Saturdays at the paint factory: rocketing pocking of the ball mill, seductive smell of turpentine and linseed oil and mineral spirits, splattered concrete floor, and giant mixing vats. If lucky, I'd be there when master mixer Joe Locascio poured pigment into pigment, swirling color in a vat paddled and tumbled like heavy cream, becoming whipped, only heavier. Childhood never smelled or looked so good.
II
Florence, Italy: paper marbling and marbled paper in generations-old binding shops. One across from the Pitti Palace, Giulio Giannini e Figlio, sixth-generation artisans crafting peacock patterns on hand-milled paper. Mote-dusted light pours over desk sets, flat papers, the air charged with the scent of leather and glue, a veritable toy store for a lover of color and pattern and paper.
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III
The work of artist Mark Lovejoy: photography and glorious color. Tonight, I shall be dreaming in technicolor.
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