A fine pre-holiday winter evening in Manhattan, as I make my way down town on the west side of Broadway through throngs of darkly-clad young people, out and about, strolling couples, groups of friends waiting in line for a scoop of gelato, wining and dining at leisure under heat lamps, laughing, smiling, freely chatting…when, in a peripheral glimpse to my right, I see her — Martha — right arm raised into a glowing nimbus, eyes downcast, legs apart, holding an ecstatic poised pose above Jean-Michel Basquiat and Fern Mallis. There’s my book — I say, to myself — with a volatile mixture of revelation, thrill, and apprehension. I stop, stare and wonder, alone in singular authorship. I gaze through the entrance, imagine how many New Yorkers and others will actually go into the brightly-lit floor-to-ceiling bookscape and ask for Her by name...and then snap out of my reverie and into the night.
Thoughts upon noticing my new book on Martha Graham displayed in the window of the Rizzoli Bookstore on 26th Street & Broadway in “NoMad”
