The sun is high and the others keep applying sunblock. ︎ is reading, Naked, Robert Katz’s biography about Carl Andre and Ana Mendieta. In New York 1985, Mendieta died tragically by falling 33 floors from the window of the apartment she shared with Andre onto the roof of a deli. The indent of her body created upon impact was an awful echo of the artist's fiercely original siluetas works. The verdict of Andre’s aquital divided the art world. The bush fires are raging in Oz, with 480 million animals, kangaroos, koalas and many rare and wonderful species desimated. I think of childhood Sundays running my hands as a kid along the museum ballestrades, obsessed with all the animal displays from the ground up, later to fly giant kites high into the sky running down the volcanic slopes of Pukekawa, Auckland domain, one of the city’s oldest volcanoes, which erupted over 100,000 years ago. As we head in fromthe beach to the car parked in a small resodental cul de sac. The sun is apocolyptic, literally solarised. As the afternoon falls, the sky gets thicker with an increasingly awkward orange hue. This is not normal ︎ proclaims. Like a sepia filter. By night we can even smell the smoke across the entire Tasman sea. It depends on the wind.