Short Stories, Writing

Recollections of Encounters with Lauded and Respected Artists by their less Notable Peers often Mention an Odd Quirk held by the Normally Enigmatic Figure.

The people who make money using their imaginations turned up in force at the opening of the chic Parisian hotel “La Fleur de Mes Reins,” last night. First to arrive was the conceptual artist who posed for photos with a daffodil in his hat, a cigarette in his mouth and a glass decanter containing the finest Single Hiland Malt Scotch. It remained firmly attached to his side all night, and likely long into the next day. Soul mate and muse to the conceptual artist, the writer, arrived shortly after leaving a trail of disposable white gloves in his wake. The gloves were replaced with each new person he met or room he entered, leaving behind such a trail of latex that the hotels previous and less ostentatious use was bought to mind.

As the other guests arrived and the party progressed, discussions about new work, philosophical ideas and proposals for ten minute plays about death filled the air as writers, artists, thinkers and geniuses feasted on truffle oiled vegetables and morsels of pink, grey and neon blue.

Animal flesh prepared by a renowned decomposition chef.

Cocktails and champagne flowed freely as singer songwriter performed his newest collection of songs, never removing the dark glasses said to hide smaller eyes then you would expect. His androgynous appeal wafted over the crowd, and people who hadn’t questioned their sexuality in years questioned their sexuality, and wives and husbands fell in love again, but not necessarily with each other.

The art collective made a brief appearance, pouring Moet de Chateaux onto bowls of cornflakes and claiming odes to Hemmingway and Fitzgerald convoluted through the medium of Kellogg’s, convincing no one of anything in particular but providing a distraction.

After a few strong cocktails, and the osmosis effect of the opium grove outside, the crowd of fabulousness began to swap tales of sexual depravity, each individual charming the other with an aura of charisma and appropriately timed self-deprecating jokes. The ordinary folk, who shared not an evident emotional or facial tic amongst them, found it increasingly difficult to communicate what they were about as the evening progressed.

The model decided to depart early, screaming about sensibilities objecting to the non-symmetrical spread and bed of fish eyes in the foyer. She claimed it just wasn’t any fun anymore.

The philanthropist got tongues wagging. For someone who has built a career on never being on time but never later then 45 minutes, the charismatic star arriving just a little bit after the hour left everyone surprised and upset. Although she made up for it by carrying her recently deceased pet fox around in a beaten leather bag, slipping into dead languages when talking to the theatre directorand even more disturbingly, proving to be far more pleasant company then her reputation allowed.

The jazz quintet played long into the night, mixing up freshness and vintage with a spot of impossible time signatures, a focus on stripping away-preconceived notions and the ability to take requests. They were followed by an opera mash up medley and a choir of angels.

The evening started to draw to a close when the energy levels of the crowd began to dip due to a lack of individual focus and worship, and it became frighteningly clear that there was simply not enough adulation to go around. Yes, the others had gone home. There was no one left to look over the shoulder of. The bar was beginning to run dry, the drugs had all but disappeared, the singer had decided to take up acting and the philanthropist wanted to go back to college to learn how to disappear.

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