Bravo's floor tile took me to letterpress journals, to floating scarves, to books of frabric samples, takes me back to - floor tiles.
I was lucky enough a few years back to study philosophy in Italy for a few weeks (what up Lacan!), even luckier was when it was all over I still had parts of my brain intact and a couple of extra weeks to do all those things of the body that philosophy seems to discredit (or at the very least ignore). Eating and sleeping my way across the Italian countryside, I got off a regional train on the side of the road outside of the coastal town of Amalfi, walked down seven hundred and fifty steep concrete steps, and when i finally reached the street below - looked up to see the biggest display of decorative tile I could ever imagine.
I was lucky enough a few years back to study philosophy in Italy for a few weeks (what up Lacan!), even luckier was when it was all over I still had parts of my brain intact and a couple of extra weeks to do all those things of the body that philosophy seems to discredit (or at the very least ignore). Eating and sleeping my way across the Italian countryside, I got off a regional train on the side of the road outside of the coastal town of Amalfi, walked down seven hundred and fifty steep concrete steps, and when i finally reached the street below - looked up to see the biggest display of decorative tile I could ever imagine.
If you love The Real housewives of New Jersey as much as I do, this might not seem too out of place, but believe me - this was something special. While I waited patiently at the bus stop to take me to the sea side (the other side) of the mountain, I thought to myself - back splash- geometric design or landscaoe?
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That musing on tile patterns didn't last long, as it turned out, while laying in the Mediterranean sun, I got pretty home sick. I didn't want any more caprese salads, and opted instead for a good ol'back home cheeseburger and chocolate milkshake. The only problem being that the only milkshake I could find was on the alcoholic drink menu, and I had to explain to a very confused waiter that I wanted it without the shot of Kaluha and no rum either. The cheeseburger was square instead of a circle and I could taste a hint of alcohol in the milkshake, both taking me away from the childhood memories I was trying to rest in. The saving grace of that meal: A man at a nearby table asks the waiter where his heart is. The waiter does not hesitate and places a hand on his chest, "here."
JFK might not have been so glad to see me, filthy from an all night plane ride, but I couldn't wait to use the bathroom there and get back on good ol'back home Interstate - 95.
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For my next feet of Auto-blog-ism - - expect pigment and journeys even further into the psyche.
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