Red Wheelbarrow Versus Yellow Hose I stopped abruptly on rue de Sevres and didn’t know why except there was a yellow hose that needed to be photographed. Hoses, when they need to be documented, cry out to me. Hours later, while editing, I saw and understood why I had been attracted to this particular hose and this toppled wheelbarrow. They were once more the giant squid and whale from the American Museum of Natural History, continuing their epic struggle in Paris in different costumes. so much depends on a red wheelbarrow ........wrestling with a yellow hose. .

A Mouse Set Free in a Cheese Shop I am on the top floor archives of the Luxembourg Palace, carefully assisting with the examining of documents from the early 1800s. I am handling sheets of paper that have been untouched and unseen in generations. All are written by hand on rag paper. I am only the document handler, not the researcher. As a former museum technician/art handler this task is up my alley. Besides, as a printmaker and hand papermaker, I love paper. I am in heaven. This is a total treat for me, but I do not let the archivists know how much fun I am having. I am a mouse set free in a cheese shop. The paper documents, especially those written by hand before 1830, the advent and availability of machine-made paper, are a joy to behold. It seems the French government remained a customer of handmade paper even after cheaper paper came into common use. All the sheets I am touching are rag paper, much of it laid paper with its distinctive :chain lines, some is wove paper...

Voltaire Sees His Very First Traffic Cone Until today and ever since he returned to his personal pedestal, the great writer had stared at that exact spot. For how long the spot had been blank no one can say. It had always been simply green grass. He often wondered if it was Kentucky Blue Grass, one of the great discoveries in the New World. Not likely. It was simply green grass, mowed as often or as infrequently as necessary. One morning, recently, a little man in a cobalt blue jacket let himself into Voltaire’s little garden. He said nothing. Voltaire replied in kind, also saying nothing, as usual. They avoided eye contact as well, but not this time. The little man looked Voltaire in the eye, then placed an orange and white traffic cone on the lawn, having eyeballed the precise spot to keep Voltaire’s focus. This seemed to work. The little man in the cobalt blue jacket, as silently as he came, quietly departed to attend to his own garden. ...

Smart Ass College Boy My Dad often shows up in my dreams with one thing or another in his hands. Usually it is in two parts or broken. For instance he had a three legged cat under one arm and in his other hand he showed me the forth leg. I think that dreams* are supposed to be a way to work through things that seem to have no resolution in the daylight world. My father had a lot of hands-on-experience. He could pretty much do anything with a hunk of wood and a nail. I am the one without practical experience. We had a life-long joke. He’d ask me to do something, for instance, rake the leaves. My stock reply was: “Do you want it done right, or do you want me to do it?” In my dream, he asked me: "what am I supposed to do with this?" , holding the severed leg in my face. "Come on, Dad, do I have to do everything for you?" I told him to hold the cat on its back and give me the other leg. He looked perplexed, so did the cat. I screwed the...