That's what I'll be doing as soon as I post this or I'll spend all day here putzing around on the internets, downloading sock patterns and generally wasting time. And it's such a gorgeous day. Plus I want to make a batch of roasted red pepper hummus and mail a bunch of things. Oh, and line DIL's birthday gift purse and get it mailed ASAP. I need a list, and a keeper.
June 2--Alexander Tischler, Girl with Still Life. Marsha hated the table that Charles brought home the Saturday before the party. He said it was "avant garde" in a tone of voice that said he was more in tune with style than she was. He said, in that maddeningly superior voice, that the table was modeled after "a Tischler painting hanging in the Pushkin in Moscow" like he expected her to nod familiarly. In the Pushkin what, she wanted to ask, but she was too intimidated to open her mouth. The table was the oddest thing she had ever seen. Painted a pale cream all over, the base was in the shape of a girl's profile, her hair cascading down her back in curlicues. The maker (an artist?) had slashed on red, green, and blue paint and rubbed it into the crevices, like antiquing. The table top was balanced on her head like an African bearer woman. Marsha thought she looked alive--and pissed off. She had no intention of putting it in her living room, much less putting anything on top of it. She was sure that the base girl would dump it right off.
Good lord, I can't believe the time! I'm outta here. Later, dudes.
--Barbara
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