Raymond Chandler’s not around, just motorcycles swarming around a City, a gigantic dance. It’s a celebration, it’s a goodbye. There are words on this canvas, you might try to decipher.
An old friend’s name. California, back then. A house interior, a bookshelf, Le Corbusier’s chaise longue. A lonesome man. And a painting, with a model, a recurring model. An image
An American seashore at dusk. The City, its lights far away, across a bay or an estuary. A motorcycle, a front end of an old red muscle car, with the
Zalmoxis’ favorite model, BG. She enjoys cigarette smoking. She’s holding a cigarette and puffing smoke rings in a painting, the ashtray’s full and a spiral of smoke soars from it.
Guess an apartment looking down on Central Park. A luxury call house. Three girls, half naked, expensive escorts waiting for their lofty tricks? A fourth one is portrayed on a
