Henri, as you may have guessed, I survived my first encounter with your lot. You know, the high pitched giggling, air kisses throwing, 'dah-ling' pronouncing lot.
Now before you get all offended and turn up your perfect nose and roll your eyes at my account, I should warn you that I have a tendency to exaggerate, for the purpose of humor. Here goes.
As I entered the 'place', I managed to keep my mouth from dropping down at the opulence of the 'place' in front of me, and so with my eyes barely managing to avoid the gigantic chandelier on top of my head, I strode up, seemingly confident, to a sharply dressed being, standing guard at the entrance of the 'place where the thing would be'. With great effort, I managed to make my voice sound less squeaky and tried to sound non-chalant and mature (failing to do either). After stating my intent and purpose, I was shown inside the huge hall, where the paintings were exhibited (I am giving away so much, I fear masked men will burst into my room with guns to 'remove' me for revealing these secrets!..alright, I have a tendency to get a little paranoid.)
So I walked around the entirety of the never ending hall, with the abstract paintings hung up, trying not to look like a first timer. As I was standing in front of an amazingly confusing art piece, I was approached by another sharply dressed female, who informed me that 'She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named' will be arriving shortly. I nodded along, pretended to be engrossed in the artworks and secretly kept wiping my sweaty palms on my pant legs.
So after two or three agonizing rounds of the huge hall, 'She Who Must Not Be Named' entered, looking all coiffed and elegant in subtle, yet expensive looking garb and flanked by her minion (who turned out to be her make up artist- fancy, I know) and the manager of the 'place'.
I stood at a respectable distance, away from the overwhelming aura she was extruding (or maybe it was Chanel no 5, I couldn't tell), pretending to be oh-so- interested in a light bulb.
Somebody was pointing at me and saying something in hushed tones, and I took it as a sign, to approach 'She Who Must Not Be Named' and her minions.
I was introduced to her and with calculated warmth, she smiled at me and asked me how I would like to conduct the interview. After some fumbling (on my side), the manager of the 'place' intervened and suggested that we can go around the hall and talk. I half squeaked and half nodded my agreement.
The minion took her leave, not before imparting a dozen air kisses around and announcing that 'Dah-ling, it would be a great success!. I can feel it', only she pronounced it as 'fill it', I know, I am a pronunciation snob and that's not the point.
'She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named turned to me, expectantly, waiting for me to begin the interview.
And so I did.
You know, Henri, there would be times when you see something wrong happening or somebody saying something that is so blatantly wrong that you want to cry. You would stop and correct them and end up feeling good about yourself. This was not the time.
So I spent the next, what seemed like an, eternity biting my lips to stop myself from correcting her explanations about 'feminism', 'aesthetics' and 'Picasso'.
I am no art critic and my experience with art aesthetics is limited to the 'Intro. To World Art and Culture' classes in college, and this does not qualify me to be any sort of judge here but if you tell me that you don't know what monochromatic means, when it features in your work, then you will be judged. And ridiculed.
If I could go back in time, to the 'place', I would laugh my head off at myself that day. Nodding along with her at her comical explanations of her subjects and themes and using words like 'sublime' and transcending' in accordance to her work, I could have slapped myself.
The time when I had to control myself from bursting out angrily and stomping off was when she said that a woman's dreams and hopes lie in wondering about her future with her husband and one of the two most important aspect in a woman's life is , to quote her, 'the kitchen'.
As we neared the end of the interview, I congratulated her on her exhibition (surprising myself at my own pretentiousness) and hastily bid a retreat from the 'place'.
I had to spend the next hour in the next door book store, to restore some sense of normalcy in my world.
The 'place' seemed like an alternate dimension, where everything was gold and everybody just adored you. It was a place filled with shouts of glees, laced with an underlying malice and a lot of fancy sounding food passed around in minuscule proportions.
Everybody announced how much they were touched by the subject of the paintings, while barely figuring out if the painting was upside down or not.
I know, I am sounding too cynical and perhaps I am in no position to judge anybody, but ranting about non important thing is the basis of our relationship, my imaginary French friend.
So this was my experience with the 'Poshes' and 'the Air Kissers'. Now now, Henri, don't get offended, I mean it in a good way!.
Till the next time.
Be good.
Ciao
River Targaryen.
