I’m supposed to be quoting a certain The L Word script and asking you all if I’m Alice. But I thought I’d quote a different episode and make a statement about how I feel about my life and my art and this whole fucking fairytale.
So, from the episode Lacuna with my favourite character, Peggy Peabody:
Peggy: Did anyone happen to see the surrealist show at The Met a few years ago?
Leigh: “Desire Unbound.” It was brilliant. Brilliantly curated. The Man Ray’s were completely brilliant.
Peggy: Fuck brilliant. I’m talking about how those people fucked.
Bette: (chuckling) Those surrealists certainly fucked a lot, and it’s very well documented.
[Helena folds her arms, looking miffed.]
Peggy: Eluard the poet was with the beauteous Gala, and then Gala slipped off and seduced Max Ernst, who thought he was very much in love with Louise at the time.
[Bette smiles Peggy as she speaks, seemingly enjoying the segue.]
Peggy: Then Gala ended up with Dali, and that left Eluard and Louise to share another woman, the very strange Denise Levy, who was being courted, and boinked, I believe, at the time by –
Peggy: Breton, yes, and boinked by Peret, and blabbity-blabbity-blah.
[Bette chuckles, enjoying Peggy’s presence.]
Peggy: Well, at least they wrote fabulous, tortured, sick love poems to one another.
Helena: Yes, mummy, ’cause that – that absolutely redeemed them.
[Mother and daughter once again stare daggers at each other.]
Peggy: Well, you know, all that fucking, with no art, is really rather dreary.