By Adélaïde Labille-Guiard
(1749-1803)
She made wonderful paintings of people doing everyday things in their very best outfits. Giant hats and such. One of her paintings — not this one — was of a member of the monarchy who was particularly repellent to the artist’s revolutionary associates, and she was made to destroy it before it was finished. Luckily she herself survived the revolution.
Setting: library sorting area
[Sound of a book falling onto the floor]
Library worker #1 (offstage): I swear I heard that book jump off the shelf.
Library worker #2: I know! Stupid books with legs.
Library worker #1 (offstage): Hee hee.
The other day I was using a pair of scissors to cut open one of those awful packages — the kind made of clear, thick plastic sealed tight and nearly impossible to get open without a hacksaw. Apparently they’re called clamshells, or blister packs. Usually I am careful when opening these things, since they’re so sharp after they’ve been cut, and just so unwieldy in general. But did I think to be careful with the scissors? No I did not. Pinched myself good on the palm of my hand:
Since then, since the blisters formed, I keep seeing them out of the corner of my eye and thinking it’s ink or something. Last night I mentioned that to M., and added that maybe I’d start telling people it was my new tattoo of a pair of eyes, and he came up with the brilliant idea to make it into a face.
Neato!
