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Wyn Cooper 
Just what I need: 30 rooms of stone, cool in summer, cooler in winter than I am in Vermont. Six satellite dishes, not visible in this photo, make the roof a fortress of news, bringing figures from Sotheby´s, weather from Spain, images of women from everywhere. He´s buried here.
The day I stole onto the grounds the back way, down Mont Saint Victoire, the building, too big to call home, five hundred years old, rose like an animal above the forest of scrub trees. The rust-colored shutters were mostly closed, the massive front doors bolted shut.
Its north and southwestern corners, which face down the canyon to Aix, are reinforced turrets that combine the sexes, their cylindrical towers capped with sun-seeking breasts, like some work of the former owner. I sent the postcard to my own address, to prove to myself I was there.
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