Unscripted
There’s a quiet kind of magic that exists outside the spotlight—before the crowd, after the applause.
My downtime. The calm before the show, or the slow exhale that follows.
It often finds me in extraordinary places: a rooftop bar in Rome, watching the city breathe below. A golden café in Monte Carlo. A tucked-away lounge in Manhattan where time seems to pause. Or even NY Prime near home, when I’m craving the best filet served by the most stunning barmaids. These are the moments when the world slows down, yet something inside me stirs—restless, electric, unfinished.
The show has either not yet begun, or it’s just ended. I’ve poured everything into the performance, and now the energy lingers, looking for a way out. There’s no canvas, no setup. Just a Sharpie in my pocket. A pen from the bartender. A napkin, a menu, a hotel notepad—whatever’s near becomes the vessel. In these fragments of solitude, something real takes shape. No plan. No polish. Just instinct.
Sometimes I leave the piece behind—slipped to someone who has no idea who I am… or left on the bar, where it might be kept or disappear with the dishes—never knowing it could be worth hundreds to thousands of dollars. Other times, I hold onto it. Not because it’s perfect, but because it holds something I can’t explain: a trace of the place, the people, the pulse of the night.
More times than I can count, a bartender has offered drinks in exchange—not even knowing who I am—kindness, flattery, and sometimes… trouble.
And oh, the stories…
