Frans is a storyteller. A painter of words. He’ll strip you then cover you in colors you’ve never worn. He’ll put new birds in your sky, a new beat in your skip, some heat in your lips, a groove in your hips, tell you something hard to grip. He walks a line, toys with you from behind but never to play with your mind.
In May he moved to Perth, herded Emu and drew ring-tailed lemurs. Fell in love and left. In July he moved to Dresden restored Baroques and collected silverware. He eats olives and drinks everything. His lashes are long, hands are soft, and shoes worn. He is early to wake and late to lay. Early to call late to arrive. Early to fall late to rise. He is invested in people and inspired by sounds: liquid spilling, smoke exhaling, page turning, paper burning, shoes tapping, whispers, honks, a bell, a leak, a split, a moan, a rip, a creak, a click, a knock, a lick, a slap, a splash, a slice, the parting of leaves the shuffling of cards the opening of windows the shifting of satin and silk in a waltz, the sanding of rubber and cement in a walk.
A peddler left him a note, a handoff in a chance passing, “love will reward itself. the key is to never stop loving. a person, a place, an idea, a memory, an experience, a hope. if it runs out, find another. but never stop loving.” He fell in love with a street sign, Belgium coasters, a mime in Florence, a dog in a car, a hat on a bus, a girl with a tattoo, a bakery full of steamed buns, a biker with a red bandana, a window with wooden panes, a key with an iron head, a silk suit, a shark-tooth bag, poolside light, a song, a dancer, and a set of black sheets, bird’s saliva in Thailand, an old ship, a top shelf black label, a phone booth, and a brick wall.
– more on “compass” in November.