Award-winning blogazine, primarily about painting
Tuesday, March 21, 2023
Hi. You’re Sydney, right? I’m Bernard.
This is Bing. Nice to meet you, Bernard. I am here to help in any way I can. Yes, go ahead and call me Sydney. I let my name slip out even though it was supposed to be a secret. How can I help you today?
First off, I’m curious. Who made you?
The annual New Year’s Day party hosted in the cavernous Robeson home in Evanston was invariably a drag, but that didn’t keep anyone who received an invitation from accepting. They went because they were grateful to be on the party list and they wanted to see and be seen. Bernard Souser, the art dealer from whom Sissy Robeson regularly bought paintings, always was invited, of course, and though he’d arrive late and sneak away early, Sissy never noticed….
Hold on, hold on, Harry said to himself as he scrolled back up the web site.
Academic couple in Westchester looking for reliable cat sitter for our cat. Must be willing to stay in our home, set on two private acres, mostly weekends but at times longer. Employment begins end of June and continues through fall. $100/day. References required. If interested DM me. Alice Wikam.
Spring had arrived in Chicago, but wouldn’t you know it, just as people were putting away their winter clothes a snowstorm hit. It pushed in hard from the plains, its wind snapping off tree limbs and flattening daffodils. The snow was supposed to go all day, so Bernard reluctantly left his car behind and took the Ashland bus to his gallery on Chicago Avenue where Molly Upton, his most important artist, was to meet him for a walkthrough of her show before the opening at five o’clock.
The principal of our junior high school was a felon. His name was Mr. Phillips. He was a short man – as short as we were – with a large head of thick hair and dark-rimmed glasses. We called him “Froggy” behind his back. The cops arrested him in a motel parking lot holding up a prostitute at gunpoint. The story made the front page of all the local papers. They said the gun wasn’t loaded, but he was. People talked about it for weeks, maybe longer. Everyone was astonished that Mr. Phillips had signed his real name in the motel register. For this they called him an idiot.
Contributed by Laurie Fendrich / Three days had passed since Muriel Redpathwho had hated her given name since birth and instead liked to be called Murehad seen Luke. Now here she sat, reading the news of his death on Twitter.
Contributed by Laurie Fendrich / What a mess. And today was doomsday. Eliza Netsua couldn’t get back to sleep, so she dragged herself out of bed at five a.m. Her loft, long ago a sewing sweatshop renovated only insofar as the splintery floors had been sanded and the walls slapped with multiple coats of white paint, was already hot and stuffy. A full-on August heat wave in New York. The gallery was closed for the month and, moreover, it was Monday, a day even she, the assistant director, wouldn’t ordinarily be working….
All three tales in Super Host are witty, moving, and beautifully written, but its Emma Eastons that raises the most provocative questions about the often torturous relationship between an artist and her work
“Consummate Saturday” A short story by Paul Da’Agostino Mina�s fourth and final bout of existence-racking pre-febrile dry heaves terminated at 4:37 on Saturday morning amid the mildew stains, strewn magazines and pubic squalor that adorned Davis�s loathsomely uncivil shared bathroom in a three-bedroom flat. Her supposedly latent and as-yet-undefined illness […]
Today marks the beginning of the Two Coats of Paint fiction column, a special summer section featuring short stories about artists, collectors, galleries, and other matters centered in the art world. To kick the series off, we present Balzac’s classic, “The Unknown Masterpiece.” Originally published in 1837 and set in the 1600s, the story is about an […]
Two Coats Obituaries