossom

I know a place where Auguste Renoir meets Barbara (excuse me for the French allusions) and many other friends, in a oasis of love and laughs and mojito in Brooklyn. 114 Willoughby. Even the name of the street seems come from a fairytale.

ha.

for the love of chairs

Flint

Once a year I come here, to a house that never changes. Please, don't ever change.

According to your wishes

I hope I forgot nothing.
I moved the mirror and table in the living room, framed your drawing we bought at the brocante and exhibited it in the bedroom, and added your name besides mine on the mailbox.
Of course, nothing is graved in marble, you'll remove the mirror if you don't like it like that, change the color of the paper of the marie-louise for the drawing but... I hope you won't remove your name from the mailbox!

New Game In Town ?

Would you prefer to give your name to a caffé
or to a halal snack food ?
Ah, the town shouts our names ma belle..
..D-26

It Takes Shape

Would you enter in my frames, please?

Animal Sheets

Time has been suspended at this moment.

Six months after this, I will find you with the same delectation, posing again on the edge of the bed, the smell of the candles and something wilder (agressive "juste ce qu'il faut"), more subtile also, floatting in the room.

I can't wait.

D-30

beadel street

the end of the earth, where the water is toxic, and the eternal flame burns. for now, i call it home.

How Suddenly Paris Turned Sexy

Paris is in love with you.
No doubt about this.