Eugene de Blaas paintings

Eugene de Blaas paintings
Eduard Manet paintings
Edwin Austin Abbey paintings
leather gloves as he came into the room; part Gallic, part Yankee, part, perhaps Jew; wholly exotic. This, I did not need telling, was Anthony Blanche, the ‘aesthete’ par excellence, a byword of iniquity from Cherwell Edge to Somerville. He had been pointed out to me often in the streets, as he pranced along with his high peacock tread; I had heard his voice in the George challenging the conventions; and now meeting him, under the spell of Sebastian, I found myself enjoying him voraciously. After luncheon he stood on, the balcony with a megaphone which had appeared surprisingly among the bric-a-brac of Sebastian’s room, and in languishing tones recited passages from The Waste Land to the sweatered and muffled throng that was on its way to the river.
‘I, Tiresias, have foresuffered all,’ he sobbed to them from the Venetian arches;