By Serge Gainsbourg, John Weightman, Doreen Weightman
Serge Gainsbourg's sole foray into fiction, Evguenie Sokolov describes an artist who makes use of his intestinal gases because the medium for his scandalous art. What as soon as used to be a pungent and noisy challenge in his social and intercourse existence turns into a recipe for achievement within the early Eighties artwork international.
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Extra info for Evguénie Sokolov
Sample text
I quickly learned to curb that behaviour. Most tenyear-old boys from Transcona were not as interested in the work of Andrew Lloyd Webber as I was. Oh sure, there was a significant number of older gentleman who were Andrew Lloyd Webber fans and interested in ten-year-old boys, but that’s a different story. I did my best to conceal my more feminine interests from the other children. I loved Strawberry Shortcake, My Little Pony, and Care Bears, but that was to remain a secret from my sporting comrades.
I don’t mean to suggest that artists are tortured souls, or that it’s a tough life and we are so hard done by, or anything like that; it’s just that we are not very good people. It’s almost not fair to call this a mid-life crisis; it’s a preemptive mid-life crisis. I am only thirty-one. But, on the other hand, it could be considered a three-quarter-life crisis because I am drinking my way to a very early grave. I will be dead by forty unless I convert to some weird-ass, obscure religion like Christianity and start treating my body like a temple.
Anyway, since we are all in New York for good reasons, we decided to make my Brooklyn book launch a family outing. I suppose I’m being selfish, but I think it’s unfair of Jamie to pick this time, en route to my first professional New York City appearance as an author, to announce his career shift. Dad is praying and driving at the same time. He’s never been that great of a multi-tasker, and he misses 44 the Williamsburg Bridge. My eyes are locked on the clock on the radio. We have an hour to spare.