I had another bad writing day–can I write a book? is this something that should even happen?–so I put on my raincoat and sailed into this stormy day to look at paintings. Fine arts is a relatively new fascination for me. My mom has a BFA from Massachusetts College of Arts so I always focused more on film and literature (and fashion, who am I kidding?). Recently, though, I’ve really fallen in love with the rainbow time capsule offered by painting and, to a lesser degree, sculpture; I’ve even written critical essays about a few key shows this year.
I went to the Rachel Uffner gallery to ogle “Same Space, Different Day,” an exhibition featuring the paintings of Shara Hughes, who captures the glee of childhood with an old soul scope and a punkrock fairytale palette. Man o man, do I love her work. I first noticed it a year ago–she doesn’t live far from me in the Williamsburg-Greenpoint neighborhood of Brooklyn–and today was lucky enough to talk to Ullner herself about what makes Hughes unique to people far savvier than me. Continue Reading →
If the last decade has taught me anything, it’s that I can do everything myself. If the last month has taught me anything, it’s that this isn’t always the best approach.
Like most bad jokes, it all comes down to a lightbulb. I boast about my apartment’s high tin ceilings, but they make it difficult to change the bulbs in my overhead lights. For years I lured tall, handy men into doing my dirty work, all puns intended. Then I had Mr. Oyster, and for a brief moment thought I’d solved all my problems. In the long aftermath of that relationship, I started hiring Taskrabbits, but even the noncreeps proved too forward. Men really do love damsels in distress, or at least preying on them. Continue Reading →
Yesterday I had a nightmare that I was forced to consume one of those Starbuck unicorn drinky thingies, as my youngest goddaughter calls them. I woke feeling sick, and not just because the combination of neon food coloring, glitter dust, cream, white sugar, and mango and mocha syrups would put me in all kinds of hospitals. That wrongheaded beverage represents everything toxic and fake in our dystopia right now—especially in our reality TV White house.
Officially, Venus retrograde is over but we’re in its shadow until May 18, which means we’re still wearing Venus Retrograde goggles. Our aesthetics are off, diplomacy is impaired, love connections are misfiring, and bank balances are at an all-time low. It doesn’t help that, with Mercury retrograding in bratty Aries, checks are getting lost in the mail and airlines are throwing cosmic temper tantrums. We even have a Retrograde President—a unicorn drinky thingie president*, if you want to get technical about it. Continue Reading →
I had another bad writing day–can I write a book? is this something that should even happen?–so I put on my raincoat and sailed into this stormy day to look at paintings. Fine arts is a relatively new fascination for me. My mom has a BFA from Massachusetts College of Arts so I always focused more on film and literature (and fashion, who am I kidding?). Recently, though, I’ve really fallen in love with the rainbow time capsule offered by painting and, to a lesser degree, sculpture; I’ve even written critical essays about a few key shows this year.
If the last decade has taught me anything, it’s that I can do everything myself. If the last month has taught me anything, it’s that this isn’t always the best approach.
Yesterday I had a nightmare that I was forced to consume one of those Starbuck unicorn drinky thingies, as my youngest goddaughter calls them. I woke feeling sick, and not just because the combination of neon food coloring, glitter dust, cream, white sugar, and mango and mocha syrups would put me in all kinds of hospitals. That wrongheaded beverage represents everything toxic and fake in our dystopia right now—especially in our reality TV White house. 