cobbler’s bench

This object sits proudly in my living room. It is a small detail of a cobbler’s bench. The chewed up portion of the bench with the rocks in it was where the cobbler stuck his awl. My literary agent used to ask me to be her last client meeting of the day. She lived in the Hollywood Hills. We would move from her office on her property to inside her house where we would talk and have a drink or two and nibble on cheese, crackers and nuts placed on this bench. She had a charmed life. Many tales were told around this bench. Eliot’s yellow theme prompted me today to do an image relating to this bench. I placed the small worn rocks on the bench awhile ago because I liked their tone and thought they worked well with the old beat up patina of the bench. When Florence died her daughter came to me and said, “My mother always talked about you. She loved you like a son.” (She could have been my grandmother.)  Florence’s house was filled with antiques from around the world. Gathered on trips with her husband, a well-known entertainment attorney. “Pick any thing you’d like as a remembrance of my mother.” I picked this bench.