Not sure the name. The shade Jean-Michel painted with. Flick through glossy pages, point to a reprint. ‘Untitled, 1982’. The clerk nods, turns away. Comes back with a small sample.
Later, then, after the stains, and second coat, had dried…
The high-res catalogue made the blue bolder than it was.
Nikita Linivenko is his own harshest critic. He found this story stale, vapid, and a little less than inconsequential. But at least he arranged his words fashionably.
Nikita, banish that critic once and for all. It is interferring with your work.