If Ulysses were instead about a day spent walking the Internet instead of Dublin, would it look like this? Deep fried butter balls at a Texas State Fair, communion wafers sold in bulk, “Miss Homeless” beauty contest in the UK, Jezebel reacts to blackface in French Vogue, the Man Booker Prize, nine out of 20 National Book Award finalists are women, John Mayer takes the piss out of a New York magazine reporter, Keith Gessen/Awl flame wars.
Do you feel invigorated, she asked. No, I said, it was a very mundane run. It was just what had to be done. Like the eggs I scrambled and the bread I toasted. You have to enjoy the little things, she said. What are the little things for you? Sitting on a park bench, looking at the sky, reading a book. But, I argue the very act of “enjoying the little things” makes one self-conscious about it as a deliberate act to avoid thinking about the big things. “I am going to enjoy this moment,” you think, or “I am enjoying this moment.” Meaning there are other more difficult moments requiring you to emphasize this one so much more. Can I just divorce the enjoyment from the thought, and revel in it more? Only with a constant stream of diversion, it seems. And, that is exhausting, and crash-inducing, and, well, I give up.
Just a few cats and a steaming pot of tea short of total and complete spinsterdom. This is frightening in one’s weaker moments, but exhilarating in the strongest. It’s raining outside right now, do you know where you are right now? -I am writing a letter, a handwritten letter, but so far all I’ve discussed is toast.
This is not what I am wearing in the show, but there will be a fancy hat involved.
I’m participating in Jennifer Sullivan’s “Fall Collection” performance (a “runway show”) at P.S. 1 today in conjunction with the publication of her wearable art and fashion zine Threads, co-edited with Jenn Brehm. It’s part of the Printed Matter New York Art Book Fair, details here.
“It was as if someone had dropped an old pair of pantyhose over Milan,” scoffs Cathy Horyn. “If you told me that Karl Lagerfeld had anything to do with the boudoir show at Fendi, I would have denied it to your face.”
I know everyone (by “everyone” I mean “fashion blogs”) has been obsessing over this line for a few days now, but deservedly so. It’s magnificent.
While we’re on the subject of the boudoir and pantyhose, can someone please put the kabosh on marveling/reporting/commenting on the dearth of pants on the runways, as if the runway were somehow a literal representation of what designers suggest you actually wear. This is Fashion Show 101! No one expects people to run around in their underwear, like it’s some kind of Brave New Look. Foundation garments are just a cash cow. Lingerie is the New Perfume. And the photos are a sexy news sell. That’s all. The end.
Whenever I hear an accordion playing, I think about what I’m wearing. Does it match the scene? Is the invisible cinematographer behind me thinking, “Yes, her fake Ray Ban sunglasses, red lipstick and sundress is perfect for this shot involving an accordionist playing the theme music to ‘I Dream of Jeannie’ with equal parts lilt and sadness.”
I’m not sure, however, what outfit is appropriate for the scene where the accordionist is sitting on a milk crate in Union Square wearing a Boba Fett mask and playing the theme music from “Star Wars.” A bathrobe covered in potato chip crumbs?
This is the eulogy my uncle Paul gave at my grandpa’s funeral in Albuquerque, NM, on Saturday, September 12, 2009. It’s the story of a great storyteller, a teacher, a father, a grandfather, a rancher, an adventurer, a fixer, a hard worker, a legacy. And, here’s a beautiful photo set by my brother Dominic (and the nunu web designer!) of the tools in his garage, Ted’s Tools.
My father was born 86 years ago in Del Norte, Colorado, a small town at the northern end of the beautiful San Luis valley in the southern part of Colorado. For his parents, Patrick Espinosa and Josefina Chaves, my father was the ninth child of thirteen. Five of his siblings would die in childhood. He was the last surviving sibling of his family.
Despite a bout of typhoid fever which had him in the hospital for months, my father flourished as a child. His family lived in the small ranching community of La Garita, at the foot of the Rocky Mountains. His great grandfather had moved there from New Mexico prior to the Civil War. My father took great pride in knowing about the family’s history and through his love of storytelling, he was instrumental in preserving and transmitting our family’s story to later generations.
Continue reading ‘my grandpa’s eulogy’
Can hard times and their associated misery ever be an acceptable theme for a fashion show? And if the clothes don’t really attempt to explore legitimate modes of American dress, and instead remain on the surface—a little faded and ripped denim with rhinestone sandals—isn’t that somehow worse?
–Cathy Horyn on Ralph Lauren’s dust bowl and Depression-era inspired “work wear” for Spring 2010.
See also Threadbared’s excellent examination of a related subject, Scott Schumann’s (aka The Sartorialist) controversial photo of a man in front of the Bowery Mission, who he deemed was “someone who, while down on his luck, hasn’t lost his need to communicate and express himself through style.”
The inspiration behind the Threeasfour show last night - a short film directed by Albert Maysles called Cut Piece from the ’60s, a document of one of Ono’s performances.
“Excuse me works,” he says, perched on Isaac Mizrahi’s “Astaire Case” set piece. A woman is wielding a camera with a long lens and she’s battling her way backstage. “Say, ‘excuse me.’”
She pauses.
“Oh, I thought you were security,” she says, and elbows him again.
“Don’t push me with your cheap camera, you stupid bitch.” His voice even and calm, he stabs her. “Yeah, I said it.”
Her voice becomes venom. “You don’t belong here with language like that.”
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