I went to school with a guy who became big in the art world, and that's how he pronounced it: awe't.
He was from New York. He called himself Reggie in those days, but now
he prefers Reginald, thinking it I suppose more befitting of his age
and social status. I can understand that. I had an aunt that everybody
called "Baby" until she died, in her late 70s, which must have been
hard. But Aunt Baby didn't die in a penthouse, in fact never
lived in one, though she did once invest in a racehorse. She and her
husband Helmut, who has also since died, liked nice things and only
bought the best, even if they had to buy it in installments. I by
contrast am still prone to buy the cheapest stuff that will do the job,
so there you have it, the difference between an aesthete and a
philistine. My idea of a good novel is one I can finish. I judge works
of art in museums by how fast I walk by them, although I did once buy
an oil painting in Portugal, probably because it was black and white
and fit our furniture and I didn't have to deal with the colors.
I guess I should admit that I envy Reggie, though I honestly think it is less for his fortune than for his love of art. He seems to have it in his blood, the very person Keats was addressing when he wrote
Of course the world, especially the art world, is full of phonies, but
Reggie has always been this way, even before he became a billionaire,
and Aunt Baby was probably at least a little bit this way too because I
know she didn't buy the few nice expensive things she had to impress
anybody. So let me not put too fine a point on it. Everybody, even me,
probably has some appreciation of beauty. It's a matter of degree.
is all a bit too rarefied for me. I think I agree with both Walsh and
Marcuse, but it doesn't really help. I still feel like I'm missing
something. Something big. That's one minute. The next minute I'm
wondering if Reggie is missing something. Something big.
Shock and Awe't. Ground Aught. How do you get that on an urn?