It was a type of dinners that had no agenda for me, for it was on the earth of artwork.
Very low stakes. I don’t even faux to be a connoisseur. You ought to have seen me strolling round Art Basel final week, giving in to my lowest instincts—all of us have them, however I appear to indulge mine greater than most—muttering the sorts of issues solely subcultural creatures like me take into consideration:
“Oh, I could totally paint this.”
“Great, rocks painted in bright colors.”
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