"The skin on my face is beginning to look like a shoe in need of a shine."
My dear, vain friend Currado Malaspina is beginning to recognize the ravages of aging.
He's conflicted.
On the one hand he sees the years that lay behind him as a necessary apprenticeship. He looks at his youth as an inventory of embarrassments the fruits of which are the accessible insights he enjoys in retrospection.
On the other hand he wakes each morning to swollen ankles, sour breath and a hulking conscience larded with regrets.
I suppose one could call it "mood swings" but he just calls it fretful inertia.
Luckily. during the heady late 20th century when in the eyes of the art-buying public he could do no wrong, he packed away his euro like a beaver collecting river grass. He bought a nice place just outside Moncontour, a small villa surrounded by lush cypresses, agapanthes, crocosmias, echinaceas and wild jasmine.
It helps to dull the pain but the conflict remains like a cold-sore.
He still sells the occasional painting but he knows that he's only trading in the conceptual retreads of an old artist in decline.
Could it be that he's poised to fall in love yet again? Will he be consumed by the torments of another young muse? Will his creativity surge while being devoured and disfigured by another vagina dentata?
Probably.
My dear, vain friend Currado Malaspina is beginning to recognize the ravages of aging.
He's conflicted.
On the one hand he sees the years that lay behind him as a necessary apprenticeship. He looks at his youth as an inventory of embarrassments the fruits of which are the accessible insights he enjoys in retrospection.
On the other hand he wakes each morning to swollen ankles, sour breath and a hulking conscience larded with regrets.
I suppose one could call it "mood swings" but he just calls it fretful inertia.
It helps to dull the pain but the conflict remains like a cold-sore.
He still sells the occasional painting but he knows that he's only trading in the conceptual retreads of an old artist in decline.
Could it be that he's poised to fall in love yet again? Will he be consumed by the torments of another young muse? Will his creativity surge while being devoured and disfigured by another vagina dentata?
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