Martin Kippenberger, Untitled, 1981
A Parisian once said to me "You want to know the difference between Paris and New York? The food."
Trying to be polite I said, "So what kinds of food do you miss?"
"No, no, no," said the Parisian using hand gestures to express urgency, "It's the garbage. The litter. It's those summer months in New York. I cannot stand it. When the bags on the street are hot and smell like decaying food. It's disgusting."
I laughed. Vague translation error. It reminded me of E.B. White. "New York must hold a steady, irresistible charm..." he said, in order for people to inhabit it. And I guess I was one of those perverted dreamers who enjoyed that extreme season of juxtapositions. When the rancid competed with the sudden influx of light.
