Julia Schwartz, "Morning Light"
Dear Readers, copious apologies for the posting delay. Utterly hectic weekend + technology breakup + tennis coma = la duchesse soporifique.
Friday's liquid diet transmogrified into Saturday's caffeine-fueled, chauffeur-driven escapades. Sufficiently calorified by a late night stop at Wendy's (Venice/Culver, Single (no cheese)/Chicken Nuggets (five piece)), we had no need for an actual breakfast; electrifying americanos from Intelligentsia sufficed. Friends, please spare the Duchess from further excursions to Intelligentsia, as her post-hipster, pseudo-cool days are far behind her.
A handful of truck tacos and hours of sleep later, the Duchess ventured over to Santa Monica's Bleicher/Golightly Gallery for an opening of works by painter Julia Schwartz. Stunningly beautiful work, so luminous in person. The Duchess accepts donations . . . . From there, out to quick dinner and drinks at the altogether unjustifiably busy Viceroy, and then to bed.
Julia Schwartz, "Cordon Sanitaire"
After a Soviet ass-kicking by her adored tennis coach, the Duchess went into rehab (incognito bien sur) at Kate Mantilini, setting the stage for a quiet, reclusive afternoon of books and movies at the Landmark. Book reviews to follow but the Duchess did enjoy (post-drink at the Landmark bar) "The Secret in Their Eyes", which won the 2009 Academy Award for Best Foreign Film.
Putting to one side the fact that the male lead is mouthwateringly hot, the movie, thought the Duchess, was good, but not that good. And certainly not better than "The White Ribbon". As per usual, however, no one asked her for her opinion on the matter.
Bouchon Bistro, Beverly Hills
And oh, last night's dinner/drinks marathon, beginning at Bouchon. The polite way to put it would be to say that after an hour there the Duchess decamped for her most favorite Spago, only across the street in distance, but miles away in everything else.
Self-indulgent Duchess? Yes, perhaps. But it is these things, the enjoyment of a drink with friends, the satisfaction of a delicious meal, the collaboration of particles on canvas, pushed together as in a desperate embrace, that rescue the Duchess from "ordinary unhappiness," in the words of Dr. Freud, from being trapped by endless malaise and ennui (never too far from the Duchess's grasp). All these things, of course, and the most delicious pleasure of all:
"We are fated to love one another; we hardly exist outside our love, we are just animals without it, with a birth and a death and constant fear between. Our love has lifted us up, out of the dreadfulness of merely living."