A Brick Called Lewy.

When he was young Lewis was a boxer. 

 

Today he is 85 but his body is built like a piece of concrete.

 

As a young man he boxed in New York City, once in Madison Square Gardens on the undercard.

 

He still lives there.

 

Always has.

 

It defines him, partly.

 

The rest is walking; he walks everywhere.

 

His son , Mark, lives in France, he moved here to be an artist.

 

No getting knocked down onto the canvas for him.

 

He does the knocking.

 

The canvas in front of him at the moment is of a young woman, she is smiling and she is very attractive.

 

She too lives in New York, a friend of a friend of the aunt married to a friend of Lewis.

 

Something like that.

 

She sent her photo to Mark, he put it next to his canvas and he is making her look even more beautiful.

 

‘It’s the light’ he says.

 

‘What is?’ I ask

 

‘The difference between New York and here.’

 

We are standing in a narrow alley way in an old crumbling medieval town, the sun struggles to hit the front of his studio in mid-June, let alone at the tail end of March.

 

‘It’s all the walking you know,’ he adds.

 

‘What is ?’ I add back.

 

‘That makes  him like a piece of concrete.’

 

‘Lewis?’

‘We call him Lewy° the Brick.’

° early additions of this post were incorrect in naming Lewy as 'Lew'. We would like to apologise both to Lewy and Mark.  The editors