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Mornin’, sunshine.

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may the 4th

People around the Internet call today Star Wars Day because the May the 4th sounds a whole lot like “May the force…”

In that they both start with two and a fraction syllables, then sure…

But then I started up looking up old Harrison Ford photos and I’m like, yes, please fill me with all your sweet, sweet nothings, sir. Tell me more about your alleged Star Wars Day.

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It’s gosh darn absurd: Ford’s a foxfG9tufJ.jpg.

What on Earth needs to happen to find 1/10 of this caliber on a Sunday afternoon? Literally: Tell me. And I will do it.

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Renoir’s Dance at Bougival is one of my favorite paintings. Period.

No sarcasm, no wit: I genuinely love this picture. Renoir was just like every other Impressionist painter and obsessed with the idea of capturing daily Parisian life.

(I try and to the same thing, but sitting outside with Nutella in DC just doesn’t have the same vibe, you know what I mean?)

Renoir’s Dance is at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, but it didn’t make the jump across the Atlantic without a quick stop to New York. The Met acquired the work in 1937 for $150,000 (about 2.6M today). It had made the trip once before when it was purchased at shipped to New York from Paris in 1886.

Paul Durand-Reul was a real art world go-getter in the late nineteenth century. He spent considerable time and money snapping up Impressionist work when no one wanted it. (Imagine those girls that are rocking Coachella months before that look is even considered cool: that’s Durand-Reul. Or like SillyBandz before they were legit. Or a Fidget Spinner. Durand-Reul’s basically out there buying the first dozen Fidget Spinners.)

Dance at Bougival passes through a lot of hands before the Met’s acquisition. Now that it’s on display at the MFA, it remains as one of the collection’s crown jewels. And how could it not?! Everything from that drapery to all the cigarettes underfoot, Renoir focuses just as much attention to nonchalant, everyday details as the gestures of the two.

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Literally the only thing I want on a Friday night.

Alright, alright…my dishes don’t necessarily need to plot my falling in love with someone…though let’s be real, it sounds better than another blind date.

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Winslow Homer’s The Initials dates from 1864. A work painted during The Civil War, the subject’s suggested to be a woman named Mary Fiske. She was eighteen the same year as the painting.

Homer’s relationship ended the same year she married someone else.

Yikes.

And here I thought it was because she looks like a loser petting someone’s initials carved into a tree.

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Reading all my missed texts re: plans and meet up confirmations from the comfort of my bed the next morning.

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When I hear my ex complimented my lovely character to mutual friends last weekend.

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It’s no secret Paul Gauguin is an awful, boring human with no friends and a condescending nature…but at least he’s able to nail a perfect boredom.

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Trade out a black dog for a white one, and the chocolates for a Roku remote with Scandal, and you’ve got a pretty perfect resemblance of my Friday plans.

Joking.

You can keep the chocolate in the frame.

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