Up and at’em, Abigail Adams! I spent Saturday night writing a talk I’m giving upstate this morning about a Turkish-French feminist film called “Mustang.” (Imagine “The Virgin Suicides” with a steely spine, a Black Sea setting, and a director with a penchant for female liberation rather than pink Converse.) The sun’s only been up for an hour and I’m already polishing my prose and toes with one eye on the Metro-North timetable and another on the still-waking Manhattan skyline. Trust me when I say that, given recent events, all this feels like serious second-wave glamour. (You can generally trust I am not indulging in sarcasm, a lower form of humor than knock-knock jokes.) I still haven’t had a day off in forever but am starting to lean into it. Call me Rosman the Riveter but, in the arc of lady history, a glut of work that I love reigns as the utmost of luxuries.
Up and at’em, Abigail Adams! I spent Saturday night writing a talk I’m giving upstate this morning about a Turkish-French feminist film called “Mustang.” (Imagine “The Virgin Suicides” with a steely spine, a Black Sea setting, and a director with a penchant for female liberation rather than pink Converse.) The sun’s only been up for an hour and I’m already polishing my prose and toes with one eye on the Metro-North timetable and another on the still-waking Manhattan skyline. Trust me when I say that, given recent events, all this feels like serious second-wave glamour. (You can generally trust I am not indulging in sarcasm, a lower form of humor than knock-knock jokes.) I still haven’t had a day off in forever but am starting to lean into it. Call me Rosman the Riveter but, in the arc of lady history, a glut of work that I love reigns as the utmost of luxuries.