What I’m interested in, however, is the fabulous, if sporadic, existential journey his Facebook page is documenting.
It begins with the slug. Personally, I find slugs adorable, if slimy, but the thing that I love about this picture is the immediate impulse to measure the slug against his hand. A commentary, possibly, on man’s insignificance?
My guess would be that this was a picture from England (I’ve never seen a Patrick-Stewart-hand-sized mollusc in the city) but after Stewart broke Manhattan’s heart by moving to Park Slope, he, ahem, assimilated pretty quickly:
(By the way, this is the only correct way to eat pizza. You Chicagoans are just not trying hard enough.) His attempt at becoming a Brooklynite did little to ease his feelings of imprisonment:
Granted, it’s the asylum Van Gogh stayed in, but this still isn’t the first tourist destination that springs to mind in Provence. Finally, in his latest post, Stewart finds that even after many successful seasons and a series of films, his influence means nothing: