In 1999 I met Marie in the southwest of France. Tall, straight blond hair that cascaded down her back, rapturous blue eyes, mischievous big smile—she got a lot of attention from men, and I felt lucky to have hers.
To collect is to draw things towards ourselves over time, to study and learn from them, to see what they elicit, one from another, not to engage in a continuous and expedient dispersal.
How will we understand the long narrative arcs of our lives if films themselves no longer have these arcs? How can we be the stars of our own dramas, if films no longer have dramas or stars?
It’s worth noting that today’s influx of red shoes on the runway are not Mary Janes or pumps, but boots in sturdy materials—a socialist twist on a classic prop.
I was only nine years old, but Chile's coup and the events that led up to it are seared with the permanence of a cattle brand into my memory.
The connection between avocado toast, the corner pizzeria, l’eau d’Auster, and Samuel L. Jackson? Taste.
"Cretinizing" is the first word that came to mind when I read about the controversy—a word I’ll avoid putting in quotes, though this particular controversy seems nugatory—surrounding Dana Schutz’s painting “Open Casket” in the Whitney Biennial.
I have no idea what Parker Posey is really like, although I kind of do. In customs, and on the sidewalk outside of the airport, and in a van, and in a car, and, at a very particular sort of party, maybe, sure.
Interestingly, the focus was not only on the wrestlers, but on the larger wrestling world, one of spectacle and business. “C’est ‘meta’!” my friend whispered to me. “Not unlike the art world,” I remember thinking.
Johnson’s “inglorious detour” saw the brilliant, wealthy young designer and critic make a visit to Germany, where he took a shine to those beautiful blonde boys marching neatly through Nuremberg.