The writer who doesn’t write
Episode 1
“…Hitler wanted to be an artist. At eighteen he
took his inheritance, seven hundred kronen, and moved to
Vienna to live and study. He applied to the Academy of Fine
Arts and later to the School of Architecture. Ever see one of
his paintings? Neither have I. Resistance beat him. Call it
overstatement but I’ll say it anyway: it was easier for Hitler
to start World War II than it was for him to face a blank
square of canvas.” Steven Pressfield
My earliest childhood memory goes back to when I was probably only a few months — or maybe even weeks — old. My parents lived in a large house with full-height windows and a yard garden. Double-glazed windows weren’t a thing back then, and the bath was placed in the attic, a damp and mildewy space that wasn’t ideal for bathing a baby. That’s exactly why they came up with the idea of placing a large, heavy cooking pot in the middle of the living room to help each other wash me.
I have a faint memory of my mom asking my dad to hold me steady so she could shampoo me, then passing me to him so he could wrap me in a soft towel. I think this was the first time I remember being cared for.
