The article was a review of an exhibition of Tiffany lamps, windows, and decorative arts and the story of the women who created and constructed them. I clicked through.Īnd like Alice, I fell into a remarkable world and right into my next novel, The Tiffany Girls. I’m a novelist I was happy to jump down that rabbit hole just to see where it led. I didn’t even question why The Tiffany Girls were there among the early psychoanalysts. My finger frozen on the track pad, scrolled back. The back of a truck flying open and its cargo of oranges rolling onto the road while the driver drove on, oblivious. Army parachuters jumping from a tower on a distant hill. An animal topiary among the weeds of an abandoned house. Sometimes we were surprised by something wonderful. We passed store windows, people walking dogs, empty lots out into the country past billboards, pine trees, fields, cows. My father never said a word, just drove through neighborhoods that all looked the same to me, but where my mother could always find something unique. Hours passed with my mother enthusiastically saying, “Look at that” “Did you see that?” and each time she’d turn around to make sure I saw it, and I would dutifully look. When I was a kid, Sunday afternoons were often preempted by my mother’s dreaded pronouncement, “Let’s take a drive.” The three of us, my father driving, mom next to him, and me in the back seat, hoping we’d be home before my favorite television show started.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |