Cormillier called yesterday morning, and I was telling him about a good early picture by Tissot that Ullman bought for 200 francs. He said that a long time ago Tissot had a mistress, with whom he had continued relations for a considerable period. He decided to break the liaison, and he wrote one letter to his mistress, giving her the gentlest possible hint that the affair must ultimately come to an end, and another to an intimate friend, saying brutally that he was sick of the whole thing and wanted to marry. He mixed the letters up, and the mistress received the wrong one. She committed suicide. Tissot was deeply affected, regarded himself as her murderer, and became devot. This was really the origin of his journeys to Palestine, the ruin of his art.
April 9, 1905
What's the problem? You guys never really saw the same stuff, did you? I mean, you use the rear-view mirror; he, the side mirror. You look at the whipped cream on your chocolate; he, the smoke from the other table's cigarettes. You check his shoulders for dandruff; he, your rear for stains.
He sees the volcano; you, the lake. He, the sunset; you, his face watching the sunset. He, the medical bills; you, the bloody phlegm from where your rib caved in.
You found Emile Zola; he, Nana. You unearthed your high school time capsule; he, the history of your prom date. You search for his eyes; he, his reflection in yours.
Once you told me to stop texting "i love u" and then send to many. I said that that better not be advice; my phone does not have that function. I don't have that function. you laughed because it wasn't advice; it was a joke. I said that you better not expect me to laugh. I still did.
We never really saw eye to eye on most things. I didn't assume we would that time either. Still, you never me thought I'd hold back did you? So, as usual, I asked my leading question: You guys never really saw the same stuff, did you?
A month or so ago, I chanced upon the two of you - the couple - in that gallery of fine enough copies. You didn't notice me. You looked at the cracks in the pastels of Degas; you almost traced them with your finger, where the viridians met the flesh. He fiddled away on his cellphone. That model had the function you thought mine had. I went home because, well, who really goes to galleries alone?
Last week, you said that you'll tell me something come Friday. I said that it better be good.