The Opening
Gaunt and flat-faced, lanky would-be patrons and sycophants slipped in-and-out and by the huddled throng of starving artists and Staver paintings, the likeness in his portraits uncannily mirroring the crowd.

Eyes darted back and forth, people looking for people, looking to be seen, looking to wean themselves from the aspiring masses; struggling, tugging, pulling at the purse strings, the deep pockets of trust fund darlings teething, suckling, feeding infantile desires of makeshift worth, of being made meaningful through crafty possession.

Vintage clothes whores mingle amongst mature gentle men in paisley and soft-plaid (“Oooh lah-lah Harold. Did you see that feral lad look at me?”) bumping into skinny Japanese girls draped in black.

Pretty painted eyes dart about the room, standing as they do in polished pointy-sharp shoes, shuffling on occasion, ushering the unshaven and disheveled beaux d’art who aspire to be like the divas and the mavens, those maverick old farts wandering about aimlessly.

Languidly, yet anxiously, all of them go about in faux parlay with the bored and feigning, who like every other plebe, desperately searches the vacuous space for someone more sightly, or at least slightly more interesting than the current gasbag bellowing before them.

“Whaaat? What?…Oh, yes, I love his work.”
"What? Whaaat?…Oh, his name. Oh, I wouldn't know the artist’s name.”

in the beginning .00 daily archives

l.m