| THE EPISTOLARIAN |

There’s a moment in Titanic (1997) that has always driven me nuts. It’s supposed to establish Rose DeWitt Bukater as a woman of refined, forward-thinking taste. She’s not like the other rich people on the ship—she appreciates real art.

And how do we know this? Because she owns Picassos.

​As Rose lounges in her suite, she unpacks a collection of paintings alongside her maid, Trudy, and Caledon "Cal" Hockley, her wealthy, entitled and controlling fiancé:

And just like that, the audience gets to pat itself on the back without ever having to do the work of actually engaging with the art. They don’t have to understand Cubism, or even know what Rose is looking at—they just get to feel superior to Cal, who had the misfortune of expressing his opinion before history had time to decide for him.

Titanic frames this moment not as a natural response from someone unaccustomed to modernism, but as a kind of moral failing. It’s not just that Cal dislikes the paintings; it’s that his dismissal is supposed to make him look like an irredeemable fool, completely lacking in culture or refinement.

Don’t worry, though—Rose’s true intellectual equal is coming. The povvo she bangs on the boat, and later abandons in the icy Atlantic, does have taste. He loves art. He gets it. He draws tasteful nudes of her in her luxurious apartments, which, of course, are bankrolled by her crude, art-hating fiancé.

Even Rose’s engagement with the art is frustratingly thin. “It’s like being inside a dream or something,” she breathes, sounding like a sophomore who won’t stop talking about her semester in Bar-the-lona and how “the wine just hits different” in Europe. It’s not really an insight—it’s the kind of thing you say when you feel profound but have absolutely no follow-up thoughts.

That’s what makes this scene so smug: it congratulates the audience without actually making them think. It tells them they are sophisticated—not because they engaged with art on a deep level, but simply because they exist in the future and know the “right” answer.

It’s the cinematic equivalent of tourists on vacation rolling their eyes at other tourists.

Because let’s be honest: many of the people who chuckle at Cal’s ignorance would react exactly like him if faced with an unfamiliar contemporary artist today. Show them an untitled Mark Rothko or a Tracy Emin installation, or a lesser known artist (such as yours truly) and they might scoff...

“What’s the meaning of this shit?”

Which, coincidentally, is exactly what Dmitri (Adrien Brody) says in The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014) when he finally notices the Schiele-style painting that’s been hanging in place of Boy with Apple for two weeks.

But unlike Titanic, Grand Budapest actually gets the joke right.

How The Grand Budapest Hotel Nails the Art Reference

Wes Anderson’s The Grand Budapest Hotel also uses art as a marker of taste and refinement, but instead of name-dropping famous artists, it invents two fictional paintings:

1. Boy with Apple – a classical, Renaissance-style portrait attributed to the fictional Johannes van Hoytl the Younger (1613–1669). The film’s auction catalog describes him as “extremely unprolific and therefore a financial failure,” a perfect little piece of fabricated art-world mythology.
2. An unnamed, erotic painting of two nude women, done in a clear Egon Schiele-inspired style.

Nobody in the film ever tells us what these paintings mean. Nobody even names their influences. And yet, we instantly understand them.

The Joke That Works on Multiple Levels:

1. Everyone admires Boy with Apple – It is revered, discussed in hushed tones, fought over, and stolen. It represents elegance and taste.
2. Nobody notices when it’s replaced – For two weeks, Boy with Apple is missing, and in its place is the Schiele-like painting.
3. When Dmitri finally sees it, he rips it off the wall in disgust. His reaction?

This is so much better than Titanic’s Picasso moment because it lets the audience do the work.

It never tells us that Boy with Apple is valuable—we understand its importance from the way characters interact with it. And it never tells us that the Schiele-style painting is also valuable—but if we recognize the reference, it deepens the joke.

And the best part? Dmitri’s reaction is actually valid.

Schiele’s work is provocative. It is confrontational. It is the kind of thing that would shock someone expecting a traditional portrait. Even if the audience doesn’t recognize Schiele’s style, the joke still lands—because the painting is obviously meant to contrast with Boy with Apple.

But if the audience does recognize the reference, the joke works on an even deeper level. Schiele is actually highly valuable, and Dmitri, in his rage, is unknowingly destroying something that if it existed in real life would be more valuable than anything by "Johannes van Hoytl the Younger."

As an Artist, This Drives Me Crazy

The Titanic moment frustrates me because I see this kind of engagement with art all the time—the kind that’s not really engagement at all.

People want to be on the “right” side of taste. They want to say they recognize genius. But do they actually interact with the work? Or are they just nodding along because someone told them they should?

This is what makes art so strange: time has to pass before we can all agree on what’s valuable.

If Picasso hadn’t lived long enough to become famous, if Schiele's work had been lost to time, would people today be able to recognize its brilliance? Or would they scoff, just like Cal and Dmitri?

And this gets even messier when we consider how we see Picasso or Degas (also referenced in Titanic) in 2025.

• Picasso’s artistic genius is still acknowledged, but his treatment of women is under intense scrutiny.
• Degas, long admired for his ballerinas, is now also recognized for his voyeuristic depictions of women, misogynistic attitudes, and outspoken antisemitism, as well as his reputation for being cruel and abrasive in his personal interactions.

If Titanic were written today, the scene wouldn’t play out the same way. Rose might still own Picassos, but she’d hesitate before praising him, nervously adding, “He’s brilliant, but… I’ve heard things.” Or perhaps Cal would be the one gifting her the paintings, and she’d force a polite smile before murmuring, “Cal loves him. The style is nice, but… he's not my favorite.” The line would hang in the air for a beat too long, and somewhere offscreen, a history podcaster would materialize to launch into a discourse on power dynamics in early 20th-century art.

Maybe instead of Picasso, she’d have a Suzanne Valadon or a Hilma af Klint—a modernist whose work was ignored in her time (and 1997) but is now celebrated, allowing Rose to signal both artistic sophistication and feminist virtue in one tasteful, well-lit gesture.

That’s what makes Titanic’s smugness so unbearable: it assumes cultural consensus is fixed, when in reality, taste is always shifting.

The Best Art References Don’t Tell You What to Think

This is why The Grand Budapest Hotel will always be smarter than Titanic.

• Titanic assumes you already respect Picasso, so it doesn’t have to do any real work.
• Grand Budapest honors the different styles of art in its full production without name dropping, and it plays with the audience's expectation in a smart, funny way.

Because the truth is, if you were seeing Picasso for the first time in 1912, with no context, no 20th-century art history behind you, and no tote bag from the MoMA gift shop to guide you—what would you say?

And you know what? That’s fair.

We’re in Our Own “Something Picasso” Moment—But With the Hastings Étui

​The Hastings Étui isn’t a household name—yet. It’s not in museums or name-dropped in films to signal sophistication. But you are here before the rest of the world catches on. You see its significance not because someone told you to, but because you feel it.

Wax seals and letter writing aren’t relics—they are living art. The Hastings Étui is meant to be collected, cherished, and used, each impression carrying intention. Like the letters of centuries past, the marks you leave—of love, grief, connection, and memory—will outlast you.

Right now, this work is known only to a few. But it will be known. Not in opposition to the fast, digital world, but in harmony with it. We crave something tangible—something that connects us to those before us, those after us, and most of all, those we cherish now.

The Hastings Étui is a legacy in motion. And those of you who create with it today are shaping the way it will be remembered.

One day, others will look back with admiration and say:

“They saw it first. And now, so do we.”

Seal of the Week: Tho Lost to Sight to Memory Dear

The newest Hastings Étui penny launched on Friday, a deeply symbolic piece designed to honor memory, loss, and the enduring nature of remembrance. Each penny is double-sided:

• Heads—A guiding star, paired with the French inscription "Elle m’a bien conduit," or "She has guided me well."
• Tails—The phrase "Tho’ lost to sight, to memory dear," drawn from a 19th-century antique wax seal in my personal collection.

While inspired by the original, this new design reimagines the inscription’s placement to add greater depth. The antique version lays the phrase out in lines, while the Kathryn Hastings edition encircles a central blank space. The circular arrangement reinforces the unbroken cycle of memory—both in the way remembrance moves through time and in how the phrase can be read two ways:

"Tho lost to sight, to memory dear"​
​"To memory dear, tho lost to sight."

At the center, the negative space invites interpretation. It may represent the absence left by those we remember, or it can be physically filled—with flowers, photos, or even miniature seal paintings—transforming the act of sealing a letter into a personal ritual of commemoration.

I envision a gallery documenting the seals made with this penny—a collection of impressions pressed in wax to honor those we hold close, even across time and distance.

Only 49 of these pennies will ever be made. Once they are gone, they are gone forever. They can be collected on their own or paired with an Étui.

​Secure yours here.​

I led a wonderful free workshop on Instagram announcing the new seal here, and teaching two fun styles for this penny.

Wax Color of the Week: Demeter

One of the most profound myths that embodies “Tho’ lost to sight, to memory dear” is the story of Demeter and Persephone—a tale of loss, longing, and the enduring bond between mother and child.

When Persephone is taken to the underworld, Demeter, the goddess of the harvest, mourns her daughter’s absence with such grief that the world itself withers. Crops fail, the earth turns barren, and nothing can grow—because memory alone is not enough. She wanders, searching, calling her daughter's name, aching for her return.

And yet, remembrance holds power. When Persephone is briefly reunited with her mother, the world comes back to life—spring arrives, flowers bloom, and the cycle begins anew. Even in separation, Persephone is never truly lost, for she remains in Demeter’s heart, guiding the rhythm of the seasons.

The myth reflects the cyclical nature of remembrance—the way love endures even across time and distance. Just as Demeter’s grief and devotion shape the world itself, so too do the memories we hold shape our lives, sustaining us through absence, carrying those we’ve lost forward with us.

With love,

Kathryn