April in Paris - Dead Ringer
Somewhere in the bowels of the 16th arrondisement
It suddenly dawned on April that she never saw a single funeral parlor in all of Paris. She considered whether it would be wise to question her new acquaintances on the subject.
I don’t know where to begin to explain the origins of my inspiration. (Not that anyone is asking me to explain.) It bothers me that I have never seen a funeral parlor in Paris. Put it this way: I know where to have toe hair removed painlessly and permanantly but no idea what the procedures are for death. I don’t think I will ever have my toe hair removed.
Part two of this drawing’s origins come from my own self-doubts. I am surrounded by a community of women who at times do not feel real to me. Are they just at the top of their game and they really are as magnificent as they appear or is it a mask and they feel just as insignificant as me? If so, why don’t I come off like them? Or are they simply the living dead? (in which case do they have toe hair?)
