It was an unexpected visit and he arrived with his usual candor and subtle arrogance (I felt manipulated having a visitor over during lunchtime). Maybe he thought his appearance might surprise me. He became discernibly unnerved. His presence took the form of a malformed monologue of Vincent van Gogh. He carefully examined my paintings while uttering some old school necessity that he considers as part of an art connoisseur’s tradition. Taking sidelong glances at my tasteless meal, he tried to impress me with his dilettante charm. It was rather a hopeless effort in my opinion and a fruitless stunt to pull in the twentieth century especially to a starving artist like myself. Eventually, looking around my walled offerings he was convinced and pleased by what he saw. Unfortunately, his false air of refinement was not my idea of a tasty dessert.