voyageur

From the Scrap Book

The only time in my life that I had come close to being bohemian was the last summer of my visual art degree. And while my middle-class humanist parents-funded education certainly disqualified me from all the true artists around me, the ones whose art had become a mean of rebellion against the suffering of the poor, I nevertheless spent the days of that summer trapped in a tiny studio on the top floor of a thirties modernist building among unfinished canvasses and my nights in the concrete courtyard of the art department drinking wine and smoking and arguing for the liberation of the line from the regiment of centuries of Western realism.