Everything here is beautiful before it is anything else. What I write opens on a shade of green so lovely, so prismatic the nineteenth century papered its nurseries in it, or perhaps a god in Mandalay pressed soft and shapeless under centimeters of gold, or a body a whole crowd paid to watch spend itself down to nothing... So lean in, because you are meant to. Then the thing gets turned over, slowly, in good light, and you are shown the part it stands on. Because I am the sort of person who cannot let a beautiful thing alone until I know what it is made of, what I am made of... and what it took to make it, and knowing has never once talked me out of wanting it. Usually, I want it more. And that is the part I am not going to perform being ashamed of.
That is the whole thing, and it doesn’t stop at the page. This is THE COBALT LINE: essays and ramblings on the exquisite things people cannot put down and what we are quietly made of; on vice worn beautifully, on luxury with something seen from the spotting glass, on the full price of a life I won’t apologize for. My name is Elías Delgado, true to the core. The pleasure is real. So is the autopsy. If you have ever loved a thing more once you knew what it cost, you have already read the way this is written.
I won’t make it easy or make it safe. Some of what hangs on these walls is gorgeous and some of it should probably have stayed behind the glass, and the pieces that follow you longest will be the ones you cannot decide about. Read the line, cut it, snort it. Taster’s choice.
Elías Delgado
