So I'm in the Walker store fingering well-designed alarm clocks and cheese spreaders, and absolutely not looking at startlingly large glistening body parts in art books when I spot Daisy Buchanan reading. Heads up nonreaders, a literary allusion has been played. Straight from East Egg to uptown, this vision of loveliness and luxury is complete from t-strap dancing shoes to the richest thickest feather headband-ready hair. I dropped the Mapplethorpe book and got over there as fast as any lumpen potato-shaped commoner could. It's true, those are 2-foot long fringes sewn on in an undulating pattern. She did not wrestle a bear, kill it with her bare hands, skin it and fashion it into dramatic outerwear. Her great aunt did. Or maybe it was mink. A herd of mink. It was all I could do not to pet her.
Instead, I followed her around taking photos that did not capture the bathtub-full-of-champagne decadence I was jazzed (ha, historical joke) about. This last photo was my way of saying, Look, it's a dress with a really nice blowout and some of that straightening serum.
Anyhoo, it briefly occurred to me that the Walker hired a Daisy Buchanan look-alike to soothe horrified, over-challenged guests to restore their faith in beauty, in a conveniently retail environment. So people would think, Thank goodness for beauty and opulence. By the sixth mutilated doll tossed on a pile of feces, I was beginning to feel a little down, but now by golly, I'm outing with the VISA and I'm gonna buy smooth shiny pretty things. Also, though I don't know how, I have a strong desire to dance the Charleston.
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