November arrives the way it always does in New York.Without apology. The October gold is gone overnight, the city shifting into the specific gray of a month that has decided warmth is no longer its responsibility. The light is lower and more direct, the shadows longer, and the specific quality of November is not the tentative cold of October but the committed cold of a season that has made up its mind.I am sixteen weeks. Visible now. Not dramatically but unmistakably. The specific change in silhouette means something is different, that the interior has become exterior, and that the private has begun its move toward the public. I have been watching this happen with the specific attention I give things that are changing, noting each incremental shift, the way I noted the light on the arch across twelve paintings.I stand at the window in the morning with coffee that has become half-decaf without announcement because Alexander switched the beans three weeks ago without saying anything,
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