| is even more fun than going to San Sebastian, Irún, Hendaye, Biarritz, Bayonne
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| or being sick to my stomach on the Travesera de Gracia in Barcelona
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| partly because in your orange shirt you look like a better happier St. Sebastian
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| partly because of my love for you, partly because of your love for yoghurt
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| partly because of the fluorescent orange tulips around the birches
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| partly because of the secrecy our smiles take on before people and statuary
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| it is hard to believe when I’m with you that there can be anything as still
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| as solemn as unpleasantly definitive as statuary when right in front of it
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| in the warm New York 4 o’clock light we are drifting back and forth
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| between each other like a tree breathing through its spectacles
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| and the portrait show seems to have no faces in it at all, just paint
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| you suddenly wonder why in the world anyone ever did them
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| I look
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| at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world
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| except possibly for the Polish Rider occasionally and anyway it’s in the Frick
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| which thank heavens you haven’t gone to yet so we can go together the first time
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| and the fact that you move so beautifully more or less takes care of Futurism
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| just as at home I never think of the Nude Descending a Staircase or
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| at a rehearsal a single drawing of Leonardo or Michelangelo that used to wow me
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| and what good does all the research of the Impressionists do them
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| when they never got the right person to stand near the tree when the sun sank
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| or for that matter Marino Marini when he didn’t pick the rider as carefully
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| as the horse
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| it seems they were all cheated of some marvelous experience
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| which is not going to go wasted on me which is why I am telling you about it |