Since my last post I have been researching chick lit art genre, for a friend told me that the tale has been told and in fact, many times.
For instance, even in the Times today is a review of a story of a dead male artist and what biographers have to go through to get the scoop. Many female ex-lovers are not being very cooperative with giving a respectful account!
There is also the story of a young woman who meets an Irish painter on the verge of superstardom. There’s the story of a hapless gallerina, assigned to take care of an re-imagined Andy Warhol – save, get this – he’s straight. There’s the story of another hapless gallerina, a going-nowhere-fast-aspiring-artist, who finds herself in the middle of a bidding war over – guess what? Another dead male artist’s work.
Phew! Where is the story of the woman artist?
(And let's have her on the verge of superstardom and bidding wars, while we're at it.)