The Artist
It was a private screening, no appointment needed. A final masterpiece. Like an artist’s art, it was modern with strokes of gaudy colour, thick applications, no planning or design. It was on a large canvas of magnolia, an ideal wash of matt, a clock against the border, framed complete with some brick exposed, wire from
Little Cathedrals
Gare de Lyon, that big bastard of a station, spits you out into Le Train Bleu, all that gold-plated bullshit from the old days hanging there like a drunk’s memories. Chandeliers dripping light on the suckers below, paintings of green fields nobody ever worked because they were too busy screwing the maid. Tonight, the place