Introduction (by Heidi Kohlenberg)
I don’t suppose you’ve ever had the privilege of my relating to you the weird and wonderful story of the day on which I drank too much punch at a reception in the prestigious sculpture hall of one of Europe’s finest art galleries? Yes? No? Sadly, I’ve not enough space to go through all the superbly depraved details here. Nevertheless, I shall skip onto – and merrily through – a telling episode that occurred at the end of the evening, about five minutes after I unintentionally threw champagne over Jave de Lasse’s aunt. This moderately inadvertent act had, unsurprisingly, forced me to wander, alone, far away from the increasingly irate crowd. I say wander, though really I was lurching, in a sort of early-summer-bee kind of way. It was thus I found myself at the far end of the hall, where very few party goers had ventured. I was not all too aware of this, mind you, since I was by then mistaking most of the sculptures for people (it’s happened before and it’ll happen again: some of the best conversations I’ve ever had have at gallery drinks receptions have been with statues). Looking to gracefully lurch into an inappropriate conversation (by far my favourite type of talk) I’d taken a fancy to one figure; a semi-naked Apollo, I think, whose hand seemed (to me) to be stretching out to shake mine. ‘Pleased to meet you, I’m sure,’ I mumbled, grabbing the fingers eagerly. ‘But what cold hands you have!’ It was true. His hands were both cold and firm. Like stone, you could say. Well, naturally…
Of course, I never trust a man with cold hands Read the rest of this entry »
