I have something to admit. I love the phrase “secret lover.” It’s so high school. It also comes in handy when expressing admiration, as in, “that Iker Casillas. What a career he’s had. He’s my secret lover.”
Keeping that in mind, I realized, recently, that one of my favourite paintings completely and utterly captures this phrase:
Speaking of secrets – it’s pretty obvious that when I said that I am not watching the World Cup, I totally lied, right? Right?
Well, I mean, I did make the crucial choice between “sanity” and “football” last night, and ended up de-camping far outside Moscow, where I walked in a field and picked flowers and was told, obligingly, that I just need a braid and a long summer dress to pass for a Vasnetsov sketch.
Vasnetsov is a bit more wholesome than Picasso – but he’s got soul enough to be my other secret lover, for sure.