#wentworth gallery

[weberlifedesign]

Def Leppard Rick Allen Talks Playing Drums and Fine Art

[vox-anglosphere]

The essence of England: afternoon tea served on Royal Albert china

[fullaccessmagazine]

Kiss' Paul Stanley Launches Fine Art Tour

Most people know Paul Stanley as one of the co-founders of the iconic Rock Group KISS. And quite honestly, after 50 years of being the main front man and guitarist. It’s what people know. But some people may not know that the very talented and creative artist has more talent then what he does onstage. Paul has been a painter for 20 years and tells me how he got started by saying, “I was going…

[henryandkalcavillsdogpack41482]

Happy Alive Day Rick Allen 2022!

Wentworth Art Gallery, King Of Prussia, PA January 14, 2018 (8th Year Anniversary of Eating Disorder Recovery)

Not Seen, But Since It Was My Turn I Was Right There On The Side, He Was Signing A Few Of My Items When Rick Did This Instagram Shot.

What I Bought For My First Visit

Wentworth Art Gallery, King Of Prussia, PA January 18, 2019

[ohblackdiamond]

the story of mandate (conclusion)

Part I is here. Here is the completely signed magazine.

I went to a Paul event thanks to my dear friend @elrohare and I was a woman on a mission. This was my holy grail, my twelve labors of Hercules, my ultimate sacrifice of good sense, my Mandate, if you will. Paul is a man of constant sorrow who's seen trouble all his days. Paul had not known trouble until he saw my face again a mere two months after his last time.

Unlike Gene, who will randomly set a date to hand out his crap for hilarious prices, Ace, who will appear at any 500-1000 seater across the country and balefully advertise his meet and greets onstage, and Peter, who will roll out of bed every six months for a horror convention, Paul does his events at Wentworth galleries across the country. Paul is basically like Pokemon Red's Porygon. You can get him, but he'll take everything you have.

I was prepared. I had done the legwork and the paperwork. Part of my purchase included an autographed item. (Please note that this is not nearly the entirety of the, uh, Paul Stanley Experience, if you will-- this is only the Mandate aspect of it. There was more!)

Paul remembered both of us. "It's been awhile."

"Yeah, couple months, since February, yeah." I'm actually sort of not shocked he remembered us since neither of us look like typical KISS fans. There is also a very large height difference between us, so we are distinctive. We talk. I manage some conversation, some of which is sort of funny. But I'm not here to provide Paul with wit and candor. I'm here for Mandate, which he has already by that point seen the back of even with me trying to cover the naked men in the tub with my phone. He has already also seen the front of it, with its doodled-on-by-Gene cover. He has seen it open, because I had to set it down in order for us to take our picture together. He has probably spent the whole rest of our conversation leading up to this determining what to say to the lone weirdo that has not given him RARO, his solo album, his other solo album, the KISS comic book (mint condition), or various and sundry other KISS collectibles.

He has hit on it. He gestures to the president of Wentworth who is, incidentally, the one that's borrowing my phone to take our pictures. He comes closer as Paul shows him the magazine, along with me.

"Gene drew on it [the front cover of my copy]," I say.

"Mandate... this is the very first magazine we were ever in." (Peter said the same thing in his first book. They are both technically incorrect, but far be it from me to correct Paul Stanley on things that happened before I was born-- and to be honest, knowing what I know about how slow it could end up being to go from writing a feature for a monthly magazine to it actually being published, it wouldn't surprise me at all if they'd done the magazine some months prior to it being on the shelves).

"Our manager at the time said he could get us into a magazine. We didn't know it was a gay magazine. I mean, whatever you're into, but... ["I wasn't," basically, though I don't know if he said those two words specifically]....." as he flips, completely needlessly, through the pictures, sort of slowly, until he gets to page eight and page nine, where all three of his bandmates have signed in black Sharpie. "Of course, they blew me [the photo] up. ... And Gene drew on it."

I finally manage to pipe up.

"Yeah, Gene texted you about it, purportedly, anyway...."

"Yeah, he did."

"He did? Really?"

He looked like he was weirdly thoughtful. Well, sounded like he was. Maybe even a little bit amused. I had a hard time looking too hard at him while this was going on, and I found myself looking more at the naked men he was flipping through. But I had my plan and I would not be too distracted. I had brought my own black Sharpie, since I knew he had a penchant for signing in silver (this is because his Wentworth artwork always comes with an inscription on black paper that he writes on in silver). The Sharpie was right there and, possibly because he was keenly aware of my level of distress at the thought of Mandate being signed in a different color, he obediently took it and signed it and shut it, and handed it back to me. My smile could've broken through my dimples.

Triumph complete. Thank you, @elrohare for again allowing me the pleasure of coming with, and I was glad to plus-one and for once, return the favor.

Thank you, Mr. Paul Stanley of KISS. And thank you to Peter, Gene (especially Gene!), and Ace. I hope Mandate gave you all an unexpected blast from the past, and I really wish I'd told Paul that Peter quite appreciated the ass on the guy on the front cover. Maybe next time.

[history-of-fashion]

1870 Fannie (née Heriot), Lady Wentworth and possibly Maria Colclough Turner (née Heriot, later Blyth) (photo by W. & D. Downey)

(National Portrait Gallery, London)

[gogmstuff]

Early 1730s dresses and portraits (from top to bottom) -

ca. 1732 The Beautiful Greek (La Belle Grecque) by Nicolas Lancret (Wallace Collection - London, UK). From their Web site 1429X1960, The complex sleeves open at the top like they would in Russian court dresses a century later.

ca. 1732 Watson-Wentworth and Finch Families by Charles Philips (Yale Center for British Art, Yale University - New Haven, Connecticut, USA) persons. From Wikimedia 4902X3094. The décolletage-filling fichu would become prominent in the Louis XVI era, but just about every grown up woman wears one along with a fastened bodice, round skirt, and apron. The heads of every female are covered by a cap, veil, or hat.

1733 Marie-Geneviève le Tonnellier de Breteuil by French school (attributed to Alexis Simon Belle) (auctioned by Sala de Ventas).From invaluable.com/auction-lot/18th-century-french-school-alexis-simon-belle-a-646-c-2074af1b03 1940X3362.Round skirts flourish on both shores of the channel.

ca. 1730-1735 Lady by Joseph Highmore (National Gallery of Art - Washington, DC, USA). From their Web site 1148X1495. The cuffed outer sleeves are stuffed by under-sleeves and the dress lining has a very subdued pink contrasting with the gold color of the other layer.

1734 Princess Sophie Dorothea with Friedrich Wilhelm by Antoine Pesne (location ?). From Wikimedia1633X2611. Textiles with large patterns characterize the early 1700s. Her dress has a square neckline.suggesting French influence.

ca. 1734 Wilhelmine of Prussia, Margravine of Brandenburg-Bayreuth by Antoine Pesne (location ?). From Wikimedia 829X11221. The silver brocade over-bodice has a deep V neckline filled in with scoop neckline.

1734 Madame Marie du Tour Vuillard (1695- 1759), née Robin by Louis Michel Van Loo (Tajan - 12-12-12 auction Lot 37), From their Web site; fixed spots & flaws w Pshop 2487X3151.

[blessyouhawkeye]

financially i understand the cw's decision to put heatwave and captain cold on legends of tomorrow (fan favourites so you pull an audience of people who want to see them get up to time travel shenanigans, plus the pull of people who know dom and wentworth from prison break) but creatively nothing makes me angrier. taking two of the most prolific members of the flash's rogues gallery and putting them on a time ship instead of you know. fucking fighting the flash. is a CRAZY choice and if i was on the writing team for the flash when that happened i'd be killing

[curiousb]

📩 Simblr question of the day: You can answer one or both parts of this question!

1️⃣ Part one: If you make Story posts, what do you do for scenes? Do you build them yourself, do you download lots from the gallery or do you download them from someone online?

2️⃣ Part two: If you make Gameplay/Legacy posts, what do you do for a house? Do you build it yourself, download a home from the gallery or do you download them from someone online? Additionally, do you build onto that home or demolish it and rebuild the house when needed? (E.G When another child enters the picture or someone moves in)

❎ If you do none of those for either half, what do you do? Do you use someone else's save file? (WIndbrook by Folking, Willow Creek + Magnolia Promenade by Theneighborhoodsave, Silent Pines by Silentpinessave... etc)

( freely share this SQOTD around, anon or not, and use the hashtag " SQOTD " ~ 💛 )

Thanks for thinking of me, @melsie-sims! I think my posts count as 'Gameplay', with maybe a bit of 'Story' thrown in?

My 'hood is pretty large, and I play each family in (not very strict) rotation, so I've needed a lot of housing for my Sims!

Some homes I've built myself from scratch: the Crawfords' beach house; Cassandra's Victorian semi; Marmaduke and Henrietta's townhouse; the retirement community; the Bennets' Victorian villa; Erasmus and Edward's, and Clara and Daniel's, compact residences; or the studio apartments for recent graduates).

I love building, but find it very time consuming, as I'm such a perfectionist and everything has to be just so! So, I'm always happy to find - preferably - CC-free/low-CC lots that fit my general aesthetic (compact, with a more European feel), which I can then customise as required.

Hence, I'm using quite a few residential lots that I've downloaded, many from my favourite builders @kayleigh-83 (Eleanor and Esther's chalet, apartments for new graduates), @deedee-sims (the family homes of the Eltons, Martins, Morlands, Wickhams and Willoughbys, Anna and Bennet's townhouse, Miles and Robert's bungalow, Jasper and Georgiana's house) and @honeywell-mts (most of the original family homes, including those of the Bertrams, Bingleys, Churchills, Darcys, Dashwoods, Knightleys, Smiths, Steeles, Tilneys and Wentworths).

I almost always make some modifications though, from simple switches of walls/floors/windows/doors/fences, right up to tweaking the footprint or completely revamping the internal floor plan, to better suit the family I have in mind. I'd say the split is about 50/50, between residential lots I've built myself (I'm just not using many of these yet), and those I've downloaded and modified. I don't use any money cheats, so if my Sims don't have the funds to decorate, furnish or expand, then the house stays as it is and they have to make do - hence my Sims' homes can look quite bare! As they go through life, and accumulate some savings, I start personalising their homes. But, I try to avoid completely remodelling the structure of a house while Sims are living in it, as I like to have a 'clean' copy of every lot (stored in the catalog), so that I can easily replace them if they become glitched, without having to rebuild from scratch. More often, I will just move a family to a more suitable home, if their circumstances change.

[ninja-muse]

Another reading month that wasn’t my strongest ever, numbers-wise. My excuses this month?

Weather and latitude, since I get a good bit of my reading in while waiting for or travelling on public transit and it’s really difficult to do that when it’s dark, raining, or the bus is full of people because—did I mention the rain?

Me going “to heck with reading goals” mid-month and signing out 800 pages of history which I knew was going to take me weeks.

But eh, whatever. It’s been a very enjoyable reading month apart from that! I finally read my sixth/last Austen novel and I think it might be my favourite now? I absolutely see why booklr had a collected meltdown over the Netflix movie. No way could that set-up do the story justice. And I got my hands on A Restless Truth at last, and rediscovered my love of Alan Smale, and read my last of the Oseman novels also.

Watch for The Great Believers near the top of my December wrap-up, by the way. I’m nearly done and it’s good.

Persuasion - Jane Austen Anne Eliot dutifully turned down Frederick Wentworth but eight years later, he’s back in town—and courting a neighbour. - warning: misogynist society, agism, some fatphobia Hot Moon - Alan Smale Vivian Carter just wants her quiet Apollo mission. Unfortunately, the Soviets attack almost as soon as she hits orbit, and it goes downhill from there. - Chinese-American, Black, and Latino secondary characters - warning: blood, battle injuries Now You See Us - Balli Kaur Jaswal Three Filipina maids in Singapore find their daily injustices brought to the fore when a fourth maid is falsely accused of murder. Out in March. - Asian cast, 🏳️‍🌈 POV character, minor 🏳️‍🌈 character, Indo-Singaporean author  - warning: abuse, xenophobia, homophobia, transphobia A Restless Truth - Freya Marske Maud has until her boat docks to catch a killer and retrieve an artifact, but she’ll need a team and a whole lot of creativity. - 🏳️‍🌈 protagonists, 🏳️‍🌈 secondary characters, Black secondary character, 🏳️‍🌈 author

Solitaire - Alice Oseman Tori’s life is boring and pointless and she doesn’t get why her friends care—or why everyone think Solitaire’s pranks are funny, not dangerous. - 🏳️‍🌈 secondary character, 🏳️‍🌈 author - warning: accurate depiction of depression; suicidal thoughts, homophobic characters

Be the Serpent - Seanan McGuire Toby’s happily married and due for a break. Unfortunately, an old friend might just be the worst enemy she’s ever faced. - 🏳️‍🌈 secondary characters, 🏳️‍🌈 author - warning: blood, violence, death of a child

The Collectors - Philip Pullman with Tom Duxbury (Illustrator) Two art collectors discuss some recent acquisitions with otherworldly provenance.

She-Hulk, Vol. 1 - Rainbow Rowell Jen Walters is rebuilding her life again when an old friend mysteriously returns—from the dead?

Currently reading:

Beneath Another Sky - Norman Davies A world tour of countries subsumed by the colonial West and the ways they’re rebuilding after. - warning: colonial mindsets

The Great Believers - Rebecca Makkai Yale is trying for a massive bequest to his gallery while navigating a relationship and watching his friends die of AIDS. Thirty years later, Fiona is searching for her daughter and reckoning with how Yale’s friend-group has affected her life. - largely 🏳️‍🌈 cast, Jewish protagonist, Jewish secondary character, Black secondary character - warning: deaths from AIDS, period-typical homophobia, including apathy and hate crimes

The Penguin Complete Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle Victorian detective stories - major disabled character
 - warning: colonialism, racism


Stats


Monthly total: 8
 Yearly total: 136 + 1 
Queer books: 4 
Authors of colour: 1
 Books by women: 6
 Canadian authors: 0
 Off the TBR shelves: 1
 DNFs: 0

January February March April May June July August September October

[mybeingthere]

Antoinette Ferwerda is an Australian artist had a journey with many twists and turns – studying visual communication, working in the pharmaceutical industry, dipping her toes into the fashion world – she now creates original artworks. In Sydney Antoinette is represented by Wentworth Galleries.

[themuseumwithoutwalls]

MWW Artwork of the Day (4/8/23) Edward Burne-Jones (British, 1833–1898) The Entombment (1879) Green, blue, brown & touches of reddish gouache, heightened w/ white gouache on green paper, 30.5 x 47.6 cm. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York (Gift of Mrs. Darwin S. Morse)

Burne-Jones conveys deep emotion in this design for George Howard, 9th Earl of Carlisle. When the earl’s father died in 1879, he planned a monument to his parents, Mary and Charles Wentworth Howard, at Lanercost Priory, Cumbria. A bronze Nativity plaque commemorated his mother, who died in 1834 after giving birth to her son, and an Entombment honored his father. For the latter, a confined space filled with curving forms encloses the mourners and expresses a profound sense of grief, at once Christian and universal. The sculptor Sir Joseph Edgar Boehm (1834–1890) translated the designs into bronze.

Burne-Jones is one of the featured artists in this MWW gallery/album: https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.1567228726715824&type=3

[ohblackdiamond]

bite the hand that bleeds (ace/paul, pg-13)

Summary: Now all that doesn’t matter. KISS is over. The makeup sold. Paul won’t ever tour again. The big payout Ace had hoped for evaporated. All that Ace could possibly want, could possibly hope for, are the last scraps of Paul’s generosity. Paul’s mouth twitches as he thinks about it, and then he reaches for his phone again.

Paul gets an unexpected art collector at a gallery show, and ends up entertaining his old bandmate for tea.

Notes: Part of a fic swap with @elrohare (prompt: afternoon tea). Please check out her lovely Whenever You're Ready (I'm Here) for a beautiful take on the same setting.

“Come now, gentlemen Your love is all I crave You'll still be in the circus When I'm laughing, laughing in my grave” -“Memo from Turner,” Mick Jagger

Forty meet and greets, that’s the evening’s agenda, with room for maybe five or six impulse buyers at the tail end.  Christian, Wentworth’s president, sends him a hard copy the morning of, with notes, though he usually only glances over it. He only really keeps an eye out for the special requests, so he can remember they’re coming up– maybe someone with cancer, or a whole family wanting a picture with him, or a video message to a kid barely out of basic training and stationed overseas– but the bulk, the very bulk of the meet and greets are simple, easy to handle. A couple signatures, a couple pictures, and a smile, and they’re mostly on their way. It takes so little to make them happy, so little. The kids never really changed– they just went from piggybanks to 401ks. 

Forty meet and greets. He likes doing these much better than the ones for KISS. He likes not sharing attention with Gene.  Most especially, even now, he likes the girls, not for anything carnal, but just that small, secret pleasure of still being wanted at the tender age of seventy-two.

He scans through the list, though he never remembers the names, just some of the faces. The names give their age  away anyway, Generation X’s finest crop of Lisas and Erics and– hm, a Paul, too. A Paul Daniel. 

It’s just coincidence. He sets his agenda down on his hotel bedside table and tries to think no more about it. He’s got four hours to kill before he needs to get down there, anyway. Maybe he’ll order something on his phone. He taps the screen, checking his messages first. One from Erin he’ll answer later. One from Gene from about a week ago he still has no intention of answering.  The phone vibrates in his hand as he’s just about to set it aside– a call, not a text. Christian.

“Hello?”

“I hate to bother you, Paul, but it’s about the event,” Christian says. He sounds a little scattered. Paul resists the urge to snap back at him– of course it’s about the event– letting him go on. Sometimes it’s hard to summon up the energy to respond much. Sometimes, even four months out from his last show, it still hurts to talk. “One of the people on the guest list.”

“If you’re thinking there’ll be some trouble, then you can handle it.”

“It’s not the usual trouble.” After ten or more years of this, Christian ought to know the usual trouble well enough by now. The stalker types, the seriously unhinged ones that believe that buying a painting entitles them to his true friendship, or more. The expectant ones, the oversharing, desperate ones, the nuts that have to be escorted out.  Usually the high price of admission keeps them away, and usually, Paul doesn’t get told they even tried to make an appearance. He has people for that. He should have people for that. “All I can say is that I’m sorry.  We had one of our new consultants– she just started two weeks ago, and she– well, you know how it is, she’s only twenty-four, she had no idea–”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you had a buyer you may not want.”

“Please don’t tell me Eddie Trunk got his fat ass over to D.C.”

Christian actually manages a snort, but the next words make the breath catch in Paul’s throat. 

“No. It’s Ace Frehley.”

– 

Paul tells Christian he’ll call him back when he ought to tell him to issue Ace a refund.

He hasn’t seen Ace in six years now. Oh, he’s seen Ace– in a parade of humiliating Tiktoks and Youtube shorts, slurring interviews, horrific concerts– but he hasn’t seen Ace. He’s heard from Ace– the occasional, completely unanswered text– but the last time he listened to him on the phone was months back. Ace’s Hail Mary, his final, desperate attempt to get let onstage for MSG. Ace had fumbled it. Ace fumbled everything. 

Now all that doesn’t matter. KISS is over. The makeup sold. Paul won’t ever tour again. The big payout Ace had hoped for evaporated. All that Ace could possibly want, could possibly hope for, are the last scraps of Paul’s generosity. Paul’s mouth twitches as he thinks about it, and then he reaches for his phone again. 

“Have you contacted him? When did this happen?”

“Not since the purchase. That was two days ago.”

“And no one checked until now?  You had Ace Frehley buy a painting and nobody noticed for two days?”

“It was on his girlfriend’s credit card.”

“That’s fucking pathetic.” Cancel it. Refund it. That’s what he should be saying. “He does that shit to people. Uses them for whatever favors he can. Uses them all up.”

“What do you want us to do?”

Paul exhales.

If it was refunded, Ace would go to the press. Ace would tell every damn news website in the world that Paul Stanley wouldn’t sell him a painting. He’d get all sorts of publicity. The avatars had gotten bad press, not that Paul gave much of a shit anymore, but if Ace capped it all off, had someone else spin it just right… fuck. It could go so well for him. Ace could play it off like a spat-upon peace offering, and he, Paul, would come off like a bitter asshole, denying him not just the band, but five minutes of his time. He couldn’t win. He wouldn’t be able to win. 

“Call him up. Tell him he’s not coming to the gallery.” 

“All right.”

“But tell him he can meet me in an hour in Entyse.” Paul doesn’t even question if they’ll get him on the line. Or if Ace’ll show. “There won’t be any trouble.”

“Okay. Paul, again, all I can do is apologize–”

“What for? I was headed there anyway.”

He hangs up. His phone’s buzzing within ten minutes, texts, this time, and then a call, but he doesn’t so much as glance at the screen. He knows who they’re from. 

– 

Paul walks into Entyse without a reservation and gets seated immediately. It’s not much of a power play; there’s not been any satisfaction on his part in things like that for, oh, forty-five years now. Especially not when Entyse is just the Ritz Carlton’s restaurant, and he only had to head downstairs from his suite. 

They offer him the menus, but all he takes is a Coke and a water. He’d half-expected Ace to get there before him, half-wanted to see him wandering in, all stupid bravado, looking around for the front of house, aware that he’d cheated himself out of every rockstar perk Paul’s going to have the rest of his life. But five minutes, then ten minutes pass. Paul’s just about to get up– he can feel a couple eyes on him at this point, wondering, probably, why he’s alone, with a solid half of them not knowing who he is, probably more– and then he sees Ace out of the corner of his eye, getting led to his table like a pensioner to his nursing home bed. 

That’s not fair. It’s not, unfortunately, even true. Ace is walking about as well as he ever did, which isn’t well at all, struggling against his own instinct to pigeon-toe. He looks fine. He’s lost some weight over the last couple years. He’s in jeans, a black leather jacket, and a cheap Hello Kitty button-down. And sunglasses, which he yanks off as soon as he sits down, pushing them aside on the table. 

“Hey, Paul,” he says.

“Hey.”

It’s not the start he wants. The waiter’s given Ace the drink menu– Ace flips it over immediately and hands it back– and goes into the lunch options, but Ace interrupts him.

“How about tea?”

“The afternoon tea, sir?”

Ace points over to the table across from theirs, where six or seven teenage girls in puffy pastel atrocities are giggling over some tiered tea trays.

“Yeah, what they’ve got.”

The waiter seems completely unruffled. Paul narrows his eyes, looking at Ace– specifically, he’s looking for Ace’s phone– but if he’s got it on him, it must be in his pocket. The waiter pulls out the afternoon tea menus. 

“We have two options for tea.  The afternoon tea, and the royal tea. Your selections of sandwiches and sweets are completely customizable. The royal tea does include a glass of rose wine and–”

“Paulie, he’s trying to upsell you,” Ace says with a snort. 

“I don’t remember saying I would pay.”

“You invited me. And I did buy your painting. That’s how it works, right?” Ace turns to the waiter after a quick glance at the menu. “Gimme the afternoon tea. Uh. Darjeeling. Don’t gimme any of the cream puffs or mousse, all right? Just, uh, substitute in more of the scones.”

“And you, sir?”

Paul had been about to get a salad just to spite him, just to show how little time he wants  to spend entertaining him here. Afternoon tea– God, it’s comical. Ridiculous. His youngest had that at her birthday party about three years ago. What the hell is Ace doing? What’s he trying to accomplish?

He doesn’t know. 

“I’ll take the upsell. And jasmine tea. No substitutes on any of the stuff on the tray.”

The waiter nods, heading off at that brisk pace. Ace pushes his hair back behind his ear, and smiles. 

“You got a good crowd coming?”

“Yeah. It’s a good crowd.”

“’S good. I used to sell my art, too.” Ace is so matter-of-fact that Paul can almost feel his own blood pressure start to rise. He can’t ever outright call out arch meanings with Ace, the way he can with Gene, for all he’s sure they’re there. Ace doesn’t have those tells that Gene does. “It was all on the computer. I used to really like to tinker with it. Now all you gotta do is click and put a filter on it.”

“Not very tactile.”

“Nah. I got settings on my– on my webcam now, for when I do interviews. Barely even gotta put on any makeup with how well that filters out all the imperfections.” Ace peers at him. “I could show you sometime. I guess now that KISS is done you–”

“Cut the crap, Ace, and tell me what you want.”

“Nothing.”

“Cut the crap.”

“What’d you get the upsell for, Paul? Since when do you gotta have a drink to deal with me?”

Paul doesn’t answer, just grabs his Coke and takes a long swig. He used to be able to do Gene this way. Silent treatment him for hours and hours. This last tour– the last tour– it had gotten unbearable for both of them. Each show another nail in the coffin, a relief as much as it was an agony. Another shaving down of whatever was left of their friendship. 

He hadn’t even seen Gene since the last show. It hadn’t even occurred to him until just now. 

Ace takes a couple sips of his water. He’s not looking at Paul. His gaze is towards those teenage girls. 

“My fiancee’s got a girl about that age,” he says quietly. “She’s got a friend that dresses kinda like that, real frilly. She brought her over to the house once. Call themselves Lolitas or something. I don’t get it.”

“It’s Japanese.” Two words more than he’d meant to give him. 

“Oh.” Ace nods, glancing briefly at his own shirt. “I’d like to get back over there someday. I dunno that I will.”

Probably not. Ace can’t afford to tour outside of the States. Paul tries to swallow his next comment, but he doesn’t manage.

“I’m not touring again, Ace.”

“I know. I’m not asking you to.”

“I’m not helping you tour.”

“I’m not asking for that, either.”

“Then what are you–”

The waiter reemerges, first with their teas and then, immediately afterward, with the trays, laden with tiny sandwiches and sweets. Ace’s grin only widens, and he immediately snatches the smoked salmon sandwich from his tea tray and sticks the entire thing in his mouth. One bite. 

“Fuck, that was good. Are you still on the vegetarian bit? Can I have yours?”

“No. No, I’m not.” Paul takes his own salmon sandwich from his tray just to spite him, eating it more slowly. But three bites and it’s just as gone as Ace’s. Pretty good. It occurs to him, briefly, that Ace probably thinks Olive Garden is fine dining at this point in his life. It would be sad if he hadn’t done it to himself.

Ace moves onto the quiche. This one, he cuts up into raggedy thirds, stabbing each with his fork. 

“Caramelized onions on top. Y’know, my manager, he’s something of a chef, but–”

“Tell me what you want, Ace.” 

Ace pulls out his phone. Paul stiffens before he realizes Ace is just checking his texts.

“You never answered me. I didn’t think you would.” He lifts his eyes from the phone, setting it down on the table, face up. Ace’s got the font set as large as he can get it. Same as him. “What I want is company, Paulie. I want your company so damn bad I’ll pay you for it.”

“Like hell. You want an in.” The salmon feels like it’s about to come back up in his throat. “You want me to endorse you.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“You want a photo with me. Maybe a soundbyte for Youtube.” Paul forces himself to exhale. “Your album barely sold. KISS is gone and you’re still out there in the clubs. So you want a little more buzz. Maybe I’d help you get ten more butts in the seats at those fucking dive bars you play–”

“I’m not at fucking dive bars.”

“When was the last time you sold out an arena? I’ll wait. No. I know.”

Ace’s mouth is pinched, face just a little flushed. He eats the pieces of his quiche in rapid succession, then starts savagely on the remaining sandwiches, just grabbing them off the tray and stuffing them in his mouth. Then he starts on the tea, taking a quick swallow without the cream and sugars Paul remembers him always adding in. 

“Same as the last time you didn’t sound like shit.” He grabs the tongs, dropping in three sugars, then the cream, stirring them, eyes full on Paul’s face, daring him to get up, daring him to leave. “Gene told me what happened to you, back when we toured Australia together. I know all about that.”

“You don’t know shit.”

“You ruined yourself and then you blamed him with it. And he believes it, too. That’s the funny thing.” A swallow. “He was about in tears when he told me. Gene’s a snake, but he’s better than either of us. All he hasn’t sold off yet is his conscience.” 

The tea trays never looked so comical. Silver tiers, pastel sweets, bright-colored sandwiches. He’s focusing on them because there’s nothing else to focus on. Only that Ace wants him to go. Ace wants him to go so that he can feel like he’s won. But Ace hasn’t won anything. His whole life he’s given up everything he ever had like a goddamn fool, then begged the whole world for their scraps. He can’t get front row. He can’t get the Ritz Carlton. He’s lucky he got fifteen minutes of Paul’s time. 

“Gene’s a liar.”

“Not about that.” Another swallow of tea. Paul expects another sharp accusation, but Ace just swaps tactics like credit cards from a billfold. “It doesn’t matter anymore. Just like it doesn’t matter what I play like when I go out there. You… you and Gene took me to see James Brown, for my birthday that time. I remember seeing that old man out there, seeing them put all the capes on him, I thought, they should put him to bed, don’t put him out there, he’s a-a fucking dinosaur, now– but they did. ’Cause he didn’t know what else to do with himself. All he could do was sing all the old songs. Put on the capes. Be a joke.”

“You’re the only joke here.”

“We both are.” Ace keeps eating. Almost all the sandwiches are gone from his tray. He’s onto the scones. “I don’t want an in, Paul. I just want someone I can talk to.”

“Talk to Gene.”

“I can’t.”

“Talk to Peter.”

“He won’t.”

“Why me?”

Ace finishes off the scone. There’s a little butter smeared across his lip.

“You know why.”

It’s the music business. The music business. I don’t owe you friendship. I don’t owe you anything. Doc’s adage, the one he’s scrawled on one of his paintings, there in the gallery, burns somewhere in his heart: quality time remaining. Like he’s a bomb about to go off. Like someone’s subtracting his last breaths down. Quality time remaining and in just a couple hours, he’ll be spending that time doing those forty meet and greets for fans that want a moment and a picture and a couple autographs. Fans that only know him from the magazines and interviews and two hours at a time in a couple hundred concerts, but think of him like a brother, like a lover, like a demigod. Ace doesn’t know him, he wants to insist, but that’s a lie. Ace knew him when he was no one. 

Ace knew him when the Hotel Diplomat was the best they could manage. When they hauled their gear in a milk truck. When the KISS t-shirts were iron-ons they cut out themselves. When Bill was signing them onto Casablanca. When every show was a rush of adrenaline, instead of a slog. When it didn’t hurt, when he could bounce back from anything, just anything–

(when)

(when)

Long skinny legs spread across a cheap yellow duvet. A girl’s head between them. The room assignments had swapped; Peter was rooming with his wife, and Ace, Ace was lying there, getting head from that girl as Paul stepped out from the shower. 

(you want in on this, paul? and his finger crooked, beckoning lazily)

(and he did. and he did. that was the first sidle into something new, something filthy. he had taken the girl from behind while she sucked off ace, but it was only after she left that it really mattered. it was only after that that they’d fooled around together, feigning drunk after only three beers apiece.)

(you want in on this, paul?)

Those same legs in faded jeans, close to fifteen years later. No girl this time but the hotel might as well have been the same. Ace’s fortunes had declined even worse than KISS.’ And yet he’d had enough reason to spend the night with him, after the Limelight show, without a girl there for that edge of rockstar excess.

Another ten years. Another scattered handful of moments. Ace high on pills.  Paul edging on the verge of divorce. The disgust had started to fester long before then, disgust and awareness. Ace was throwing it all away again, casual and careless. Ace wasn’t what he wanted, in or out of bed, and he never had been. He was still just some crude kid from the Bronx that played guitar better than him, that crashed cars, that drank himself to stupors, only then he was nearly fifty instead of twenty-five.

He couldn’t change. Just kept making the same mistakes. Just kept playing the same old chords, the same chords anyone could play. He’d proved that afterwards, hadn’t he? He’d proved that. The fans had taken Tommy for twenty years. Ace had never been special at all. 

Paul tries to think that. Tries to assure himself of that. But looking Ace in the face stops him cold. There’s defeat there, sure. But there’s a spark in those dark, hooded eyes, too. There’s a spark that no stupid tea outing and no amount of barbs from him could ever manage to completely extinguish.

It’s a spark he remembers, and for the barest sliver of time, it’s just enough to almost make him look young.

“Maybe I’m better off trying them. Gene’s not so sore at me anymore.” Ace lifts a macaron from his tray. “He’s still the one paying his old band.”

“I know.”

“Peter’ll let it all go if I visit him.”

“He would.”

“It’s just you I wanted, that’s all.” Ace gets up, having to lean against the table in order to stand. He reaches for his Gucci purse, hooking it to his shoulder. “It’s always been you.”

“Ace–”

“Don’t let them get too weird with you at the event. Pretend you can’t hear ’em.” Ace’s words are only a little dry as he crunches the macaron, then reaches for the remaining scones, wrapping them in a napkin. Paul’s stomach starts to twist. All the fight seems out of him, all the acidity, all the hope. In tearing Paul up, he tore himself up, too. Mutually-assured destruction. “Your girl that sold me the painting, she said–”

“Which one did you buy?”

He says it suddenly, barely realizing it’s out of his mouth until Ace answers.

“What?”

“Which one?”

“The, uh, one of the abstracts.”

“Which one?”

“The blue and purple. Anyway, she said–”

“Sit down.”

“Paul–”

“Finish off the food. I will, too.”

“I’m not–”

(i want) 

“You’re coming with me.”

“Paul, c’mon, I know you don’t wanna, not after–”

“I do.”

A couple of old men drinking tea in the Ritz Carlton. A couple of young men under the covers of a Motel Six. Age shattering vocals, crippling fingers. Bitterness seeping in from every raw deal and every undercut and every canceled show, a lifetime of old pains without a salve. And yet, as Ace sits back down, easing into his chair, reaching for the strawberry on top of the tea tray, Paul finds himself almost ready to let it all go.

[dovevonascerequadro]

Long gallery

Wentworth Woodhouse - South Yorkshire

[danielleasbureaucouk]

So we went away for a weekend break to do the Black Diamond tour at Wentworth Woodhouse, followed by afternoon tea in the long gallery.

To fill the other day of the weekend, Friday and Monday travelling, we went to Bolsover Castle and Newstead Abbey.

We have been to Bolsover before, which was just as well, as we got stuck in Chesterfield, arrived late and had to rush the place in order to get to Newstead on time. Should have just done the latter instead, as we didn't really savour Bolsover and it was quite busy.

Newstead was interesting, but tainted by the mood, quarrels and tension it took to get to Bolsover and the daily fight over the sat nav. Fight over who has the right way extended into gardens which didn't help.

Sunday was Wentworth and the sat nav route planned out to avoid Chesterfield. Netflix had been filming at Wentworth and some rooms were still dressed. Not allowed to say what it is about or who is in it, but it sounds interesting and I shall try to watch it when it is on.

Rained at the end so we couldn't do the gardens properly. Tea was nice, especially the deserts and sausage / veg rolls, but the finger sandwiches could have been better.

Played Scrabble every night at the holiday house, which, as you can see from my earlier post, has at least two peacocks. They have a farm too, which meant we got the same amount of sleep as we do at home. Not sure which is worst, traffic, or farms and peacocks.

Scrabble was fine until the last night, when father and mother took ages to go, then complained about how long I took on one round so I ended up passing and losing. Mother was constantly biting her cuticles in front of me and talking about things, which didn't help thinking of words to use.

Holiday cottage is a bit tired in some places, a bit too pretentious posh in the bathrooms. Mother appreciates the thoughtful nature of the aesthetic. No notes on housekeeping before we leave so mother will hover. She was surprised when I said we wouldn't stay here again, even when I reminded her of the noisy farm that kept us awake.

I don't really feel this has much of a holiday, with my father being stressed and irritable about driving anyway, mother moaning about my l as the grandfather and his former partner screwing us over, that she has to go back to work, singing due to words we say, biting her cuticles, stressing about cleaning the place before we leave, brutal truth that's a dig at me using too much product in my because I use hair food in my hair that's white, when I comment that my hair feels a static, ratty mess. She had no objection to the clear stuff that ran out way too soon, because it was clear. Trying to reassure me about the potential new place that we can change our minds about moving, yet stressing the amount of money we will lose and yet we're preparing stuff for moving anyway. Doing the same concerning my new glasses that I've stopped wearing because they were making my eyes worse, no concern on getting glasses that work properly.