Last Monday Hans-Ruedi and I practiced out on his terrace, as we frequently do in warm weather. The day had been hot and still, and as we played we could see thunder clouds and occasional lightning flashes to the north over the Hegau across the Rhine, a plateau studded with ancient volcanoes. Hans-Ruedi and I have been playing together for two or three years now, more since Thomm Jutz moved to Nashville. A landscape gardener by trade, he plays upright bass in the Western Store country band from Schaffhausen, and in several Swiss folk music ensembles. We were remarking on the departure of our young friend, Tabea who used to join us for Monday night practice, recently departed for a job in England. “I’m afraid our friend, my neighbor Alfred is also gone. The family has been here since yesterday.”
“He came home from the hospital?”
“There was nothing more they could do for him. He was working until two weeks ago; and now…”
“That fast.”
“He was a good friend to me since I came here seventeen years ago. I’m going to miss Alfred. He may be gone already.”
My question is this - what do you suppose accounts for the fame and relative longevity of this canvas? I'm certainly not the first to suggest that Mona is not Leonardo's finest painting, so what gives?
I was surprised to learn it was only five years ago, April 2001. It seemed much more time had gone by. I remembered hearing about the fire from Stephanie Smith of the Smart Museum. She had just completed a project that featured Dan's work, and being on the south side, where the Building stood on the south edge of the University of Chicago's domain, she knew about it before most of the rest of us did. She wrote urgent letters to everyone she could think of who might help. Dan needed all that help, as apparently City of Chicago workers had showed up at 9 am the day of the fire with demolition permits in hand. Regardless of the cause of the fire, it seemed pretty clear someone wanted that place, and whoever that someone was had no idea of the integrity and tenacity of the admittedly ramshackle building's owners, Dan Peterman and his wife Connie Spreen. The help helped, but it was Dan and Connie that made the Experimental Station happen.
Courtesy of today's 
how it is.
You're superproductive, and then all of a sudden, you seem to get nothing done. Paperwork piles up. Faucets start dripping and the toilet clogs, and you vaguely think you need a plumber. But my god, getting a plumber. That's almost a full-time job. You don't have the time or energy. There's so much to do, but school hasn't started yet, and it's really hot, but then all of a sudden you are behind paying your bills, and you haven't kept up with your friends, and on top of it you pick up a bug that your son caught on a flight to Paris. Fever dreams, and you wake up to notice the weather is very cool, and it has been raining for days. Raining, raining. 
