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.
