Green

This is my confession: I’m never more in touch with jealousy than when I’m wearing my artist hat.

Last week, a photographer I used to work for got a glowing review in the New Yorker. Her new body was called her “masterpiece.” But I was practically seething.

Then a very good friend had his first solo show open. He wrote to me about how well attended it was, about how many compliments he received. I am very well-trained – and I really wouldn’t have wanted it to be otherwise - but I had to muster up congratulations.

One of this blog’s few readers – Mike – had a successful open studio weekend and even that stirred up the juices.

I couldn’t even go to the Chelsea opening of a fellow grad school student.

Here’s a good one: a dead guy. I’m translating the brochure for his retrospective at the Jeu de Pomme in Paris. Tell me, are so many superlatives really necessary?

It all boils down to this fine phrase:

What am I, chopped liver?