Patrick Swanson is a "writer" and "musician." His accomplishments are too numerous to list here. He lives with his girlfriend in Los Angeles, California.
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Robert de Montesquiou
“In every room were elaborate gewgaws… Dresden china, Venetian glass, mounted butterflies, perfumed fans to wave as one sipped Russian tea and bouquets of peacock feathers… “the influence of my dear friend Whistler,” he would say. What Whistler said about him is to be conjectured. Montesquiou’s very absurdity may have appealed to that acid genius. Among the treasures he had after he moved into his Pavilion of the Muses were a number of strange keepsakes… the bullet that killed Pushkin, a cigarette partially smoked by George Sand, a tear (dried) once shed by Lamartine and the slippers of the last love of Lord Byron, the Countess Guiccioli. He kept Mme. de Montespan’s pink marble tub in his garden, filled with rambler roses, and he would show admiring visitors a birdcage that had once housed Michelet’s pet canary, along with a jewel box containing a single hair from the beard of the same historian. On special occasions he might, with great reverence, exhibit a bedpan used by Napoleon after Waterloo. He had also acquired a plaster cast of the knees of Mme. de Castiglione, the femme fatale of the Second Empire Court who, in her rosy time, had had herself photographed one hundred and ninety times. Montesquiou, not to be outdone, had himself photographed one hundred and ninety-nine times.”
Cornelia Otis Skinner on Robert de Montesquiou, aesthete extraordinaire. I’m ashamed to admit that such people have always attracted/fascinated me. I read Huysmans’ À rebours (whose absurdly decadent Des Esseintes is modeled after Montesquiou) and am inspired, which is probably not the intention.
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