On Monday, July 26, 1971, Diane Arbus wrote the words “Last Supper” in her diary. She placed the appointment book on the stairs leading to the bathroom. She swallowed a large dose of barbiturates and, still in her clothes, laid down inside the tub. Then, with great determination — the wounds were deep enough to sever the tendons — she slit her wrists.
The corpse floated there for 2 days. Then she became even more famous.
I never liked her work, but the way society interacts with us, creatives at the fringes… well, it’s certainly painful and, at times, the thoughts of a last supper fill the bathtub of my mind as well.
Should you let the abnormal rot? And then complain about the sequels and the Kanye Wests?
How’s this supposed to work? Is it ever supposed to work?
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