Summary

Set over the course of a single afternoon in New York, Regardless, follows Clara, who impulsively heads to an art fair hoping to cross paths with one particular stranger. What begins as a slightly unhinged romantic whim quickly spirals into something deeper (and weirder): a meandering detour through fate, expectations, and meaning — and how our inner monologue shapes the stories we tell ourselves.
Currently working on chapter 22, please inquire to read more.

You’re reading an excerpt from Chapter 2.

As I get up, I reach into my bag and pull out my AirPods. I rarely look at art without music. Not because I’m trying to be dramatic (though I probably am). But because it helps me stay inside the work — like a second layer of insulation between me and the world. A little private room inside my own head.

Depending on the day — or the art — it could be anything. Sometimes it’s Bon Iver, sometimes Fousheé, sometimes Foals, or Nils Frahm, or Moderat if I’m feeling particularly meditative and electronic. Occasionally just strings. Sometimes no lyrics at all. Sometimes too many. Today I scroll through my playlists with exactly zero scientific process and land on my Moody Mix — appropriately moody, I guess.

I know what you might be thinking — that music is art too, and it distorts the way I perceive visual art. And yes, maybe. But let me tell you: everything distorts everything. The weather, the lighting, the kind of breakfast you had, your sleep, your cycle — all of it changes the way you perceive anything.

And trust me, I do this for work. You wouldn’t believe how many of your thoughts aren’t strictly yours.

(And this is where we pause for introductions, right? Since we’ve made it this far.)

At some point — maybe around college — I thought perhaps art was it. I’ve always felt too much, seen too much. I seriously considered it for a while, thought about applying to art schools, and dreamt about being one of them.

Turns out, I wasn’t. I mean, I can appreciate color theory, form, and composition, a well-written dialogue — but that creative nerve? The one real artists have? I don’t think I was born with it. Or maybe I just didn’t want it badly enough. I’m not sure.

But my relationship with art has always been... reverent. Quietly obsessive, maybe. I care about it more than most things.

I’m not entirely sure why. But if I had to guess — art helps me be me. To notice what I notice. To reflect on what triggers me. To find pleasure in just seeing something beautiful — whether it’s portraits by Mark Seliger, or Leonora Carrington’s dreamscapes, or staring at Boccioni’s sculptures for a bit too long wondering how I can get one home (or at least a copy).

I suppose some of it’s genetic / nurtured, depends on which side you’re on. Remember those two I mentioned earlier — my parents?

They raised me in Brooklyn Heights, which — if you’re not from New York — is one of those neighborhoods that feels like an aesthetic education in itself. The townhouses, the Promenade, the way the light hits the skyline across the river. Even as a kid, I remember noticing how pretty things were. Not in a touristy way. Just... visually precise. Ordered. Balanced.

My parents weren’t artists either, but they valued beauty. They took me to museums before I could spell museum. Read me poetry before I understood any of it. Let me fall asleep to classical music playing softly in the living room — and then joined me, without judgment, in my LCD Soundsystem phase as a teenager. They let me build strange little “sculptures” out of things that were never meant to be sculpture.

I think those early exposures leave a mark. They shape the way you see things forever. How you arrange a bookshelf. How you notice light through windows. How you choose the texture of a sweater. What you spend your money on.

Which, funnily enough, turned out to be useful in ways I didn’t expect. My job now has nothing to do with art directly, but I spend most of my days analyzing how people think — what they choose, why they want what they want, how they make decisions they can’t even explain.

Behavioral science, technically. I consult for companies that want to understand people better — which is basically just applied psychology wearing a very expensive suit.

So no, I’m not an artist. But I’m still very much in the business of human patterns.