The Never Disappointing Sunset

Bill Cunningham New York

Decades before the Sartorialist, there was, and still is, Bill Cunningham's ON THE STREET column in The New York Times.  The man behind the camera is the reluctant subject of a recent documentary.  Gregarious, yet humble, he finally gave access to a small crew who shadowed him for a year.  Bill's days are long and active.  His sole mode of transportation is a bicycle, and at 81 that is a very impressive accomplishment.  Pedaling the streets of Manhattan with his Nikon around his neck, Bill combs the crowded sidewalks for trends and arresting style.  At night he attends multiple society events, and finally returns to his storage room-like apartment when most others have already gone to bed.  Bill is an enigma; for a man obsessed with fashion he owns very few clothes, and wears a simple, practical uniform of dark slacks and a blue sweater or workman's short.  He has little interest in food and drink, is shockingly thrifty, and although he has access to every extravagant party in the city, leads a monastic life.   His love for his work was immediately evident, but something saddened me about his life.  When the filmmaker asked Bill if he had any regrets, he said he never thought to have any.  And yet there was another moment, triggered by a different question, which caused him to break down in a deep, heaving cry.  I was an intruder on a personal moment, too profound for pop psychology, but whatever I had been sensing through out the film was exposed, and it made me feel even sadder.

This Moment

Last Day of Summer

I marked the last day of summer with a sunset hike.  The nights are already significantly shorter, and the sky has an autumnal hue.  Although the days are still warm, the mornings have been coated in a cool, dense fog. A slight tightening in my heart acknowledges the passage of time, as more memories will be filed in the past.  I feel bittersweet as I welcome this new season into my soul. 

Sale

Sold another script today.  As an executive I would encourage writers to celebrate the victories along the way.  So as a producer I'm taking my own advice, enjoying this triumphant moment and not focusing on the process ahead of us.  A year ago, this company was a whisper in the wind, this career change a dream.  I continue to believe, and take one step at a time.  It feels good, it feels right.

Connection

On my way to a dinner party in my neighborhood, the sun, a perfect glowing orb, was sinking into the mountains.  On the side of the road, a photographer and his tripod awaited the perfect shot.  Yes, a wonderful photo op, if only I had my camera.  Winding through the mountain I realized I did indeed have my camera.  It was on the floor next to me.  I pulled to the side of the narrow, winding street exhibiting irritating tourist behavior and snapped a shot. 


The evening was as magical as the sunset.  The dinner party was in honor of a fascinating woman I had a met in Bangkok several months ago.  Our connection was immediate, the flow of conversation easy.  We never paused on the trivial, we went straight for the profound.  Our experiences could not be more dissimilar, yet we are kindred spirits.  These type of experiences give my life texture.  Accessing the human soul makes the world feel intimate and expansive at the same time.    In 48 hours she'll be back in Bangkok breathing air infused with sauteed ginger and steaming curry  and streets congested with motorbikes and cars.  I long to be back there.  Thus when my new friend asked when I'd be visiting again, I replied, "soon".

Emotion

"You can only lose what you cling to."  Buddha

There was an undercurrent of emotion, tugging, weighing down my heart.  I gave voice to it.  The resulting epiphany released the intellectual conflict and allowed the feelings to rise.  Ah, it bore the name grief.  Familiar, necessary, stinging sorrow, dusted in relief.    The melancholy occupies a space once filled by something lovely.   The thought I cling to is what if this place is vacated, never to be lived in again?