Had a killer week in which my wrist was annihilated by frantic scribbling. Not being safe, Sarah C. And you can blame it on the grinning anarchist at the front of the room in the two tone purple shirt. With his suspicious drawings by small children and no answer as to where they came from. With the newspaper clipping of goats in trees in Morroco pinned to the door of his office.
So I was elated to get on the bus and come home before the sun came down today, to apply for this job in the Rockies that would help in my future ass-kicking career. But it is no longer posted, this job. Kat sang me a tune about not giving up until I get a firm reply on whether the position has been filled but mein gott. I hate being pushy.
Yesterday, V-Day, often synonymous with D-Day. Ate sushi, read dates off of a piece of paper, which my mind quickly forgot. Luckily dates only mean so much, as long as you've got your context nailed. And I mean, Franco-Prussian War ends 1871, same year of the Paris Commune, year after Bazille is killed. Poor guy never got to be an Impressionist.
This painting is 19th c. name dropping. For serious. Bazille would paint his studio every time he got a new one, and in this case he included a bunch of his friends in the picture. So he's like: Look! I'm best friends with Manet! There he is checking out my painting! (in the hat; Bazille himself is the extremely tall man in the center; Zola is on the stairs, Renoir under them, Monet in the fancy pants and some critic is tinkling the keys in the corner). He also shows all his million dollar paintings stacked around like he's just hording them for the end of the world.
Not sure where that info-vomit came from. You're welcome though.
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