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" Another jackdaw " // © g83.visuals

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Fragments of Forgotten Days
"In February 2014, on the candlelit South Lawn of the White House, Michelle Obama stepped into a moment that fashion historians still talk about today, wearing a breathtaking custom Carolina Herrera ball gown that was so deliberately and brilliantly conceived that every single detail of it carried a hidden message. The gown featured a black hand-sewn beaded embroidery applique scallop-edged top with sleeves dipping just below the elbow, cinched by a wide black velvet belt, flowing into a voluminous liberty blue silk faille skirt with a long billowing train that swept the floor as she moved.
That specific shade, liberty blue, was not chosen by accident.
Fashion expert Susan Swimmer noted immediately that from the White House to Versailles it is not that far, and that the gown was more keeping in a French aesthetic than anything she had seen Michelle wear before, honoring the nation of France through the universal language of couture. The color also quietly echoed the blue shared by both the American and French flags, a piece of diplomatic storytelling stitched directly into the fabric.
Carolina Herrera herself, a Venezuelan-American designer who founded her legendary New York atelier in 1981, had shown her Fall 2014 collection at New York Fashion Week just one day before this dinner, and yet somehow found the time to custom craft this extraordinary piece exclusively for the First Lady. It was also the very first time Michelle Obama had worn sleeves to a State Dinner, a subtle but deliberate departure from her signature sleeveless silhouettes that the entire fashion world noticed instantly. That gown now lives in the Barack Obama Presidential Library collection, preserved as an official artifact of history. What looks like a beautiful photograph is actually a masterclass in soft power, wrapped in liberty blue silk and worn with effortless grace."
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Twenty-Four and Seventy-Four: Two Versions of Me
Today I turned 74.
Now, if you’re 24, that probably sounds ancient. If you’re 74, it sounds suspiciously young. Turning 74 got me thinking about what life looked like when I was 24.
At 24, if a bar in New York City closed at 4 a.m., I considered that a personal challenge. Today, if I’m out at 9:30 p.m., my wife Ellen calls to make sure I haven’t been kidnapped.
At 24, I traveled through Europe with a backpack, a Eurail pass, and about $400 to my name. Somewhere along the way I met two Belgian girls, and for several glorious weeks we traveled together. My biggest problem wasn’t finding a hotel; it was trying not to fall in love with either one of them. The world seemed impossibly new that summer. Every train station was an invitation. Every stranger was a potential friend. Every wrong turn became a story.
At 74, I still travel to Europe. The difference is that now I know what a hotel reservation is. And if the room doesn’t have a private bathroom, I’m not calling it an adventure—I’m calling it grounds for a refund.
At 24, I landed a job as a clerk on the trading floor of the New York Stock Exchange through a combination of confidence, charm, and outright bluffing. About an hour into my first day, the boss tapped me on the shoulder. “You don’t know what the hell you’re doing, do you?” “No,” I admitted. He stared at me. “I’ll give you three weeks. Shape up or you’re fired.”
A year later I asked why he hadn’t fired me that first day. He smiled. “Because what you did is exactly what I would have done.”
At 24, I rode a motorcycle through New York traffic. At 74, I no longer ride a motorcycle. Not because I’ve become wiser, but because my wife has.
At 24, I lived in a tiny studio apartment in Brooklyn Heights. One morning, walking home after an all-night adventure, I turned a corner and literally bumped into Norman Mailer. Norman Mailer! One of the most famous writers in America. At 74, I no longer bump into famous authors on the street; I see them at lectures from the back row, usually while wondering whether the parking meter has expired.
And here’s another difference. At 24, I was paying a psychoanalyst in Manhattan to help me figure myself out. At 74, I’m still doing the work—only now I’ve discovered that self-understanding is not a destination. It’s a daily practice.
What strikes me isn’t that my life is smaller today; it’s just different. At 24, I collected experiences; at 74, I collect meaning. At 24, I wanted excitement; at 74, I want connection. At 24, I thought wisdom was knowing the answers; at 74, I’ve learned wisdom is knowing the questions.
And yet, some things haven’t changed. I still love a good story. I still love meeting interesting people. I still believe that around the next corner something unexpected might happen.
The difference is that at 24 I expected adventure to arrive on a motorcycle. At 74, I know it can arrive in a conversation, a friendship, my daughter’s laugh, a book, or a quiet moment when life suddenly makes sense.
When I was 24, I couldn’t imagine being 74. And now that I’m 74, I can honestly say something surprising: I wouldn’t trade places with that young man. Well—maybe for one weekend. Just definitely not the morning after.
Paul Klee, Rose Garden, 1920
One of the primary tests of the mood of a society at any given time is whether its comfortable people tend to identify, psychologically, with the power and achievements of the very successful or with the needs and sufferings of the underprivileged.
-Richard Hofstadter, historian

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One afternoon, King and his wife journeyed to the southern tip of the country, to the city of Trivandrum in the state of Kerala, and visited with high school students whose families had been Untouchables.
The principal made the introduction. “Young people,” he said, “I would like to present to you a fellow untouchable from the United States of America.”
King was floored. He had not expected that term to be applied to him. He was, in fact, put off by it at first. He had flown in from another continent, had dined with the prime minister. He did not see the connection, did not see what the Indian caste system had to do directly with him, did not immediately see why the lowest-caste people in India would view him, an American Negro and a distinguished visitor, as low-caste like themselves, see him as one of them. “For a moment,” he wrote, “I was a bit shocked and peeved that I would be referred to as an untouchable.”
Then he began to think about the reality of the lives of the people he was fighting for—20 million people, consigned to the lowest rank in America for centuries, “still smothering in an airtight cage of poverty,” quarantined in isolated ghettoes, exiled in their own country.
And he said to himself, “Yes, I am an untouchable, and every Negro in the United States of America is an untouchable.”
In that moment, he realized that the Land of the Free had imposed a caste system not unlike the caste system of India and that he had lived under that system all of his life. It was what lay beneath the forces he was fighting in America.
Isabel Wilkerson, Caste: The Origins of Our Discontent
Kammer Castle on Lake Attersee Gustav Klimt
“I was thinking how amazing it was that the world contained so many lives. Out in these streets people were embroiled in a thousand different matters, money problems, love problems, school problems. People were falling in love, getting married, going to drug rehab, learning how to ice-skate, getting bifocals, studying for exams, trying on clothes, getting their hair-cut and getting born. And in some houses people were getting old and sick and were dying, leaving others to grieve. It was happening all the time, unnoticed, and it was the thing that really mattered.”
~ Jeffrey Eugenides
“The science fiction writer really should be aware that he or she is in an extraordinary, enviable position: an inheritor of the least rigid, freest, youngest of all literary traditions: and therefore should do the job just as well, as seriously and entertainingly, as intelligently and passionately, as ever it can be done. That’s the least we can ask of our writers — and the most. You can’t demand of artists that they produce masterpieces. You can ask that they try.”
— Ursula K. Le Guin, The Language of the Night

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“For tell me truly, has anyone even been able to imagine how something could be made from nothing? Alas! There is such an infinite difference between nothing and a single atom that the sharpest brain could not fathom it. In order to escape this inexplicable labyrinth, you have to admit the eternity of matter as well as God, and then it is no longer necessary to admit a God because the universe could have existed without Him.”
— Cyrano de Bergerac ~ From Other Worlds From Science Fiction: A Historical Anthology by Eric S. Rabkin
Cow's Skull with Calico Roses, 1931. Georgia O’Keeffe. Oil on canvas

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Robert Motherwell (USA 1915-1991) Australia II (1983) acrylic on paper collage on board laid down on board 120.6 x 81.2 cm