Sunday, March 13, 2016

Remembering Barbara Pascal

There are those in our midst whose measure of worth is not the achieve of… though she did achieve.

Nor is it anything to be quantified or Googled…though she certainly did make her mark in the Art Book world.

The way I remember Barbara is how I always felt so fully met. So received. A reception that elicited a loving response in return.  Even on her down days when you could almost hear her silent struggles.

I loved the way she would talk back to the T.V. set…no don’t open that door……….or you deserve what you got, you bum. Barbara wanted to set the world right.

I found such delight in her wackadoddle emails. Every other word was mis-spelled as if it had arrived, unfiltered, from her own distant country. 
Yet for all the indecipherable sentences it bore Barbara’s unmistakable sui generis signature. A stream of her immediacy.  

She sought the seclusion of the Hebrides, both the real and imagined place, an inner-Hebrides away from the clamor without and within.

Most of all, I think, she wanted to curl up on a cozy couch with book in hand, preferably a book about books, lost in their pages. She was herself, at times, an open book albeit with yet un-cut pages. Highly collectible. Worn a bit on the edges. Else fine. A rare first edition. One of a kind. 

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