Above an emerald-green couch hangs an etching by Smith, of a fawn, its legs folded under its long body, its big eyes looking guilelessly out of the picture. He works at a large desk surrounded by prints and drawings by artists such as Louise Bourgeois, Vija Celmins, Jenny Holzer, and Kiki Smith (he has collaborated on projects with the last two). It’s difficult to imagine him marching in step to anything but the rhythms in his own head. He shows the unfailing politeness of many Southern men his voice and manner have a marked gentleness about them. His older brother was a colonel in the Marine Corps at six feet tall, with his erect bearing, long arms, and capable hands, Cole could be mistaken for a former marine himself. Cole comes from a family of five children, raised in Virginia. Henri Cole lives alone in a small, bright apartment on the top floor of a five-story building in the South End neighborhood of Boston. Jack Balas Today I Drove along the Rio Grande.Czeslaw Milosz Beginning with My Streets.Sandra McPherson Precipice, Rush, Sheath.Mary Stewart Hammond My Mother-in-law Sailing.Agha Shahid Ali A Nostalgist's Map of America.More from Issue 120, Fall 1991 Buy this issue!
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