Many years ago, I happened to wander into a little private gallery. It was one of the earliest in the city — a tiny shop for hungry eyes, filled with pottery and pendants, postcards and icons, rings, silk garments, naïve watercolours and heavy oil paintings…
My story with Freigeweht begins in an artist’s living room. Paintings. A grand piano. Subdued lighting. Smoked glass. Vodka in our glasses. The jazz cassette had been bought almost by accident from a market stall, our host says…
I am writing to you here, rather than where you keep running, in the hope that my letter will reach you…
They say leap years are harder than the rest. Death has leapt high, her scythe raised to reap an entire generation. Life adds another turn to its spiral, while we say goodbye to our parents…