|Artist, Troy Brooks.|
I left you notes on pages from old ledgers, tucked into manilla coin envelopes with your name, "Red," written with a brush-tip pen after practicing over and over, getting the lines just thin enough here, thick enough there so it mimicked Copperplate which I haven't quite had time to master.
The correspondence couldn't be called anything but mash notes, professions of love from the moonstruck, the spellbound, the captivated fan. We couldn't date in any usual sense though I would be so proud to escort any of your manifestations anywhere. I've worn you as a scarf, a zippered and hooded sweater, ballet flats, a Norma Kamali shirtwaist with shoulder pads and side-seam pockets. You've become my favorite shade of lipstick and I'd still choose you for lingerie, just another eccentricity. My response is Pavlovian when I see you in a painting not seen before, in a newly-designed couture gown, in exotic textiles. You make me want a pair of Converse hi-tops and the shorty coat I had in 1963, the one with big buttons and deep patch pockets. For you I would wear nail polish.
|To the best of my detective ability, I think the art is by femme hesse.|
|Silk painting by Alice Vegrova.|