A Foreigner in Buenos Aires

There is a painting in the Malba gallery by the Argentinian Miguel Covarrubias from 1928, called ‘George Gershwin, An American in Paris’.

It’s one of those Modernist non-perspective cafe hubbub scenes. In the left foreground, shy, somewhat blank, unblinking, is the composer, suited and hatted, a foreigner more delighted than bored, but not quite either. I’m feeling much the same way.