Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going?
A series of time-displaced Luanne-adjacent vignettey things [~concluded~]
Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going?
Luanne Grasset lay awake in bed, staring at the inside of her eyelids.
She imagined an open field, painted a fiery orange by the setting sun. Endless horizons in every direction. Almost glowing, but not quite. Silence. No cars. No music. No Miami. Middle America as romanticized through the lens of a Norman Rockwell painting.
It wasn't real.
Her mind wandered.
She was tired. It was late. She had a math test tomorrow. She needed to sleep.
Her mind wandered.
Maybe one day, she'd move to Canada, or maybe somewhere in Europe. Anywhere but here.
Her mind wandered.
Society treated animals badly. Society treated children badly too, except they didn't eat children.
Her mind wandered.
She remembered a quote. 'Don't look to closely at Corot's figures, his half-finished manner has at least the merit of producing a harmonious ensemble and a striking impression. Instead of analyzing a feature one feels an impression.'
Sometimes she felt like an impression in the same way.
Her mind wandered.
When she looked in the mirror, all she saw were reasons she didn't want to be herself.
Her mind wandered.
Noreen seemed happy, which was nice.
Noreen wore a lot more makeup than she used to.
She was worried about Noreen.
Her mind wandered.
Sometimes, she just felt numb. Every day she reminded herself more and more of Andy Warhol. She didn't like that.
Her mind wandered.
Andy Warhol had some good quotes. There was the one about the electric chairs, and the one where he coined the whole '15 minutes of fame' thing, and also the one where he said he just wanted everyone to like everyone.
There was the one about how people had forgotten what emotions were.
There was one she could remember verbatim. 'Before I was shot, I always thought that I was more half-there than all-there—I always suspected that I was watching TV instead of living life. People sometimes say that the way things happen in movies is unreal, but actually it's the way things happen in life that's unreal. The movies make emotions look so strong and real, whereas when things really do happen to you, it's like watching television—you don't feel anything. Right when I was being shot and ever since, I knew that I was watching television. The channels switch, but it's all television.'
Her mind wandered.
There was a painting, called La Morphiniste. It was of a girl with straight dark brown hair that was parted in the middle. She had large, hooded brown eyes, a small, refined nose, and thin lips. Noreen had told her she and the girl in the painting had the same face.
The girl in the painting was dressed in a sleeveless white dress, and blue and white striped stockings. She was lurching forward, jabbing herself in the thigh with a syringe of morphine. There was foam dripping from her mouth, and her lips were pulled back in a way that made it impossible to tell if she was laughing or screaming. Either way, she looked like she was in pain.
It had been painted by a man named Eugène Grasset.
That worried her.
Her mind wandered.
She needed to sleep.
She'd make it through this year if it killed her.
...
her mind wandered
...
her mind wandered
...
...
Luanne Grasset lay asleep in bed, staring at the inside of her eyelids.
She dreamed of an open field, painted a fiery orange by the setting sun. Endless horizons in every direction. Almost glowing, but not quite. Silence.
She imagined an open field, painted a fiery orange by the setting sun. Endless horizons in every direction. Almost glowing, but not quite. Silence. No cars. No music. No Miami. Middle America as romanticized through the lens of a Norman Rockwell painting.
It wasn't real.
Her mind wandered.
She was tired. It was late. She had a math test tomorrow. She needed to sleep.
Her mind wandered.
Maybe one day, she'd move to Canada, or maybe somewhere in Europe. Anywhere but here.
Her mind wandered.
Society treated animals badly. Society treated children badly too, except they didn't eat children.
Her mind wandered.
She remembered a quote. 'Don't look to closely at Corot's figures, his half-finished manner has at least the merit of producing a harmonious ensemble and a striking impression. Instead of analyzing a feature one feels an impression.'
Sometimes she felt like an impression in the same way.
Her mind wandered.
When she looked in the mirror, all she saw were reasons she didn't want to be herself.
Her mind wandered.
Noreen seemed happy, which was nice.
Noreen wore a lot more makeup than she used to.
She was worried about Noreen.
Her mind wandered.
Sometimes, she just felt numb. Every day she reminded herself more and more of Andy Warhol. She didn't like that.
Her mind wandered.
Andy Warhol had some good quotes. There was the one about the electric chairs, and the one where he coined the whole '15 minutes of fame' thing, and also the one where he said he just wanted everyone to like everyone.
There was the one about how people had forgotten what emotions were.
There was one she could remember verbatim. 'Before I was shot, I always thought that I was more half-there than all-there—I always suspected that I was watching TV instead of living life. People sometimes say that the way things happen in movies is unreal, but actually it's the way things happen in life that's unreal. The movies make emotions look so strong and real, whereas when things really do happen to you, it's like watching television—you don't feel anything. Right when I was being shot and ever since, I knew that I was watching television. The channels switch, but it's all television.'
Her mind wandered.
There was a painting, called La Morphiniste. It was of a girl with straight dark brown hair that was parted in the middle. She had large, hooded brown eyes, a small, refined nose, and thin lips. Noreen had told her she and the girl in the painting had the same face.
The girl in the painting was dressed in a sleeveless white dress, and blue and white striped stockings. She was lurching forward, jabbing herself in the thigh with a syringe of morphine. There was foam dripping from her mouth, and her lips were pulled back in a way that made it impossible to tell if she was laughing or screaming. Either way, she looked like she was in pain.
It had been painted by a man named Eugène Grasset.
That worried her.
Her mind wandered.
She needed to sleep.
She'd make it through this year if it killed her.
...
her mind wandered
...
her mind wandered
...
...
Luanne Grasset lay asleep in bed, staring at the inside of her eyelids.
She dreamed of an open field, painted a fiery orange by the setting sun. Endless horizons in every direction. Almost glowing, but not quite. Silence.
Noreen Grasset glanced sideways outta the passenger side window, making eye contact with the guy driving the Mustang in the next lane over. She took a sippy sip of her Grande Iced Pumpkin Spice Latte (five pumps of spice) labelled 'Norine', flashed him a peace sign, and winked at 'em through her Raybans. For fun, yknow.
The Mustang scooched forward half a car length.
She turned her head all the way forward. Took another sip. Whistled.
"Traffic's fuckin slow, huh?"
"Mhm."
Luanne was in the Jag's driver seat. Noreen had specifically requested the two of them take it instead of the Civic to school.
"Your hair looks nice today."
"Mmm, thanks. Yours too."
"Girl you know it."
Noreen took another sip.
"Ever notice that, like, in movies, cars never have headrests. 'Cus like, when the driver's talkin to someone in the back seat, it'd be pretty goofy if they were just talking into, a, uhhh," she bounced the back of her head off the passenger seat's headrest, "a thing, yknow?"
She snatched her iPhone outta her Birkin bag. Scanned her fingerprint. Opened up Twitter.
"Damn Jewel learn how to use Twitter threads you crazy fuckin ho," she muttered under her breath.
Luanne glanced sideways.
Noreen took another sip.
"'Hey, Lu, who am I?" she asked, her voice getting all gruff and emotionless and shit. "Hmmrph. Grrrr. Bathrooms. Ugh. I listen to The Cure."
"Umm, Jewel Evans."
"Yee."
Luanne opened her mouth like she was boutta say something, then she looked forwards and sighed. The Jag scooched forward a little.
Noreen made a clicky noise with her mouth.
"God I hate her, yknow. Like, okay Jewellllll, we get it, you killed ten people, whatever, like, okay, but like you don't gotta be obnoxious about it. You ain't no Jared Clayton or whatever."
Luanne sighed again.
"Most of the people on that show aren't old enough to vote," she stated.
"I mean, sucks for them, I guess?"
Luanne didn't respond. Noreen took another sip.
"Aight I can talk about a different show. Hehe, story time. Aight, so, waaaaay back - like, I'm talkin before we were born, maybe, I dunno - there was this show where they got a buncha strangers to live together in a house for a few months. Filmed em nonstop. Show was called The Real World."
"Mhm."
"Aight, so, but what's interesting, I think, is there's this one season where everyone just starts hangin out ass-naked, and then for some reason they all start wearing pooka shell necklaces."
"Okay."
"Yeah. BUT, okay, so, it actually turns out the reason they were all getting naked was because the show's producers were hiding mics in their clothes, and they were like 'well, fuck, some privacy would be nice', and that was the only way they could talk without them listening. The producers were like, 'nah', and then stuck some microphones into some necklaces, and then were like 'if you don't wear the necklaces, you're off the show', and so everyone wore em."
Luanne tapped her finger against the steering wheel.
"Maybe that's where they got the idea for the, um, SOTF collars," she said.
"That's what I'm thinking, Lu."
Noreen took another sip.
"Mind if I turn on the radio?"
"Sure."
"Lit."
She pressed a button on the dash and turned the volume all the way up. The speakers blasted the brassy intro of Welcome to the World of the Plastic Beach by Gorillaz (feat. Snoop Dogg), and just like that, right as Snoop said the revolution would be televised, traffic started moving again.
The Mustang scooched forward half a car length.
She turned her head all the way forward. Took another sip. Whistled.
"Traffic's fuckin slow, huh?"
"Mhm."
Luanne was in the Jag's driver seat. Noreen had specifically requested the two of them take it instead of the Civic to school.
"Your hair looks nice today."
"Mmm, thanks. Yours too."
"Girl you know it."
Noreen took another sip.
"Ever notice that, like, in movies, cars never have headrests. 'Cus like, when the driver's talkin to someone in the back seat, it'd be pretty goofy if they were just talking into, a, uhhh," she bounced the back of her head off the passenger seat's headrest, "a thing, yknow?"
She snatched her iPhone outta her Birkin bag. Scanned her fingerprint. Opened up Twitter.
"Damn Jewel learn how to use Twitter threads you crazy fuckin ho," she muttered under her breath.
Luanne glanced sideways.
Noreen took another sip.
"'Hey, Lu, who am I?" she asked, her voice getting all gruff and emotionless and shit. "Hmmrph. Grrrr. Bathrooms. Ugh. I listen to The Cure."
"Umm, Jewel Evans."
"Yee."
Luanne opened her mouth like she was boutta say something, then she looked forwards and sighed. The Jag scooched forward a little.
Noreen made a clicky noise with her mouth.
"God I hate her, yknow. Like, okay Jewellllll, we get it, you killed ten people, whatever, like, okay, but like you don't gotta be obnoxious about it. You ain't no Jared Clayton or whatever."
Luanne sighed again.
"Most of the people on that show aren't old enough to vote," she stated.
"I mean, sucks for them, I guess?"
Luanne didn't respond. Noreen took another sip.
"Aight I can talk about a different show. Hehe, story time. Aight, so, waaaaay back - like, I'm talkin before we were born, maybe, I dunno - there was this show where they got a buncha strangers to live together in a house for a few months. Filmed em nonstop. Show was called The Real World."
"Mhm."
"Aight, so, but what's interesting, I think, is there's this one season where everyone just starts hangin out ass-naked, and then for some reason they all start wearing pooka shell necklaces."
"Okay."
"Yeah. BUT, okay, so, it actually turns out the reason they were all getting naked was because the show's producers were hiding mics in their clothes, and they were like 'well, fuck, some privacy would be nice', and that was the only way they could talk without them listening. The producers were like, 'nah', and then stuck some microphones into some necklaces, and then were like 'if you don't wear the necklaces, you're off the show', and so everyone wore em."
Luanne tapped her finger against the steering wheel.
"Maybe that's where they got the idea for the, um, SOTF collars," she said.
"That's what I'm thinking, Lu."
Noreen took another sip.
"Mind if I turn on the radio?"
"Sure."
"Lit."
She pressed a button on the dash and turned the volume all the way up. The speakers blasted the brassy intro of Welcome to the World of the Plastic Beach by Gorillaz (feat. Snoop Dogg), and just like that, right as Snoop said the revolution would be televised, traffic started moving again.
Two boys sat under a tree at a beachside hotel pool. One had glasses, was wearing a blood-stained lab coat, and was tying a noose. The other wore a hoodie, and had his hands tied behind his back. They spoke like they were good friends, cracking jokes and talking about things like video games and cartoons. For a little while they talked about their futures, then the boy in the lab coat said it was time and tied one end of the noose around a tree branch. The boy in the hoodie looked into a camera and said goodbye to his family. They both made their way to a nearby diving board, and the boy in the lab coat put the noose around the boy in the hoodie's neck. He gave a count of three and kicked him off the precipice. The hoodie boy fell, the rope around his neck stopping him short of the water. He writhed, struggled, tried something, anything, to keep himself breathing. He choked out and begged the lab coat boy for help. The lab coat boy said no.
Luanne clicked the pause button and took a screengrab, saving it to a folder on her desktop titled 'Gericault'.
Luanne clicked the pause button and took a screengrab, saving it to a folder on her desktop titled 'Gericault'.
Noreen glanced sideways outta the passenger side window, making eye contact with the gal driving the Lambo in the next lane over. She took a sippy sip of her second Grande Iced Pumpkin Spice Latte of the day (she could get em outside of pumpkin season (she had her sources)) labelled 'Norine', flashed her a peace sign, and winked at her through her Raybans. For fun, yknow.
The Lambo scooched forward half a car length.
She turned her head all the way forward. Took another sip. Whistled.
"Traffic's fuckin slow, huh?"
...
...
...
"Lu."
...
Noreen glanced sideways. Luanne was in the Jag's driver seat, just kinda staring into space. Her lip shook every now and then.
...
"LU."
Luanne blinked a few times.
"...Mmm?"
"What's wrong?"
"..."
"Your face is doing the thing it does when you're sad."
"..."
"What's wrong, Lu?"
Luanne opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out.
"Is this about the fight you had with mom?"
"Kind of."
"..."
"..."
"Luanne, your hands are shaking."
"...
"I can't -
"I'm moving out. When university starts -"
"Oh come one, mom's not that bad."
"- NOREEN, JUST -
"- It isn't just mom."
Noreen blinked.
"...Oh."
"I'm sorry. But I - I don't - I'm - it isn't your fault, I just - I can't remember the last time I didn't feel tired and -"
"And?"
"- and I need to be in a place where it's enough for me to just be me."
Noreen took a sip.
"You say that like that's ever gonna be enough."
Luanne remained silent for the rest of the ride home.
The Lambo scooched forward half a car length.
She turned her head all the way forward. Took another sip. Whistled.
"Traffic's fuckin slow, huh?"
...
...
...
"Lu."
...
Noreen glanced sideways. Luanne was in the Jag's driver seat, just kinda staring into space. Her lip shook every now and then.
...
"LU."
Luanne blinked a few times.
"...Mmm?"
"What's wrong?"
"..."
"Your face is doing the thing it does when you're sad."
"..."
"What's wrong, Lu?"
Luanne opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out.
"Is this about the fight you had with mom?"
"Kind of."
"..."
"..."
"Luanne, your hands are shaking."
"...
"I can't -
"I'm moving out. When university starts -"
"Oh come one, mom's not that bad."
"- NOREEN, JUST -
"- It isn't just mom."
Noreen blinked.
"...Oh."
"I'm sorry. But I - I don't - I'm - it isn't your fault, I just - I can't remember the last time I didn't feel tired and -"
"And?"
"- and I need to be in a place where it's enough for me to just be me."
Noreen took a sip.
"You say that like that's ever gonna be enough."
Luanne remained silent for the rest of the ride home.
Margaret Grasset sat at Luanne's computer, the browser open to Wikiart.org. She'd just so happened to notice the screen was on as she'd walked past Luanne's room, and Luanne just so happened to be at school, so she'd decided to take a look around. She didn't need to defend doing it. She was taking an interest in Luanne's hobby, because she loved both her daughters equally even though one of them was just so incredibly fucking beige.
She clicked Luanne's account, opening a drop-down bar. Then, she clicked 'My albums'.
Luanne only had one album, called 'Favourites'. Margaret could only assume that meant it was just the place where some automated system threw anything Luanne had clicked the site's equivalent for a like button on.
She pressed the back button.
...
Hmm.
Maybe there was something hiding beneath the beige.
She glanced over to the girl's sketchbook.
She clicked Luanne's account, opening a drop-down bar. Then, she clicked 'My albums'.
Luanne only had one album, called 'Favourites'. Margaret could only assume that meant it was just the place where some automated system threw anything Luanne had clicked the site's equivalent for a like button on.
She pressed the back button.
...
Hmm.
Maybe there was something hiding beneath the beige.
She glanced over to the girl's sketchbook.
Luanne sank back, trying her best not to smirk as she looked at her phone screen. She glanced to the other end of the couch she was on, where Noreen currently sat hunched over her own phone, then glanced back down and began to speak with an uncharacteristic exaggerated deadpan monotony.
"My next series will be -"
She nearly snickered but coughed instead, then tried to make her voice sound all deep and stuff too.
"My next series will be pornographic pictures. They will look blank. When you turn on the black lights, then you will see them — a big breast."
Noreen glanced over, seemingly bewildered. Luanne looked sideways, again trying her best not to crack up. She failed, and a little squeak of a laugh broke through her throat. A flash of levity shot across Noreen's face.
"Oh my freakin god Lu, is that - did someone actually say that?"
"Warhol."
"You mean the guy with the Marilyn Monroes and the, uhhh," Noreen took one of her hands off of her phone and made a little hand gesture, "soup cans?"
"Mhm. I think maybe — okay, he sounds absurd in that quote — but otherwise, he's like... mmm, I don't know. I think you two would have gotten along pretty well."
"Okay, sure, tell me about em."
"Really?"
"Sure."
"Okay. So, um, his studio in New York City was called The Factory, and people like The Rolling Stones and Liza Minelli would just hang out there sometimes. You know who The Rolling Stones are, right?"
"'Course."
Luanne's finger scratched against her phone screen.
"Or, hmm, maybe you would have just gotten along with the people who knew him. I dunno. I'll just let him speak for himself."
She coughed.
"The most beautiful thing in Tokyo is McDonald's. The most beautiful thing in Stockholm is McDonald's. The most beautiful thing in Florence is McDonald's.
"The reason I'm painting this way is that I want to be a machine.
"I love Los Angeles. I love Hollywood. They're so beautiful. Everything's plastic, but I love plastic. I want to be plastic.
"If you want to know all about Andy Warhol, just look at the surface; of my paintings and films and me, and there I am. There's nothing behind it."
"God, Lu, he sounds like such a tool."
"Yeah. I dunno. I think maybe he was just sad."
"He coulda been both."
"I guess."
Luanne's finger scratched against her phone screen.
"You'd be surprised how many people want to hang an electric chair on their living-room wall. Specially if the background color matches the drapes."
"I don't get it."
"He did paintings of electric chairs."
"Gotcha."
"We went to see 'Dr No' at Forty-Second Street. It's a fantastic movie, so cool. We walked outside and somebody threw a cherry bomb right in front of us, in this big crowd. And there was blood. I saw blood on people and all over. I felt like I was bleeding all over. I saw in the paper last week that there are more people throwing them - it's just part of the scene - and hurting people. My show in Paris is to be called 'Death in America'. I'll show the 'Electric-chair' pictures and the Dogs in Birmingham and car wrecks and some suicide pictures."
"...He painted car wrecks?"
"Mhm, and suicides. Or, well, he made serigraphs of photos of them."
"That's kinda fucked up."
Luanne stared through her phone as she scrolled past the 'Five Deaths' painting. It was what Warhol had been referring to when he mentioned car wrecks. There was an upside-down car, half-burnt out. There were five people — teenagers, she was pretty sure — visible crushed underneath. One of them, a brunette, stared directly at the camera's lens.
"Mhm."
She scrolled past the 'Five Deaths Eleven Times in Orange' painting. As the title suggested, it was eleven of the Five Deaths paintings, coloured orange.
"But I mean, I think it's kind of funny that you say that, when the only thing on TV is teenagers getting shot," she looked up from her phone and gestured her head toward a poster of Jared Clayton. "And, look, Noreen, you've got electric chairs on your wall."
"Lu -"
"In 2013, someone bought an eight by thirteen foot serigraph he made of a car crash victim — a human being — for over a hundred million dollars."
"...
"Why's modern art gotta be so depressing, anyways?"
"I wouldn't call him a modern artist. Modern art is made with the purpose of conveying something. Classical art is only intended to portray things. He made classical art."
"Okay, but he portrayed, like, soup cans and pop culture -"
"As if Raphael wasn't portraying 16th century pop culture when he painted the Virgin Mary over and over and over."
"...Didn't Warhol get murdered?"
"No. Almost, though. By Valerie Solanas."
Luanne's finger scratched against her phone.
"Hey, you should tweet at Jewel Evans. I wonder if she's got an opinion on him."
"My next series will be -"
She nearly snickered but coughed instead, then tried to make her voice sound all deep and stuff too.
"My next series will be pornographic pictures. They will look blank. When you turn on the black lights, then you will see them — a big breast."
Noreen glanced over, seemingly bewildered. Luanne looked sideways, again trying her best not to crack up. She failed, and a little squeak of a laugh broke through her throat. A flash of levity shot across Noreen's face.
"Oh my freakin god Lu, is that - did someone actually say that?"
"Warhol."
"You mean the guy with the Marilyn Monroes and the, uhhh," Noreen took one of her hands off of her phone and made a little hand gesture, "soup cans?"
"Mhm. I think maybe — okay, he sounds absurd in that quote — but otherwise, he's like... mmm, I don't know. I think you two would have gotten along pretty well."
"Okay, sure, tell me about em."
"Really?"
"Sure."
"Okay. So, um, his studio in New York City was called The Factory, and people like The Rolling Stones and Liza Minelli would just hang out there sometimes. You know who The Rolling Stones are, right?"
"'Course."
Luanne's finger scratched against her phone screen.
"Or, hmm, maybe you would have just gotten along with the people who knew him. I dunno. I'll just let him speak for himself."
She coughed.
"The most beautiful thing in Tokyo is McDonald's. The most beautiful thing in Stockholm is McDonald's. The most beautiful thing in Florence is McDonald's.
"The reason I'm painting this way is that I want to be a machine.
"I love Los Angeles. I love Hollywood. They're so beautiful. Everything's plastic, but I love plastic. I want to be plastic.
"If you want to know all about Andy Warhol, just look at the surface; of my paintings and films and me, and there I am. There's nothing behind it."
"God, Lu, he sounds like such a tool."
"Yeah. I dunno. I think maybe he was just sad."
"He coulda been both."
"I guess."
Luanne's finger scratched against her phone screen.
"You'd be surprised how many people want to hang an electric chair on their living-room wall. Specially if the background color matches the drapes."
"I don't get it."
"He did paintings of electric chairs."
"Gotcha."
"We went to see 'Dr No' at Forty-Second Street. It's a fantastic movie, so cool. We walked outside and somebody threw a cherry bomb right in front of us, in this big crowd. And there was blood. I saw blood on people and all over. I felt like I was bleeding all over. I saw in the paper last week that there are more people throwing them - it's just part of the scene - and hurting people. My show in Paris is to be called 'Death in America'. I'll show the 'Electric-chair' pictures and the Dogs in Birmingham and car wrecks and some suicide pictures."
"...He painted car wrecks?"
"Mhm, and suicides. Or, well, he made serigraphs of photos of them."
"That's kinda fucked up."
Luanne stared through her phone as she scrolled past the 'Five Deaths' painting. It was what Warhol had been referring to when he mentioned car wrecks. There was an upside-down car, half-burnt out. There were five people — teenagers, she was pretty sure — visible crushed underneath. One of them, a brunette, stared directly at the camera's lens.
"Mhm."
She scrolled past the 'Five Deaths Eleven Times in Orange' painting. As the title suggested, it was eleven of the Five Deaths paintings, coloured orange.
"But I mean, I think it's kind of funny that you say that, when the only thing on TV is teenagers getting shot," she looked up from her phone and gestured her head toward a poster of Jared Clayton. "And, look, Noreen, you've got electric chairs on your wall."
"Lu -"
"In 2013, someone bought an eight by thirteen foot serigraph he made of a car crash victim — a human being — for over a hundred million dollars."
"...
"Why's modern art gotta be so depressing, anyways?"
"I wouldn't call him a modern artist. Modern art is made with the purpose of conveying something. Classical art is only intended to portray things. He made classical art."
"Okay, but he portrayed, like, soup cans and pop culture -"
"As if Raphael wasn't portraying 16th century pop culture when he painted the Virgin Mary over and over and over."
"...Didn't Warhol get murdered?"
"No. Almost, though. By Valerie Solanas."
Luanne's finger scratched against her phone.
"Hey, you should tweet at Jewel Evans. I wonder if she's got an opinion on him."
Noreen Grasset fluoresced in the neon light, swaying amongst the crowd of party people. Vibin. Y'all know the drill.
Anyways, so she was like, kinda half drunk and maybe on a whole lotta speed, and like, having a pretty okay time and all that stuff. She was here with her friends, though she couldn't really remember who they were or where they were or any of that shit, so, like, fuck, hold on, where was she going with this again, she didn't fucking know,
Mkay, just -
- hold on a sec.
Okay.
Where was she.
She was at a party. She was doing stuff, having a time, all that. Dancing, because everybody was dancing. Everyone was happy and everyone liked everyone and everyone was having a real okay time. She looked good, because that was how everyone else looked. Smelled like sweat and chlorine in here. Could taste the air. Music was loud. She liked it when the music was loud. She didn't like the quiet. The quiet never made sense to her. Loud made sense. Mhm. Just like that. Paint that black hole blacker.
Sway. Bounce. When every surface you touch is cold, don't go home. Y'all know. Some douchebag next to her was wearin a glowy thing around his neck. Haha, what a wild guy. Wild. If Luanne were here, she woulda looked at everyone, and she woulda gone, in her quiet little slow Luanne voice, something like, ahem, Hey Noreen, this reminds me, there's this artist named Dan Witz, he used to do graffiti but now he paints photorealistic raves, he also paints orgies, but mostly he paints raves, and Noreen would be like, cool aight, neato, knee-toe, yknow. Luanne only ever fuckin talked about art. Sometimes it was like she wasn't all there inside. Noreen was all there. Noreen was all here. At this party. Just keepin on keepin on. Gettin innocuous. YOU CAN NORMALIZE. DON'T IT MAKE YOU FEEL ALIVE. She felt alive. She was gonna fall over. No she wasn't. She wasn't gonna fall over unless she stopped moving.
"TONITE TONITE TONITE," The singer singing the song sang.
"TONITE TONITE TONITE," everyone sang with Noreen.
Then the song cut out.
There was silence. Confused mumbling. Everyone was standing still. It was really dark in here. Noreen didn't know anyone here. Sometimes she just started crying, but only when she was alone, and only at night. She flirted with people because she wanted to feel like she was liked by people who didn't have an obligation to like her. She didn't know who she wanted to be. Sometimes she had nightmares about getting chosen for SOTF-TV. Sometimes she had nightmares about Luanne getting chosen for SOTF-TV. She didn't know what she was gonna do after Luanne moved out. She'd never not had a big sister. Luanne was the only person she'd ever really really trusted to be honest with her. She didn't -
The song came back on. Everyone started movin, groovin, all that shit. Mhm. The beat was going. Loud.
"WOOOOOOO," some guy went.
"WOOOOOOO," everyone went with Noreen.
Everyone was feelin okay. Everyone was vibin. Just like that. Noreen had something in her eye. She blinked. She blinked. She blinked. Noreen didn't have something in her eye. Noreen was fine. Noreen was fine. Noreen was just so fucking fine.
Anyways, so she was like, kinda half drunk and maybe on a whole lotta speed, and like, having a pretty okay time and all that stuff. She was here with her friends, though she couldn't really remember who they were or where they were or any of that shit, so, like, fuck, hold on, where was she going with this again, she didn't fucking know,
Mkay, just -
- hold on a sec.
Okay.
Where was she.
She was at a party. She was doing stuff, having a time, all that. Dancing, because everybody was dancing. Everyone was happy and everyone liked everyone and everyone was having a real okay time. She looked good, because that was how everyone else looked. Smelled like sweat and chlorine in here. Could taste the air. Music was loud. She liked it when the music was loud. She didn't like the quiet. The quiet never made sense to her. Loud made sense. Mhm. Just like that. Paint that black hole blacker.
Sway. Bounce. When every surface you touch is cold, don't go home. Y'all know. Some douchebag next to her was wearin a glowy thing around his neck. Haha, what a wild guy. Wild. If Luanne were here, she woulda looked at everyone, and she woulda gone, in her quiet little slow Luanne voice, something like, ahem, Hey Noreen, this reminds me, there's this artist named Dan Witz, he used to do graffiti but now he paints photorealistic raves, he also paints orgies, but mostly he paints raves, and Noreen would be like, cool aight, neato, knee-toe, yknow. Luanne only ever fuckin talked about art. Sometimes it was like she wasn't all there inside. Noreen was all there. Noreen was all here. At this party. Just keepin on keepin on. Gettin innocuous. YOU CAN NORMALIZE. DON'T IT MAKE YOU FEEL ALIVE. She felt alive. She was gonna fall over. No she wasn't. She wasn't gonna fall over unless she stopped moving.
"TONITE TONITE TONITE," The singer singing the song sang.
"TONITE TONITE TONITE," everyone sang with Noreen.
Then the song cut out.
There was silence. Confused mumbling. Everyone was standing still. It was really dark in here. Noreen didn't know anyone here. Sometimes she just started crying, but only when she was alone, and only at night. She flirted with people because she wanted to feel like she was liked by people who didn't have an obligation to like her. She didn't know who she wanted to be. Sometimes she had nightmares about getting chosen for SOTF-TV. Sometimes she had nightmares about Luanne getting chosen for SOTF-TV. She didn't know what she was gonna do after Luanne moved out. She'd never not had a big sister. Luanne was the only person she'd ever really really trusted to be honest with her. She didn't -
The song came back on. Everyone started movin, groovin, all that shit. Mhm. The beat was going. Loud.
"WOOOOOOO," some guy went.
"WOOOOOOO," everyone went with Noreen.
Everyone was feelin okay. Everyone was vibin. Just like that. Noreen had something in her eye. She blinked. She blinked. She blinked. Noreen didn't have something in her eye. Noreen was fine. Noreen was fine. Noreen was just so fucking fine.
Anything can be beautiful, if you know how to let yourself see it. If you let yourself see beauty everywhere, you'll stop noticing beauty. So then what's the point?
How do you sleep at night? Really? Are you sure?
Do lawyers have lawyers? Do gardeners have gardeners?
Who is this? Really? Are you sure?
What are you afraid of? Really? Are you sure?
Wasn't it always like this? Weren't you always like this? Weren't they always like this?
Haven't you ever tried to break your own bones just to see if you could do it?
Where does that highway go to? Really? Are you sure?
Have you ever actually really really felt passion? Really? Are you sure? Have you ever actually really really wanted anything? Really? Are you sure?
Did you really mean it? Really? Are you sure?
When will you do it? Really? Are you sure?
Is there such a thing as the real thing? Are you sure?
Why do you care? Really? Are you sure?
Will you ever really be enough?
Suppose it's really true after all? What then?
Luanne grabbed her sketchbook.
How do you sleep at night? Really? Are you sure?
Do lawyers have lawyers? Do gardeners have gardeners?
Who is this? Really? Are you sure?
What are you afraid of? Really? Are you sure?
Wasn't it always like this? Weren't you always like this? Weren't they always like this?
Haven't you ever tried to break your own bones just to see if you could do it?
Where does that highway go to? Really? Are you sure?
Have you ever actually really really felt passion? Really? Are you sure? Have you ever actually really really wanted anything? Really? Are you sure?
Did you really mean it? Really? Are you sure?
When will you do it? Really? Are you sure?
Is there such a thing as the real thing? Are you sure?
Why do you care? Really? Are you sure?
Will you ever really be enough?
Suppose it's really true after all? What then?
Luanne grabbed her sketchbook.
Noreen burst in.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA HOLY SHIT LUANNE JEWEL RESPONDED TO MY TWEET OH MY GOD."
"Oh wow!"
"LU YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND HOW EXCITED I AM."
"...can I see what she said?"
"YEET."
Noreen yote her Twitter machine at Luanne, who then read the thread and contemplated for a few seconds.
"...Can I write a response?"
"YEE."
She started typing, very slowly and deliberately. Eventually, she pressed the Tweet button.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA HOLY SHIT LUANNE JEWEL RESPONDED TO MY TWEET OH MY GOD."
"Oh wow!"
"LU YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND HOW EXCITED I AM."
"...can I see what she said?"
"YEET."
Noreen yote her Twitter machine at Luanne, who then read the thread and contemplated for a few seconds.
"...Can I write a response?"
"YEE."
She started typing, very slowly and deliberately. Eventually, she pressed the Tweet button.
On July 2nd, 1816, the French Navy frigate Méduse ran aground off the coast of Mauritania, en route from Rochefort, France to Saint-Louis, Senegal, due to mistakes made by its captain, who had gotten his position through political nepotism. The crew, unable to float the ship, decided to evacuate. As the lifeboats only had room for half the Méduse's passengers, a large raft was constructed, to be towed along behind the boats. One-hundred-forty-six men and one woman boarded the raft, along with a single bag of food, two casks of water, and six casks of wine. The lifeboats towed the raft for only a few miles before cutting it loose out of fear that it would drag them down. All the lifeboats made it to shore, some almost immediately.
The raft floated away, out into the open seas.
On board, fighting broke out almost immediately. Factions emerged, and by the first night, twenty people had been killed. By the fourth day, ninety had been killed. Some of the living had already resorted to cannibalism. On the eighth day, the weak and wounded were thrown overboard. Fifteen men remained on the raft. Another four days went by before the survivors spotted a passing ship and tried to get its attention. The ship didn't stop.
All hope was lost.
A few hours later, the ship returned.
Of the one-hundred-forty-seven people who had boarded the raft, ten made it to shore.
The incident sparked outrage across France, and eventually reached the ears of Théodore Géricault.
Géricault, at the time a relatively unknown artist, had an idea. He would paint the raft of the Méduse. In preparation, he interviewed two of the survivors. He built a scale replica of the raft. He went to hospitals and morgues, to study the dead and dying and ensure he could properly portray them in a way that would convey the sheer weight of their suffering.
Eighteen months later, Géricault's finished painting was first publicly shown at the 1819 Paris Salon.
The painting sparked outrage and division amongst the French art community.
"Monsieur Géricault seems mistaken. The goal of painting is to speak to the soul and the eyes, not to repel," one art critic, a Monsieur Coupin, was quoted as saying. Others praised the work for its social commentary, the juxtaposition between its classical composition and its contemporary subject matter, and its blunt depiction of humanity.
Géricault died at the age of thirty-two. Not long after his death, in 1824, the Louvre purchased the painting.
One-hundred-and-ninety years later, the painting now known as The Raft of the Medusa became the first thing to ever worm true meaning inside the soul of an eleven year-old girl named Luanne Grasset, who was visiting the Louvre while on a family vacation.
A bit under seven years later, an eighteen year-old Luanne Grasset sat at her desk, thinking of the woman who had boarded the raft.
The raft floated away, out into the open seas.
On board, fighting broke out almost immediately. Factions emerged, and by the first night, twenty people had been killed. By the fourth day, ninety had been killed. Some of the living had already resorted to cannibalism. On the eighth day, the weak and wounded were thrown overboard. Fifteen men remained on the raft. Another four days went by before the survivors spotted a passing ship and tried to get its attention. The ship didn't stop.
All hope was lost.
A few hours later, the ship returned.
Of the one-hundred-forty-seven people who had boarded the raft, ten made it to shore.
The incident sparked outrage across France, and eventually reached the ears of Théodore Géricault.
Géricault, at the time a relatively unknown artist, had an idea. He would paint the raft of the Méduse. In preparation, he interviewed two of the survivors. He built a scale replica of the raft. He went to hospitals and morgues, to study the dead and dying and ensure he could properly portray them in a way that would convey the sheer weight of their suffering.
Eighteen months later, Géricault's finished painting was first publicly shown at the 1819 Paris Salon.
The painting sparked outrage and division amongst the French art community.
"Monsieur Géricault seems mistaken. The goal of painting is to speak to the soul and the eyes, not to repel," one art critic, a Monsieur Coupin, was quoted as saying. Others praised the work for its social commentary, the juxtaposition between its classical composition and its contemporary subject matter, and its blunt depiction of humanity.
Géricault died at the age of thirty-two. Not long after his death, in 1824, the Louvre purchased the painting.
One-hundred-and-ninety years later, the painting now known as The Raft of the Medusa became the first thing to ever worm true meaning inside the soul of an eleven year-old girl named Luanne Grasset, who was visiting the Louvre while on a family vacation.
A bit under seven years later, an eighteen year-old Luanne Grasset sat at her desk, thinking of the woman who had boarded the raft.
Margaret Grasset sat at a dressing table, idly swishing a glass of wine. Behind her, on the other side of the room, the door leading out of her bedroom. In front of her on the table sat a sketchbook, strategically blocked from the doorway's view, open to a drawing depicting a hooded boy struggling with a noose around his neck, hanging from some kind of... board. Above the boy was the title 'Study of Sean Davidson, for Gericault project'.
A knock on the door, which of course, Margaret was expecting.
"Noreen said you wanted to talk?" A muffled voice on the other side said.
"Mhm. Come in."
The door creaked open, and Luanne Grasset stepped inside. Margaret made eye contact with the girl's reflection in the dressing table mirror.
A few seconds of silence.
"...So, um-" Luanne started, before being cut off by her mother's voice.
"So, I've been thinking... Luanne, have you ever considered, hmm..." she paused, "going into the arts, instead of art history."
Luanne broke eye contact with her mother's reflection and shifted her weight uncomfortably.
"Because, I just so happened to catch a glimpse of some of your sketches, and I talked about them with John Edwards next door. He's how I know Adriana De Moura. He said," she took a sip of wine, "that with a little bit of, hmm, development and... paint, he thinks they might really be something. You could be a career artist, how does that sound."
The girl shifted again, crossing her arms.
"Mom, I know you took my sketchbook."
"Oh."
Margaret tapped the drawing with her long dark red fingernails.
"Well," she paused, "hmm. John Edwards says he likes the one of the boy hanging himself, and the one of the... teenagers on the raft. Oh, and," she flipped the page of the sketchbook, "the one you called 'Self Portrait after La Morphiniste'. He found that one... worthy of comment. I offered to let him buy it, but... hm."
Luanne looked into her mother's reflection.
The girl tried to say something, but nothing came out.
"Yes?"
"You -"
"I?"
"You didn't even -"
"Dear, you're shaking."
Luanne closed her eyes and took a single, shuddering breath in.
"Just let me - let me talk, mom. You didn't even - you didn't even ask, you just - you just..."
"I just?"
"- PLEASE FUCKING STOP," Luanne spat out. She could feel her makeup starting to run. "YOU JUST - you tried to fucking sell it, l-like I don't even fucking exist, l-ike I'm just something to show off-"
"Listen, dear -"
"- NO, YOU FUCKING LISTEN. T-this isn't just a fucking hobby for me, this isn't just some fucking way for me to get famous, and this isn't just some vehicle for my personality, o-okay? This is all - this is everything to me. This is how I breathe."
Margaret took a sip of wine and raised her eyebrows lightly.
"Mom, I'm eighteen. I'm an adult. It's my sketchbook. Just give it back."
"Fine," she said grabbing the sketchbook with her non-wineglass hand and limply holding it halfway over her shoulder.
Luanne walked across the room. She began reaching for the book, before Margaret pulled it away.
"Actually, one last thing. Don't think I didn't see all those nude sketches."
"They're figure drawings," Luanne said, reaching all the way forward and snatching the sketchbook from her mother's hand. "Studies. For practice."
"Sure," Margaret said, like she didn't actually believe the girl.
"I'm not doing this."
Luanne walked out, not even bothering to close the door behind her.
A knock on the door, which of course, Margaret was expecting.
"Noreen said you wanted to talk?" A muffled voice on the other side said.
"Mhm. Come in."
The door creaked open, and Luanne Grasset stepped inside. Margaret made eye contact with the girl's reflection in the dressing table mirror.
A few seconds of silence.
"...So, um-" Luanne started, before being cut off by her mother's voice.
"So, I've been thinking... Luanne, have you ever considered, hmm..." she paused, "going into the arts, instead of art history."
Luanne broke eye contact with her mother's reflection and shifted her weight uncomfortably.
"Because, I just so happened to catch a glimpse of some of your sketches, and I talked about them with John Edwards next door. He's how I know Adriana De Moura. He said," she took a sip of wine, "that with a little bit of, hmm, development and... paint, he thinks they might really be something. You could be a career artist, how does that sound."
The girl shifted again, crossing her arms.
"Mom, I know you took my sketchbook."
"Oh."
Margaret tapped the drawing with her long dark red fingernails.
"Well," she paused, "hmm. John Edwards says he likes the one of the boy hanging himself, and the one of the... teenagers on the raft. Oh, and," she flipped the page of the sketchbook, "the one you called 'Self Portrait after La Morphiniste'. He found that one... worthy of comment. I offered to let him buy it, but... hm."
Luanne looked into her mother's reflection.
The girl tried to say something, but nothing came out.
"Yes?"
"You -"
"I?"
"You didn't even -"
"Dear, you're shaking."
Luanne closed her eyes and took a single, shuddering breath in.
"Just let me - let me talk, mom. You didn't even - you didn't even ask, you just - you just..."
"I just?"
"- PLEASE FUCKING STOP," Luanne spat out. She could feel her makeup starting to run. "YOU JUST - you tried to fucking sell it, l-like I don't even fucking exist, l-ike I'm just something to show off-"
"Listen, dear -"
"- NO, YOU FUCKING LISTEN. T-this isn't just a fucking hobby for me, this isn't just some fucking way for me to get famous, and this isn't just some vehicle for my personality, o-okay? This is all - this is everything to me. This is how I breathe."
Margaret took a sip of wine and raised her eyebrows lightly.
"Mom, I'm eighteen. I'm an adult. It's my sketchbook. Just give it back."
"Fine," she said grabbing the sketchbook with her non-wineglass hand and limply holding it halfway over her shoulder.
Luanne walked across the room. She began reaching for the book, before Margaret pulled it away.
"Actually, one last thing. Don't think I didn't see all those nude sketches."
"They're figure drawings," Luanne said, reaching all the way forward and snatching the sketchbook from her mother's hand. "Studies. For practice."
"Sure," Margaret said, like she didn't actually believe the girl.
"I'm not doing this."
Luanne walked out, not even bothering to close the door behind her.
Sometimes, when she was struck by a quote, Luanne would write it down in her sketchbook. This had happened enough during the last four-ish years of her life for the book to have its own few-page section dedicated to quotations. There had been a stint of time (about two years) in which it had gone neglected, but it had more than doubled in size during the past few months.
Her pencil scratched against the paper.
"When I was cast, I was working on a piece. I was just doing the sketches. I went outside in the middle of the night and I stood in front of my house and I looked down the street. It was very late so most of the lights were out. You could see the stars in Whittree, but I went when it was overcast. After dark, the color goes out of everything. It's all grey and blue and black. And that's what I wanted to paint. The road, the houses, the trees and grass and sky, and all of it just grey and blue and black. The sort of road where one night you just start walking and you could end up anywhere. I don't know that Andy Warhol would have approved." - Evans
Her pencil scratched against the paper.
"When I was cast, I was working on a piece. I was just doing the sketches. I went outside in the middle of the night and I stood in front of my house and I looked down the street. It was very late so most of the lights were out. You could see the stars in Whittree, but I went when it was overcast. After dark, the color goes out of everything. It's all grey and blue and black. And that's what I wanted to paint. The road, the houses, the trees and grass and sky, and all of it just grey and blue and black. The sort of road where one night you just start walking and you could end up anywhere. I don't know that Andy Warhol would have approved." - Evans
Lisa Gherardini was born in Florence, Italy on June 15, 1479, as the eldest child of Antonmaria di Noldo Gherardini and Lucrezia del Caccia. She had seven siblings; three brothers (Giovangualberto, Francesco, and Noldo), and three sisters (Ginevra, and two whose names have been lost). The Gherardini family was part of the era's rough equivalent of a middle class, and owned a few farms, with Antonmaria being a farmer, and Lucrezia being a farmer's wife (Antonmaria's third wife, in fact).
Lisa's early life probably passed by relatively uneventfully. She did not attend school, or get to do anything fun or interesting or fulfilling or humanizing even though she probably wanted to. At the age of fifteen, she married Francesco di Bartolomeo di Zanobi del Giocondo, and became Lisa del Giocondo. Francesco worked as a merchant, and Lisa worked as his third wife (the first two had presumably died at some point). Lisa's marriage dowry was a meagre 170 florins and one of her family's farms, which meant either she and Francesco thought they loved each other, or that Lisa's family was struggling financially. Francesco was moderately wealthy, accruing enough money even to commission artists to paint portraits of Lisa.
Lisa had five children (Piero, Camilla, Andrea, Giocondo, and Marietta). Camilla and Marietta became nuns, and Camilla (but not Marietta) died at age 18. Nobody's sure what happened to the other three kids. Francesco started making connections, and was elected to Florence's local government a few times. He also maybe knew the Medicis.
Francesco then died in a plague. Lisa might have died four years later on July 15, 1542. She also might have lived until 1551. Nobody's really sure.
Eventually, one of the portraits that Francesco had commissioned for her ended up at the Louvre.
A few hundred years later, on August 12th, 1911, the painting went missing. Someone had stolen it. The police suspected that a poet named Guillaume Apollinaire was the person responsible, and so they arrested him. Under questioning, Apollinaire implicated his artist friend Pablo as an accomplice in the theft. Pablo was then arrested too.
Anyways, it turns out neither Apollinaire nor Pablo had anything to do with stealing the painting. Some guy who wanted to bring it back to Italy had grabbed it off the wall and brought it back to Italy. A few years later, he was arrested, and the painting was brought back to France. It arrived back at the Louvre in January 1914.
A bit under one-hundred years later, a nine year-old girl named Noreen Grasset, who was visiting the Louvre while on a family vacation, saw the portrait of Lisa del Giocondo from afar while seated on her dad's shoulders. She thought seeing it in real life was pretty much the coolest thing ever.
Simultaneously, an eleven year-old girl named Luanne, sister of Noreen Grasset, found herself decidedly underwhelmed by the portrait of Lisa del Giocondo. However, she liked the study sketch Raphael had drawn of the portrait soon after it had been completed.
A bit under three days later, Luanne, now visiting the Musée National d'Art Moderne, saw a painting by Pablo, the man wrongfully arrested for stealing a portrait of Lisa del Giocondo.
Lisa's early life probably passed by relatively uneventfully. She did not attend school, or get to do anything fun or interesting or fulfilling or humanizing even though she probably wanted to. At the age of fifteen, she married Francesco di Bartolomeo di Zanobi del Giocondo, and became Lisa del Giocondo. Francesco worked as a merchant, and Lisa worked as his third wife (the first two had presumably died at some point). Lisa's marriage dowry was a meagre 170 florins and one of her family's farms, which meant either she and Francesco thought they loved each other, or that Lisa's family was struggling financially. Francesco was moderately wealthy, accruing enough money even to commission artists to paint portraits of Lisa.
Lisa had five children (Piero, Camilla, Andrea, Giocondo, and Marietta). Camilla and Marietta became nuns, and Camilla (but not Marietta) died at age 18. Nobody's sure what happened to the other three kids. Francesco started making connections, and was elected to Florence's local government a few times. He also maybe knew the Medicis.
Francesco then died in a plague. Lisa might have died four years later on July 15, 1542. She also might have lived until 1551. Nobody's really sure.
Eventually, one of the portraits that Francesco had commissioned for her ended up at the Louvre.
A few hundred years later, on August 12th, 1911, the painting went missing. Someone had stolen it. The police suspected that a poet named Guillaume Apollinaire was the person responsible, and so they arrested him. Under questioning, Apollinaire implicated his artist friend Pablo as an accomplice in the theft. Pablo was then arrested too.
Anyways, it turns out neither Apollinaire nor Pablo had anything to do with stealing the painting. Some guy who wanted to bring it back to Italy had grabbed it off the wall and brought it back to Italy. A few years later, he was arrested, and the painting was brought back to France. It arrived back at the Louvre in January 1914.
A bit under one-hundred years later, a nine year-old girl named Noreen Grasset, who was visiting the Louvre while on a family vacation, saw the portrait of Lisa del Giocondo from afar while seated on her dad's shoulders. She thought seeing it in real life was pretty much the coolest thing ever.
Simultaneously, an eleven year-old girl named Luanne, sister of Noreen Grasset, found herself decidedly underwhelmed by the portrait of Lisa del Giocondo. However, she liked the study sketch Raphael had drawn of the portrait soon after it had been completed.
A bit under three days later, Luanne, now visiting the Musée National d'Art Moderne, saw a painting by Pablo, the man wrongfully arrested for stealing a portrait of Lisa del Giocondo.
Luanne stood, looking up at the night sky. There were no stars in the night sky, because Luanne lived in Miami and not a small town in Oklahoma. There was, however, a full moon in the night sky. Luanne looked up at the moon.
Somewhere on the surface of the moon, there was an inch-long rectangle made of ceramic. It had been left there by Apollo 12.
On the surface of the inch-long rectangle made of ceramic, there were six pieces of art created by some notable artists during the late '60s. The title of the ceramic rectangle was Moon Museum.
On the screen of Luanne's phone, there was a picture of the Moon Museum. She looked down at it.
On both the Moon Museum on the screen of Luanne's phone, and on the Moon Museum on the surface of the moon, there were some interconnected lines resembling a circuit board, created by John Chamberlain. To the right of that, there was a cubist reinterpretation of Mickey Mouse, created by Claes Oldenburg. To the right of that, there was a computer-generated matrix, created by Forrest Myers. Above that, there was a black square with white lines in it, created by David Novros. To the left of that, there was a single black line, created by Robert Rauschenberg. Luanne liked Robert Rauschenberg, because she knew he usually intended to say something relatively deep with his art. Usually, he made collages. He won a Grammy for designing the cover of Speaking in Tongues by the Talking Heads, or maybe just Talking Heads, Luanne wasn't really sure, she wasn't a music person. In 1998, the Vatican commissioned him to create a piece to be displayed in Padre Pio Liturgical Hall. The Vatican then rejected his piece because it used a satellite dish as a metaphor for God.
To the left of the single black line created by Robert Rauschenberg, there was a cartoon penis drawn by Andy Warhol.
Luanne looked back up at the moon and frowned.
Somewhere on the surface of the moon, there was an inch-long rectangle made of ceramic. It had been left there by Apollo 12.
On the surface of the inch-long rectangle made of ceramic, there were six pieces of art created by some notable artists during the late '60s. The title of the ceramic rectangle was Moon Museum.
On the screen of Luanne's phone, there was a picture of the Moon Museum. She looked down at it.
On both the Moon Museum on the screen of Luanne's phone, and on the Moon Museum on the surface of the moon, there were some interconnected lines resembling a circuit board, created by John Chamberlain. To the right of that, there was a cubist reinterpretation of Mickey Mouse, created by Claes Oldenburg. To the right of that, there was a computer-generated matrix, created by Forrest Myers. Above that, there was a black square with white lines in it, created by David Novros. To the left of that, there was a single black line, created by Robert Rauschenberg. Luanne liked Robert Rauschenberg, because she knew he usually intended to say something relatively deep with his art. Usually, he made collages. He won a Grammy for designing the cover of Speaking in Tongues by the Talking Heads, or maybe just Talking Heads, Luanne wasn't really sure, she wasn't a music person. In 1998, the Vatican commissioned him to create a piece to be displayed in Padre Pio Liturgical Hall. The Vatican then rejected his piece because it used a satellite dish as a metaphor for God.
To the left of the single black line created by Robert Rauschenberg, there was a cartoon penis drawn by Andy Warhol.
Luanne looked back up at the moon and frowned.
Luanne looked down at the blank page. Then, she looked up at the mirror.
She looked back down at the blank page and sketched a little bit. When she next looked up at the mirror, she saw something different (probably).
She looked back down at the blank page and sketched a little bit. When she next looked up at the mirror, she saw something different (probably).