Osborne in Florence

From the marble steps, a large arm stretches out toward me and I instantly recognize him from his photo. Lawrence Osborne is a tall man, with elegant dress and a deep, warm voice. “Should I wear a jacket for this?” He asks, and we look outside, where Florence is soaking in a hard rain. He has just come from his home in Bangkok, where, in early monsoon season, the rain is worse he says. We grab a hotel umbrella and head over to the Gabinetto Vieusseux in the Palazzo Strozzi.

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Alive and well in this fine bone-sunk field, drying in its sun and listening. But what of it? When did I last dig my nose deep down underneath the gray carpet of the shoe’s sole, and touch those brown filthy roots? To really look at life in decoration! Roots grow into the car seat, into its dark tissue, but I have recently felt the need to pull up and go. To touch a memory, to see the wonderful things on the doorstep that we always wash away from in between our toes. Where to begin?

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