Esthète naturiste
Sale Bête's Édouard has a friend who runs an art gallery in Chelsea. A "nudist aethete" paid a visit the other day, disrobing in the hallway before spending ten minutes examining the artwork. Then he thanked everyone, put his clothes back on, and left. I love Édouard's opening crack, that a gallerist's life is nothing but "luxe, calme, et volupté." What would Baudelaire have done?
