Diary of a Geriatric Scarlet: November 9, 2050

Many years ago, we joined the Whitney when it first opened its doors downtown. We donated sufficiently to receive attractive tone-on-tone black membership cards upon which "Founding Member" was printed in bold face.

No matter how long the line of tourists outside, we simply walk right past them. We approach the velvet ropes. The ticket taker waves us past. We board the elevator and head into the galleries above.

Today we saw a retrospective of an artist named AJ Motley. He lived his life 1891-1981. Had he been dyslexic, he may not have lived at all.

In 1930, AJ painted the venerable Mrs. Motley, his wife. With her cloche hat and her narrow black belt and her fox muffler and slim white fingers, Mrs. Motley is a woman of worth. A bearded man peers over her shoulder. Perhaps he is a judgemental and prying patrician who thinks he's all that.

I have no time for rubbernecking busybodies.

Mrs. Motley looks uncomfortable beneath the weight of the bearded man's narrow-eyed stare. She tries to ignore him but her neck prickles. Such a sad state of affairs. One should be at ease whilst sitting upon one's own sofa.

Had Mrs. Motley been my ancestor and gifted me her fox muffler, I would have nestled it amongst my possessions like it belonged there. I would have put it with the rest of my minks and persian lamb and Leopard print coneys. I come from a long line of furriers. When I venture to West 28th street, I feel a pang of nostalgia.