I shall be attending the opening of an artist's exhibition this evening. Or should I say, I'll be dragged; you all know how I loathe artists and modern art. I've tried like anything to get out of it, but it does appear I am doomed! Haha! People are always so lovely to me, so kind. But I do wish they would have the sense to know that I really don't care to bother with all this "artistic" nonsense. So dreary, most of it. So jarring and unpleasant. I suppose I shall have to gaze upon rows and rows of pictures of ladies whose noses have gone astray. But, because I'm so well-known to the public, I can't react like any average person might when confronting such horrors. I certainly can't screw up my face in disgust, when I know everyone will be watching me. No, I must always be a very beacon of decorum. So I shall go about smiling and nodding. And I shall punctuate the pantomime with a veritable torrent of "hmmm..."'s and "ah!"'s. I shall take the - often quite filthy - hands of the poor little artists and tell them that their wretched little daubs are really quite fetching. Yes, I shall. I suppose it is my duty. But how tiresome!
Of course, I'll spray myself with a great cloud of Arpège before I go out; you can be sure of that, my darlings! To help mask - to help me endure - the pestilential odors I am certain to encounter; artists are so very unhygienic.
1 week ago
4 comments:
It sounds as though both Arpège and Cartier have saved your life at times. Tell me, was it as bad as all that, the art show? Did you see any beauty?
Ghastly, darling, ghastly ! The artist was a monstrously large, foppish fellow whose paintings were tiny, tiny, miniscule little bits of nothing. I can't imagine where one would hang such ridiculously small things. They'd be lost on wallpaper. At least he seemed clean. I'll give him that; he smelt rather good, actually. But, good Lord, he just went on and on about himself and his silly paintings. Me, me, me! And you know how I detest people who are so completely self-obsessed! What a bore!
And where are you, my pet? Have you been a good girl and gone back to Europe as your dear old mummy implored you to do?
The artist was a large, foppish fellow? AND he smelled good? That's almost enough to get me on an airplane and home for a looksie!
Oh, darling, you're so perverse! Whatever can you mean? But where are you?
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