X Al Fresco

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When New York heat begins to sizzle and when my Viking blood and pavements of Manhattan turn soft and sticky, I head for the cool, verdant hills of La Côte Fleuri.


There, in the midst of rolling fields where neighing full-bloods graze the salt-laden pastures, I set up my easel and paint in my inviolate space, its only interruption the sounds of church bells chiming over braying goats.