Vanessa Chapman’s diary
Sweltering.
The Whitewall exhibition closed on Saturday—unqualified success from a commercial point of view—every piece sold. One line in Modern Painting’s What’s On roundup—“Chapman just about manages to stay on the right side of cliché.”
Apparently I have beauty but no substance.
After the show closed we went to Izzy’s, ostensibly for dinner, though no food ever materialized. Awful people—Bullingdon bores, dullards who come from money and who look down on me because I don’t—all talking incessantly about holidays and property prices. The energy it takes to disguise my contempt could power a city.
All the while, Julian kept looking at me and smiling and telling me how proud he was. He’s already spending the money.