Alexander Liberman, editorial director of Condé Nast & Artist, 1912-1999

by Gerard Malanga

Dear Alex, Mr. Liberman:
This is a letter that will never reach you I’m afraid.
Words I’ve penned in the dark as nite moves on
before my dreams evaporate,
or in my mind’s eye
the very way you’d stand observing canvasses or a single swatch.
Or in jovial conversation
in a public setting, say a vernissage.
I’ve tried standing there myself,
using you as mirror image,
like in a tap dance.
When was the last chance the last?
I’ve practiced placing the right foot forward just a bit,
the forward glance.
That class–A act.
Your hair combed back.
It could be raining slightly,
but the pitter patter rounds out that look
of the bon vivant, as you dash into Café Flore,
or any shoppe along the Saint–Germain–des–Prés,
Midtown Madison, the many twisting turns of Oxford Street.
Life’s just a soft midday breeze,
café au lait,
news of the day
as you fold the Times in half
the way I learned it in 8th grade class
with I’ve forgotten whom, I suppose, it’s been a while.
The cool collective nuance of a life
knowing who you are or where life finds you,
where you’ve gone & coming back.
The perfect stance, near–perfect,
explaining little. No need to.
Your vision in full swing,
as near to perfect when trying on a suit
to feel the fit is right.
The rule of thumb:
to match the color of your eyes, then some.