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For two or so weeks in 2018 I came to Frontyard with a vague, only half-conscious desire: to think about the intersections between writing and architecture. I spent my time there leafing through the beautiful books in the library, following one to the next like a dog learning to smell a route. I made notes, jottings, some related to the readings I'd foundcame across, and much of it not. And when I became restless, or too cold, I tried to film a little. I liked the green leather chairs, and the frosted(?) glass window of the library, especially when it rained, and to where I often retreated in the evenings.
I had one very memorable visitor: an old man, short, with a wheelie bag, a can of Mother, and wearing perhaps a baseball cap. He was an ethnomusicologist, and somehow began to ramble wonderfully about the nomadic horsemen of Kyrgyzstan, playing their stringed instruments as they galloped.
