X Al Fresco


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.