In a few short weeks my dear chum, David Schoffman, will be returning to Paris for his annual pedagogical haj. He teaches a drawing class at one of our esteemed art schools where he pretends to understand our unique Gallic sensibility. I look forward each year to seeing him here, on my terroir, because when he is here in France he is always at a distinct disadvantage.
Away from the balmy ocean breezes, the viridescent palms, the gluten-free cronuts and the drive-thru tanning salons of southern California, David is like a waif at a cockfight. His shaky grasp of idiomatic French, his tepid tolerance for alcohol, his anachronistic codes of chivalric sexuality and his annoying habit of posting his every bowel on Instagram all add up to, if not ugly, at least boorish American provincialism.
I enjoy taunting him, teasing him and provoking him into frenzied tirades of jingoistic defensiveness. Mention Trump and he spins out of control. Talk about overcooked vegetables, diet sodas, baseball or anti-bacterial sprays and he tears into Marine Le Pen as if she were the grand vizier of the Amalekites.
It's fun to have him around. He reminds me of how easy it is to become smug and complacent. Schoffman, the darling of critics and collectors alike, is still a stooge among his peers. His paintings, inoffensive bagatelles of technical decadence, are always loved but never admired.
It will be great having him around. There's really nothing like the warmth of a deep and enduring friendship.
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