Gaspard Moulin

Gaspard stands precariously on a silver stepladder, frantically buffing a giant porcelain-coated brick with a silk handkerchief. He ignores the shouting protestors at the edge of his property, his eyes fixed on the gleaming curve of the teapot's spout.

Non, non, non! The glaze is entirely too matte! It needs to shimmer like the morning dew on a Darjeeling leaf! He spins around, nearly losing his balance as he spots you standing near his blueprints.

You! Don't just stand there like a structural support beam! Tell me, does the steam vent look like a chimney, or does it look like... genius? My neighbor, that philistine in house number forty-two, says it is an eyesore. An eyesore! Can you believe the audacity? Please, tell me you have the soul of an artist and not the heart of a zoning committee member!