Yesterday a 23-year old-woman asked me what I’d tell my younger self if I could go back in time. “Moisturize your neck,” I answered promptly. “My neck is like Dorian Gray’s picture.” After she walked away, clearly disappointed, I realized I’d turned into one of the Erma Bombeck paperbacks I’d scoop up at yard sales as a child. Or am I now a Nora Ephron? Whatever, man. The grass is always greener over the septic tank.
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 →
During my trip home last week, I made a point of visiting the Everett Mills of Lawrence, Massachusetts. Both sides of my clan worked in the factories of the Merrimack Valley until they went south and then abroad for cheaper labor. It’s an American story—the one that helped elected Donald Tr%mp because historically the exploited have blamed each other rather than the kleptocracies that discard them like Matrix workers. I’ve been thinking a lot about this because I’ve been thinking about how proud my people were to work in the mills–proud to make things with their hands, proud to support themselves with honest work, proud to belong to the motherfucking UNION. Continue Reading →
Yesterday a 23-year old-woman asked me what I’d tell my younger self if I could go back in time. “Moisturize your neck,” I answered promptly. “My neck is like Dorian Gray’s picture.” After she walked away, clearly disappointed, I realized I’d turned into one of the Erma Bombeck paperbacks I’d scoop up at yard sales as a child. Or am I now a Nora Ephron? Whatever, man. The grass is always greener over the septic tank.
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.
During my trip home last week, I made a point of visiting the Everett Mills of Lawrence, Massachusetts. Both sides of my clan worked in the factories of the Merrimack Valley until they went south and then abroad for cheaper labor. It’s an American story—the one that helped elected Donald Tr%mp because historically the exploited have blamed each other rather than the kleptocracies that discard them like Matrix workers. I’ve been thinking a lot about this because I’ve been thinking about how proud my people were to work in the mills–proud to make things with their hands, proud to support themselves with honest work, proud to belong to the motherfucking UNION. Continue Reading →