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This essay starts in a museum and ends in an operating room. It's about what art conservators and transplant teams have in common: the work of caring for something irreplaceable while it's between lives, done by people whose names are never on the wall. Read more
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Ridley Scott builds worlds of empires, war, rain, smoke and impossible scale. Das Bubo simply asks what happens when you place a dachshund in the middle of them. The result is cinema viewed from eighteen centimeters above the ground, where ambition is still monumental but the snack policy is finally
Essays
The people at home aren't waiting. They're living. The dog gets walked, the plumber finally shows up, and the day gets handed over like a baton. For everyone who works far from their own kitchen. [link]
Essays
There is a sentence we say to people who are suffering, and we say it with the best of intentions. Be strong. Hold on. It sounds like advice. It isn't. It's a request, and almost always a request not to have to hold anything ourselves. The
Posts
The famous line promises an angel waiting in the marble. The corridor in Florence promises nothing of the kind. On the way to the David stand four figures that never came free — a torso twisting out of raw rock and stopping, a face half born and stopping, the chisel marks
Absurdity
Rodin's masterwork captures the moment of pure intellectual anguish — the weight of consciousness, the terror of choice, the confrontation with a universe indifferent to suffering, and a man on the couch who said "in a minute" at 2pm.
Absurdity
He floated like a butterfly. He stung like a bee. He needed help getting through the ropes. The other dog outweighed him by ninety pounds and made the usual mistake of confusing height with authority. By the fourth round, Paw-li was still barking. The other dog was no longer
Art
The joke, people assume, is that somebody put a dog into a painting where no dog belongs. Go and look. Van Eyck put a small dog at the front of the Arnolfini portrait in 1434, staring straight out at the viewer while the couple behind it join hands. Velázquez put
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A thought feels like something you own. It isn't, not really. Most of them arrive on a walk or in a waiting room, half formed, and then dissolve into whatever needed doing next. Over the years I've lost far more of them than I've