Man Ray: Duchamp with Shaving Lather for Monte Carlo Bond, 1924

New York was buried in snow. I got a taxi on Sixth. There was a three-car collision. I gasped when I saw the ambulance. I paid the driver, ran out of the cab, dodging people and puddles of slush, slipping on ice. By the time I got to MacDougal Street, my suede boots were soaked, my feet freezing. Marcel Duchamp was waiting in the cafe, sitting by the window, smoking a cigar, looking out into the distance… I stared at him in amazement. I had never met a dead man before. He waved at me. Perhaps because I was staring. Or did he know who I was? As soon as I got to his table, he pointed to a poster of Super Mario Bros. It must have been there for years. Half of the poster was torn off the wall. “I like this, you know,” he said. “What do you think?” I didn’t know what to say. He turned back towards the poster, then motioned me to the chair across from him. I sat. I introduced myself, stuttering out my name, thanking him for meeting me. He was very polite, very patient. There was no judgment in his face.

"Marcel Duchamp on Art, Artists, Readymades and Twitter, Even", Bobbi Lurie

Man Ray: Duchamp with Shaving Lather for Monte Carlo Bond, 1924

New York was buried in snow.

I got a taxi on Sixth. There was a three-car collision. I gasped when I saw the ambulance.

I paid the driver, ran out of the cab, dodging people and puddles of slush, slipping on ice. By the time I got to MacDougal Street, my suede boots were soaked, my feet freezing.

Marcel Duchamp was waiting in the cafe, sitting by the window, smoking a cigar, looking out into the distance…

I stared at him in amazement. I had never met a dead man before.

He waved at me. Perhaps because I was staring. Or did he know who I was? As soon as I got to his table, he pointed to a poster of Super Mario Bros. It must have been there for years. Half of the poster was torn off the wall. “I like this, you know,” he said. “What do you think?”

I didn’t know what to say.

He turned back towards the poster, then motioned me to the chair across from him. I sat.

I introduced myself, stuttering out my name, thanking him for meeting me. He was very polite, very patient. There was no judgment in his face.

"Marcel Duchamp on Art, Artists, Readymades and Twitter, Even", Bobbi Lurie

 Anthony Gross, La Route de Ste Livrade, 1932

One speeds along the straight road, flying into the beckoning horizon, conscious only of mountain lines or stacked cloud masses; living, for the instant, in air, space become fluid and breathable, earth a mere detail; and then, at the turn, slackening earth’s power asserting itself with the road’s windings. Curiosity keenly on edge, or memory awakened; and the past also casting its spells, with the isolated farms or the paved French villages by the river-bank, or the church spire, the towers, in the distance…. A wrong turn is no hardship; it merely gives additional knowledge of the country, a further detail of the characteristic lie of the land, a different view of some hill or some group of buildings. Indeed, I often deliberately deflect, try road and lane merely to return again, and have bicycled sometimes half an hour round a church to watch its transepts and choir fold and unfold, its towers change place, and its outline of high roof and gargoyles alter on the landscape. Then the joy, spiced with the sense of reluctance, of returning on one’s steps, sometimes on the same day, or on successive days, to see the same house, to linger under the same poplars by the river.

"My Bicycle and I", Vernon Lee
Anthony Gross, La Route de Ste Livrade, 1932

One speeds along the straight road, flying into the beckoning horizon, conscious only of mountain lines or stacked cloud masses; living, for the instant, in air, space become fluid and breathable, earth a mere detail; and then, at the turn, slackening earth’s power asserting itself with the road’s windings. Curiosity keenly on edge, or memory awakened; and the past also casting its spells, with the isolated farms or the paved French villages by the river-bank, or the church spire, the towers, in the distance…. A wrong turn is no hardship; it merely gives additional knowledge of the country, a further detail of the characteristic lie of the land, a different view of some hill or some group of buildings. Indeed, I often deliberately deflect, try road and lane merely to return again, and have bicycled sometimes half an hour round a church to watch its transepts and choir fold and unfold, its towers change place, and its outline of high roof and gargoyles alter on the landscape. Then the joy, spiced with the sense of reluctance, of returning on one’s steps, sometimes on the same day, or on successive days, to see the same house, to linger under the same poplars by the river.

"My Bicycle and I", Vernon Lee