What Lucy Wrought

Some wise person--was it Gertrude Stein or Ben Franklin, I wonder?--once remarked that "guests, like fish, start to smell after three days."

And with the exception of Lucy Rogers, I'm inclined to agree.

This past May, the lovely Lucy left her apartment in London's East End for an indeterminate stay at Chez Douglas/Cravens. Six weeks later we four folded up the hide-a-bed and stared around ourselves--newly unsure of how to behave in our own family room.

Even the dog continues to miss her. (As does the dog walker.)

Lucy left behind the following portraits--a noted departure from her highly regarded body of industrial landscapes. As with any portrait, what intrigues me most is what the artist sees: I rather relish looking a bit like a headmistress on the cusp of caning a wayward charge. And I love the dollop of Christopher Walken-as-maniac that Lucy has found in Curtis.

The portraits are just back from the framer's, and will be hung in the family room (I mean, Lucy's room) this weekend.