The Grand Hotel
There is a particular quality of light in Venice in October — low, golden, slightly melancholy. The kind of light that makes everything look like a painting, and makes you feel that you are living inside one.
Journal
Not a diary, not a blog — something between the two. A record of the things worth remembering.
There is a particular quality of light in Venice in October — low, golden, slightly melancholy. The kind of light that makes everything look like a painting, and makes you feel that you are living inside one.
Lisbon is a city that rewards the early riser. Before the tourists arrive, before the cafés fill, there is a version of the city that belongs only to those who are willing to be cold.
The house in Provence has been in the family for forty years. It is not beautiful in any obvious way — the walls are thick and the rooms are dark and the garden is more wild than tended.
The Tuscan landscape is almost too beautiful — it looks like a painting of itself, and you keep expecting someone to tell you it isn't real.
London in November is an acquired taste. The light is gone by four, the streets are wet, and everyone walks with a particular purposeful grimness.
Art week in New York is exhausting and exhilarating in equal measure. You see too much, talk to too many people, and come away with a headache and a list of artists you need to know better.