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The Curious History of Blue City

The stories are true.

The stories are true.

I am not haunted.

Quite the contrary; I bear witness to an exorcism, a liberation from five hundred years of bondage.

Blue? The color of grief, it is true, but also the color of healing.

My author was a naive soul–some may say a fool. She held to her quixotic convictions that Love Will Triumph Over All, first in the ancient, Inquisition-stained callejones of colonial Mexico (where I was conceived), later in the jungles of Brooklyn, where I was born.

But I rush ahead.

The city of Guanajuato is full of spirits. Generations were obliterated to bring gold out of the ground. The random bells of basilicas, painted like parrots, echo through alleys at obscure intervals, insisting that the Church is the Way, despite the dungeons in the floors for all who have eyes to see.

The callejones of Guanajuato.

The callejones of Guanajuato.

Simply; my author lived in a house with an angry spirit. When she left it was not haunted any more.

In Brooklyn I lived in the back room of a hipster gallery. My author, poor fool, was often drawn toward wounded souls. She had the intention of healing them; but healing is collaboration, not an intervention. Ultimately she fled the city and put away her tools–for a time.

For a time.

Many bid upon me, but none had the courage to claim me. Perhaps they were ashamed. My light echoed even in the tunnels of Williamsburg, even when spurned by the likes of Mary Boone.

I pretend to nothing. What I am, I am. My visage graces exquisite music.

Will you wander in my alleyways? Will you fly with me?


Practical Sanctuary’s history is rich and many-storied. To bid on a work of art, contact Stephanie at practicalsanctuary dot com.