sometimes whimsical, but never inflated

The weekend felt like a summer kick-off.

It was all about denial, laughter, sunshine, a bbq party, nights out, margaritas on the patio during the day, gardening in short shorts, a sunburned nose.

Totally effed my manicure and managed to give myself a blood blister on the tip of the finger that I almost cut off a couple of weeks ago. So butch.

Around town I wore strapless and strappy.

No sunblock even though I know I need to because I'm getting old. But that healthy glow...I couldn't resist. 

And I started reading a new book. Well, an old book that is new to me, Robert Hughes' American Visions: The Epic History of Art in America. I'm loving it.

Writing about folk art by unknown artists in the late 1700's he notes:

The idea of the "anonymous" folk artist is a figment of the sophisticated. One sees why as soon as one asks, "Anonymous to whom?" Things become "anonymous" when they leave home and drift into the market, because they lose their domestic history and cease to be triggers of memory...To call things "anonymous" merely because they are unsigned is implicitly to collapse the social space around them.

Yesterday at the bar, sipping Kuentz Bas, I had a funny riff with Kevin about summer reads which ended in me agreeing to read a book about the orgin of cocktails and him agreeing to read The Infomation by Martin Amis.

Smart, literary men make me swoon a bit.

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