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welcome Note
ONE OF MY FONDEST MEMORIES is of walking with my sculpture tutor through his garden in Essex on an unusually warm spring day. As we neared a flower bed exploding with tulips he broke off from telling me about Degas’s wax models and asked, “Crispian,
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A Kitchen, A Sunroom, And A Thousand Days
I was young, maybe 8 or 9. My mother was going through a time: The couple she cleaned for and whom we lived with had broken up and left us lingering in their abandoned home. She had cancer, my mother, so her head was where it was, but sometimes she w
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The Laundry Line
The metro rumbles below and the sound carries up to the top floor of this 18th-century building with its facade clinging on to the remaining azulejos (ceramic tiles) Portugal is famous for. I gaze out the window in the living room of our apartment wi