valley

The hills of Austria are like a sleeping Clifford, Or like the carcass of a giant babushka from the valley rises the thick fertilizer smell and three young boys in striped wool sweaters, lead by their blonde sister, weave through the still army of stalactic pines

The hills of Austria are like a sleeping Clifford, Or like the carcass of a giant babushka from the valley rises the thick fertilizer smell and three young boys in striped wool sweaters, lead by their blonde sister, weave through the still army of stalactic pines. . . Read more
Gideon Broshy
Gilding the Lyric

A master craftsman brings an old theater back to life.

One minute at Lyric Hall and I was on stage, under the 1913 proscenium arch.  Dim yellow chandelier lights gave the brawny columns a static glow. I hadn’t played a piano with ivory keys since the old tattered one at my neighborhood music school.  Rough on the skin, this piano recalled the other’s grandmotherly world-weariness.  Plastic keys aren’t for John Cavaliere, the owner of the building and the proprietor of Lyric Hall Antiques and Conservation—they’ll never have the charm, the honesty of ivory.  He’s built. . . Read more
Gideon Broshy
Surfing CT

Yale students use CouchSurfing to host strangers from around the world.

Eva Song’s one-bedroom apartment, on the sixth floor of Taft Apartments at 265 College St., is cluttered. A tall black loft bed stands in the center, surrounded by various objects: a painting of a Venetian mask hangs to the floor with cardboard boxes full of rolled-up artwork underneath; a bookshelf on the other side of the room holds The Official Guide to the GRE, Frida Kahlo: Song of Herself, and manuals for Adobe Illustrator and InDesign; two coffee tables, both from Ikea, face each other. . . Read more
Gideon Broshy