They were your typical, pretentious, artsy-fartsy devotees of the oeuvre, given to hyperbole and polysyllabic vocabulary such as senescent, canard and effluvia, which they used but didn't necessarily know the meaning of, nodding their heads in agreement or cocking them to one side to show deep consideration of the opinion expressed, before either nodding or arguing the opposite most vociferously, even if they didn't sincerely hold that view but enjoyed the questionable glee of playing devil's advocate or dogged supporter.
They drank double espressos, smoked cigarillos, not cigarettes which kill [besides, cigarillos cost at least three times as much as Camels, so they must be better], shopped at Zabar's, Whole Foods and Dean & Deluca but never, ever set foot in a regular supermarket or mass market retailer. They had the nanny or the housekeeper pick up toilet paper and canned goods at Target, pronounced Tar-jay, and carry the purchases up in a recyclable bag with the bull's-eye logo.
Milling around the gallery, sipping Chardonnay and nibbling brie encrusted with cranberries on multigrain crackers, snatching rumaki [so retro it's chic!] or spanakopita from paper lace covered trays, they exclaimed, gazing at the epiphanic work of the exhibit:
That streak of white-it speaks to me.
So evocative of Pollack.
The whole scenario, it's, it's, it's the Vagina Monologues writ loud.
See where the artist channels Gentileschi right there.
I can't get enough. Sweetheart, do you think it'll fit on the library wall, if we clear all the furniture out so there's room for the piece to be properly appreciated?
I've followed her since she was a student at Pratt.
Buzz, buzz, buzzword. The critics were in their glory, pandering to each other, upping the ante with each glowing phrase.
Then the artist entered, frowned, and removed the buckets.
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