RIP-TVRIP-TVRIP-TVRIP-TV
RIP-TVRIP-TVRIP-TVRIP-TV
RIP-TVRIP-TVRIP-TVRIP-TV
RIP-TVRIP-TVRIP-TVRIP-TV
2003-05-26
Jan Vermeer
B. 10.1632 Delft / D. 12.1675 Delft
Debt
In my thirties I became someone who goes about in what are known as vintage jackets. Their leather was distressed and their pocket bottoms deeply compromised. I never knew how to fix them and I felt, to a tailor, if I could even find a tailor in my modern world, I�d have to pay at least a jacket�s cost again. So I carried everything I�d have carried in my pockets in shoulder bags instead (which also helped accommodate my burgeoning bottled water habit). With each occasion to wear one I�d wonder, would my jacket survive? Along the shoulders or the upper arms, the split seams gaped; fortunately the straps of the shoulder bags also served to conceal this. But the colors of the worn leather were beautiful. It was like wearing a Dutch oil painting that had been slashed from its frame. Imagine me at the theater, surrounded by my elders, my jacket cracking audibly as I shrug it on to take my intermission cigarette outside. Seniors, ladies jeweled and lacquered, what are they seeing? They consult their Playbills.
What a Shame.
Consolation Site: Incidentally