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Trompe-l'oeil Or, the Old In and Out. Of Love. von Bittner, Russell (eBook)

  • Erscheinungsdatum: 04.01.2014
  • Verlag: CreateSpace Publishing
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Trompe-l'oeil: the title of this work is as much a description of the principal female character as it is of the work itself. Although a work in the genre of 'Modern Romance,' this novel is unusually explicit -- hence, not for the young. (The target-audience for this novel is female, college-educated [at least], not prudish. No, not prudish! That said - and given the number of erotic scenes -- this is NOT a work in the genre of 'Erotica.' If there were such a category in Fiction, this work would fall under complicated genre of 'Chick Lit/Modern Romance/ Erotic/ Psychological. Why? Quite simply because the work is about a modern-day woman who works out her Narcissistic Personality Disorder through sex. Nothing new there. Tolstoy's Anna did it in ANNA KARENINA. Flaubert's Emma did it in MADAME BOVARY. I know. I've read and critiqued them both. That said, neither Tolstoy nor Flaubert had the freedom of expression we have today. They may've thought the same thoughts, may've known the same kinds of characters, but the times in which they both lived didn't allow them the same freedom of expression. We have that now -- for better or for worse. I've taken advantage of these liberal times to describe something I think borders on an epidemic. I could well be wrong, but I don't think so. Whether or not I've achieved my objective in describing a modern-day plague is something only you as a reader can decide. In any case, I invite you to read and decide for yourself -- and very much thank you for the opportunity to present my argument. I look forward to reading your comments -- be they positive or negative, but at least honest. Russell


    Format: ePUB
    Kopierschutz: AdobeDRM
    Seitenzahl: 448
    Erscheinungsdatum: 04.01.2014
    Sprache: Englisch
    ISBN: 9781478151050
    Verlag: CreateSpace Publishing
    Größe: 985 kBytes
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Chapter 3 Kit descended into the subway at Eighth and Broadway just as an "R" train arrived at the platform. The noise of its arrival was deafening, the cars packed. He waited patiently to the side as several passengers got off, then edged his way in and found little more than breathing space. To the extent he was able, he looked around for interesting faces or situations. Today, however, there was apparently nothing of note. And so, he studied the ads over the subway seats-some well done; most, just cheap rip-offs of someone else's creative efforts. With little of interest to look at and nothing to read, Kit was happy the trip to Twenty-third Street would be quick. He was out and back up to street-level within minutes, then walked four blocks south from Madison Square to his studio located near the corner of Nineteenth Street and Fifth Avenue. The neighborhood was home to bibliophiles and photographers alike. For their mutual benefit, daily and throughout the day, droves of drop-dead gorgeous women descended-if already successful-from cars driving down from the Upper East Side or in from Westchester County. Others ascended-if just starting out or only of catalog beauty-on foot from the Lower East Side or from subways coming in from Brooklyn, Queens, the Bronx or New Jersey. He'd never heard of a model from Staten Island, but he'd been in the business for only ten years. He figured almost anything was possible in the fashion world: 'anything' might even one day include a lovely from Staten Island. Kit knew that few of these women had grown up on the Upper East Side or in any of New York's five boroughs for that matter. The supermodels might be from Stockholm, Milan, Paris or Tokyo-even, on rare occasions, from somewhere like Boise. They looked like a masterfully stirred martini of genes, nutrition and personal hygiene. Education didn't necessarily figure into the mix, though some of them had an extra olive or onion's worth of that, too. They promoted their bodies and their faces quite simply because they could. Nobody forced them to-though in Kit's experience, very few could've managed on brains alone. If they were at least street-smart, or had a good manager, they might have a few years' run and never ever have to work a titty-bar, the street, or a hotel room by the hour. They could simply retire on their savings and dividends-or land themselves a part-time gig as a trophy wife, hang out the rest of the time with the girls at the Club playing cards or just toying with a tan. If they weren't smart, didn't have a good manager, or simply liked to burn or snort through the cash, well, then-it might be another story altogether, and usually not a very pretty one. From New York on a jet stream to L. A. or Vegas. To Atlantic City or points on an even less desirable compass if nature or bad habits had been unusually swift-then off to Miami, to one of the lesser Keys, or simply off the end of some isolated pier as soon as younger, fresher recruits could be hired, saddled and giddie-upped off to profits. In any case, life on the modeling circuit was not gracious. You cut through it like a knife and claimed victory, or it cut through you and eventually cut you out. There were no mercy medals, VA hospitals or quiet retirement homes for those who'd been scarred in battle. Battered hearts were the fashion model's equivalent of the soldier's Purple Heart. But unlike a war hero's medal, a Hallmark paean to a model's freeze-dried heart wasn't something that might find a spot on the mantle back home in Hoboken or even in the family's annual Christmas card. A model's Miss Lonelyhearts secret simply died-and died with her alone. Kit was up the stairs to the first floor studio and in. The room already stirred as production jocks, make-up a

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