How am I? you ask.
Things are well enough. Yesterday I donned this year's autumn ensemble -- built around a near-mint condition, early-1970s rusty gold Leonardo sports coat I found at the Victoria Drive Value Village last month -- and set off for Main Street, where I purchased four bagels, a couple of indoor succulent plants to befriend through winter and a recording of Bach's Italian Concerto, because I was convinced I wouldn't get through the week without hearing the 1985 Hong Kong recording of its "Andante", on the Naxos label.
I should add that there's been a lot of death in my life of late. This week it was -- to old age -- a good friend's 98-year-old father; to COVID, a well-known architect and art gallerist named Andrew Gruft (he and Claudia Beck opened Nova, the first contempo photo gallery on the west coast, which debuted Jeff Wall's Destroyed Room, 1978); to fentanyl, the 32-year-old daughter of a friend who battled addiction; and to the incompatibility of Millennial rage/Boomer incredulity, Canadian Art, our country's ostensible visual art magazine of record since its inception in 1967, when it went by the name of artscanada.
Today's pretty much a full-tilt writing day, where I craft texts for an art magazine that previews upcoming exhibitions based partly on press materials. I choose to write these texts as if I am present at the exhibitions, a fiction known to those who know me as a writer of fiction, criticism and song, which is just how I like it.
Other than that (or in addition to that) I am fine.
Thanks for asking.
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