Franny who? Franny wears brilliant trousers and holds her hands in a purposeful, suggestive manner. Franny is one in a series of character studies inspired by photos.
Mid-day sun pierces Franny's eyes. Blithely, she positions her hand above her head, reminiscent of a Victorian lady prior to a fainting spell. What lies in the distance. A bird? No. A flock of birds? A ship? No. An Armani-swathed gentleman holding two Campari sodas approaches Franny. The bold color of Campari parallels Franny's belted, chic trousers. The hour strikes 18 30. Aperitivo seems more than appropriate. Franny coyly takes the Campari soda. Tomorrow she will be adorned in her traditional day-time armor. An ideally balanced homme-femme blouse, bright tailored trousers, gold pseudo (faux?)-tie necklace lingering sensually. Sunglasses borrowed from Jackie O's personal collection hide memories of mysteries from the night before. Franny's red, nearly pursed, lips suggest self-imposed alienation, albeit inciting endless invitations. She will accept a few. Politely decline the masses. Friday evening arrives. Franny dons a new-age garden kimono, revisited. She glides from the New York City Ballet to a jazz bar in the East Village as seamlessly as her kimono. White slacks command simplicity and sophistication. Will she accompany Claude or Giovanni to the next bar du jour for Sazeracs? Franny couldn't be bothered to decide. She ponders a spontaneous flight to Oslo or Vienna.
Madeline Pearl at madtothewords.blogspot.com