When I was much, much younger and fancied myself as a quirky intellect deep in the blush of my first blossom into a quirky artist intellectual adulthood. I would have adored this photo and placed it upon my bedroom wall next to this portrait of Mastroianni and above a picture of a young Sophia Loren, looking simple yet glamorous in a pair of capri pants and perhaps below a picture of Lou Reed. In rather close proximity to a picture of Ziggy Stardust… most of which were ripped from the pages of Vanity Fair magazine. You get the picture?
All my youthful pretentious glory; a high school girl with her wall covered in posters of European Actors, book covers of French existentialists, and random objects, found and loved; like a feather found while walking with a cute boy, a plastic necklace worn to a particular party, prints that I somehow loved. This photo of Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir somehow escaped the honor of my high school bedroom walls.
There are times when I reflect on the younger me and wonder where I steered so off course from the me I seemed to have been. I no longer really look at Vanity Fair. I find the French existentialists to be more amusing than provocative. Sophia Loren is still considered beautiful, but somehow it seems that it was at some cost and the beauty is ever so slightly tarnished in my eyes now. The musicians still intrigue, but they grew older as I did, and my youthful impressions of them are tempered now as well.
And after all this, I am left to wonder why I never placed pictures of Scott Baio or John Stamos or other cut outs and “free posters” from magazines like Tiger Beat?