Dateline: 10.28 27 Aug 1996
Location: Austria, Wien, Stephansplatz
Hmm. After prolonged negotiations it was established
that I would meet Flavia here at 10:00, but she's already a masterful 22
minutes late - and naturally as I write this here she comes, and this sentence
is being written some 5 hours later, sheltering from a sudden rainshower
in a Subway (sandwich joint, not transportation device). I was going to
write the standard eulogy for Praha but I'll do that later. How to best
summarize my impressions of Wien? I think that one should start by writing
the name in fancy cursive script, like the kind used in wedding invitations:
Vienna.
Too
many interruptions, too tried, too busy, too much to see. More detailed
accounts will have to wait. But I must insert a personal profile at this
point: monsieur l'Artiste, who is sharing this room with me and 6 others.
M. Artiste knows that painting, or drawing, is a religious experience that
overcomes all other considerations. And I mean all. M. Artiste will
not acknowledge, much less return, a friendly greeting; in fact, I have
not heard him say a single word in any language to anybody all day long.
Appearing to possess eyes in his neck, even a casual glance in his direction
will result in a glare and a scowl - until he turns away, dismissing you
as unimportant. What he wants is Art! With a capital A. And what could
be more important, more noble than making pencil sketches of other people's
work all day long? Probably only doing laundry, a task in M. Artiste's
opinion best relegated to midnight, when the maximum number of people are
trying to sleep. And doing it well requires hot water, so better crank
the gas-based heater to the max - he doesn't mind the "KRRRRRRSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHTTTTTT"-noise,
why should we? Yes, as M. Artiste now looks out the window at the stars,
it is surely with a conviction that his genius, now sadly neglected, will
surely be realized someday by the masses, sooner or later.
The day's budget
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