1911, Wiener Café, this grumpy guy in Moriz Jung’s chromolithograph, slouching on a gorgeous floral banquette, a mood I know, rejections in the side pocket of his outer jacket that is tucked partly behind him, his face stitched from the fabrics of how many late night dips of that pen on the table before him, the ink pot, the blank paper, trousers hiked up to reveal striped socks (stockings? pyjamas?), unlikely bows on his shoes, oh, and the tie spreading left to right, one end slipped beneath his waistcoat that wrinkles across his abdomen, his hair flat across the top of his head, draped over his ears, who sends me this postcard, making such fun?
John Allman | Post Office Contents | Mudlark No. 48 (2012)