It always seems to be a small world.

While hanging out with my father he showed me a picture he had taken of three trees clumped together. He told me that he had forgotten where he had taken it, but I remembered it was at some back road from Roundup. The back road was actually a hiking trail that transcended slowly down a cliff. Amazing sights of the things below, like a motocross track. As we went along I saw a tree that I felt a need to take a picture of. It looked somewhat like a Playmobile tree of something in the Amazon. Large with bright green shades of leaves to be painted in Rococo paintings. I hurried ahead to find that perfect angle in which to shoot it, but as my shot became more and more blocked I quickly found out that the hiking trail ended by going into someone’s house. Turns out that it was the house of someone I knew from back in my grade school days and I had been on fairly good acquaintances with his father. Somewhat of an awkward hello as I attempted to explain that I was trying to take a picture of his tree, but he just chomped down on his pipe and welcomed me with open arms. Then offered some of his homemade plum wine he put in glass 40s.

His son then came home (I couldn’t seem to remember his name, but remembered him all the same. I believe he was still in high school after all this time and was just years younger than me) and scrapped off part of the original label of the 40, because something was muttered about it being confusing. Then his girlfriend and her mother came over and it turned out that his girlfriend was this girl I had slept with while living in Seattle and haven’t been on good terms with since. We exchanged awkward hellos and I then started to hurry out of there, especially seeing that all of the adults that had started showing up were all undressing for whatever kind of party this was turning into. I drank some of the plum wine and hurried through the upper floors and across the bridge to get back to the hiking trail where I found my father.

I shouldn’t have fallen asleep with my contacts still in.

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New Birth.

Hey. C'est moi. It has been a few years. Since I last discussed into the void here I attended grad school for architecture at the University of Washington, finished the Master's program by the skin of my teeth, graduated into a global pandemic (I would not recommend this), gave away most of my worldly possessions, and am now flâneur-ing around Europe on the slim budget of my life savings. Allow me to reintroduce myself : I am the artist, Gaston. My interests include ; architecture, sustainability, art, vintage fashions, antiques, and flâneries. All while consuming massive quantities of tea. “I know where I'm from, but I don't know where I'm going.” I recently heard this line at a video playing at the Tate Museum in Liverpool, and it rang strong in me. In the film Casablanca, when Rick is questioned on his nationality he responds that his is a “drunkard,” insinuating that he has renounced his American nationality for that of someone who owns and runs a bar. From ...

French underworld tattoos at the turn of the century. The man sports a tattooed mustache intended to foil the prohibition of facial hair in the Foreign Legion. The World of Tattoo by Maarten Hesselt van Dinter. I can only dream of being anywhere near that combination of badass and crazy. Though at that point the Foreign Legion was probably still the best place for criminals to get their record cleaned so perhaps he is as well quite legitimately scary upon all of that. I find myself flipping back to this page time and time again to romanticize the French underground from around 1900. Give him an accordion, a beret, and some braces. Prostitutes who could easily kill you if you ever come up short and tattoo the names of their ‘actual’ lovers between their breasts, close to their heart. Tattoo ‘Je mother fucking t’aime’ in a tattoo cursive along my collar bones.

The Toulousian Painting.

I sneak in a mirror reflected reference photo. While we were in Toulouse we ducked into a nice little salon de thé that to me felt like something out of a 1940s representation of Europeans in Africa. Probably just the French dealing with the heat of the south. While at this place I noticed a girl sitting alone at one of the tables reading on her phone. Perhaps surfing the internet, perhaps reading a book, I couldn't quite tell as it was in Asian characters. I would guess that it was either Chinese or Japanese. In such a beautifully intriguing place I found it to be somewhat odd that she would pass the time ignoring her surrounding to immerse herself in her phone. I remember they also had nice restrooms. The girl then left and we stayed a bit longer sipping on our drinks, which if I remember right were not actually tea but something cool to counter the heat of Toulouse. Taking a breather in the hectic nature of our vacation. It was one of those towns where I ...

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