@melxodrava

dressed well and dressed highly is the only acceptable way one can show up to an art exhibition of this scale. all social and class causes aside – things that marcel hardly has any empathy for, but with full willingness to be sympathetic to it – the art displayed by the social crusaders and artists is truly a sight to behold, and one that’s available through money. the hypocrisy of these contemporaries sometimes sickens him, but if it must be done in the name of art, then so be it. he might have even donated a pretty penny or two, despite his tightened finances, and still, he manages to show up in a well-fitting suit and a new cane to match his shoes. they look like polished leather and is an art statement unto itself for those modest enough to keep their eyes down.

but this isn’t the salon d’automne. it’s much more intimate, off-the-coast, off-the-bracket. still, many have come, and marcel is dressed at his best.

it’s no wonder why. the artist, in all his skill, has procured such works that it merits its own exhibition, to which marcel has donated much more generously. it’s not social favours he’s after in france. he’s had his fill of that back home. no, it’s closer to the heart, this time, and money is just a good appetiser, something to have on the side, something that’d keep the champagne flowing on opening night. 

he engages in small conversations, and flits away when someone else offers a better topic. it’s all politics, movements, revolutions – oh, the french and their revolutions! how very european, he remarks, and they laugh and say, how very american; the newcomers call him oriental, because they don’t know, but he doesn’t quite mind that. it’s been generations and it’s an identity crafted from an insult. someone rises to his defence and he gives his thanks, and he’s in the middle of educating the nouveaux arrivants to the scene when a flash, a glimpse, a glamour –

and he’s turning away again, giving his apologies for the sudden need to be elsewhere but there, and suddenly be somewhere with someone. it’s an attraction of the worldly sort. it’s the cheekbones, perhaps, or his eyes, or his hair, or his hands. everything must have been crafted by god.