A month after my return from Paris a tangy, acrid smell hung over my apartment. A cross between a dead cat and dirty socks, it smelled vaguely familiar, mysterious. Opening the refrigerator, the aromatic culprit was exposed. Cheese, raw cheese, goat, sheep, cow brought home from my vacation.
I’m an art fag, been one forever. But this 55-year old Gustave Courbet loving, Cezanne worshipper had never experienced the magic of Paris except for one day while changing trains in 1979. Like a show t