Me and my Valentine and postmodern decorum…which means I’m going to blurt something out

This is the part where I blurt something out — isn’t the Mister just adorable? I get to say that, it’s Valentine’s Day. Another admission: in this picture I look like I tower over him, but it was taken by the most talented woman and wonderful friend, Portraits : Heidi Gutman Photography, long, long, ago and I was standing on a coffee table. This coffee table was a studio… hand-me-down. In the late nineteen forties you could have seen it in a number of films, like My Dear Secretary.

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Now, a silly little coffee is not the kind of thing you register watching old films, and you can’t see the coffee table in our portrait, but if you collect the work of certain photographer… not Heidi… you might have already seen it, quite, QUITE clearly.

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I’d better explain. I’ve mentioned before that I used to live in a house in the Hollywood Hills with the Mister and my best friend. We always called it a failed Usonia – Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia design. The living room, however, was a thing of beauty: two soaring walls of glass looking over a courtyard garden. Skunks, birds, and yours truly were known to walk right into the floor to ceiling, seemingly invisible, crystal clear panes. No matter, all of us were too lightweight to cause any damage.

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At the time we frequently left the house in the care of any friend who needed a place to crash when we were all called away at once on various different movies, shot on location. Once we returned home, we, very social young things then, would hop around to plays and parties, and gallery openings. Imagine my surprise when I saw a large format, silver nitrate photograph, of a biker boy, clothed only in leather jacket and steel toed boots, STANDING in the middle of my architectural living room, on top of my coffee table.

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Quite a rambling little post here, but that happens when you get to be my age. Happy Valentine’s, poppets! May your day be full of love and laughter.