E. B. Meyrowitz Californian

Two glass teardrops trapped in acetate the colour of good crème brulee, keep this show on the road.

Without them? All is colour and blurred shapes.

With? Fat raindrops on roses; the open road; statues on roofs and in courtyards; what I am typing right now; dogs with heads turned suggesting “walk?” or “food?” and the faces of my loved ones come sharply into view.

The beauty, joy and sadness of life isn’t magnified or altered, but presented as is.

Each night, before I switch out the light I give them a quick clean, ready to be picked up and popped on whether in the darkness of midwinter early mornings, or as first thing, spring rays skirt past edges of blinds.

And despite the occasional flirtation with little crescents of blister packed hydrogel, it is to these I return. Sometimes to take off when inspiration is required, run a finger along the handmade curves and examine, the slight liquid dimple, hidden from view on corner between bottom and back of keyhole bridge, a small gallery worthy sculptural movement, an offering of extra comfort.

The look? 70’s Hollywood with ‘that’ knowing naughty twinkle in eyes, meets impeccable British manners, it just works, like the best tailoring or the simple elegance of perfect white t-shirt, great battered jeans, your favourite boots and with beloved cashmere on top.

That is the beauty and practicality entwined of my glasses, those that feel like they’ll always be mine, E.B Meywrowitz’s Californian.