Archive for the ‘Buy Me This!’ Category

Art Not Ads

January 13, 2017

In New York, a group is embarking on a year-long project to replace advertisements with works of art.  Genius!  The only issue with it, as far as I can tell right now, is that it’s a little within-the-lines (I’d love to see more people take their Exact-o knives to billboards and getting arrested mid-painting session) and not pervasive enough.  I’d prefer that all ads were eliminated and replaced with artwork, but everyone knows I have wild visions for society…

The campaign was inspired by a giant picture of a surgically enhanced ass:

Caldwell was inspired to start the project after seeing an ad for a $1,000 Brazilian butt lift outside of her Brooklyn apartment last spring. She said, “I laughed it off at first, but the billboard was designed to make me feel self-conscious, and I got tired of it. I became determined to fill my life with art that would make people feel anything else.”

An example:

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Reminds me of a few years ago, when I was just out of college, I saw a little piece about an artist, or something, was creating these bumper sticker type things that read, “You don’t need it,” which wannabe renegades like myself could request (for free) in the mail and then smack them onto public advertisements.  I still have my packet somewhere.  While I was walking through the underpass between the A and S trains at 42nd Street I saw these giant iPhone 7 posters, with that instantly recognizable sleek Apple aesthetic, and I thought, “That would be perfect.”  Next time.  (Don’t think I won’t do it.)

Never Gonna Get It

December 5, 2016

To think that a mere month ago I was ogling this very expensive but utterly adorable leopard print bunny clutch:1067196_1_large

And now I can’t even FANTASIZE about it without feeling guilty imagining those hundreds of pounds that could go toward a down payment on that off-the-grid goat farm we might need to buy as the apocalypse looms.  DONALD TRUMP IS WHY WE CAN’T HAVE NICE THINGS.

Bar Luce

October 8, 2016

I know it’s kind of obvious but I love the aesthetic of Bar Luce.  I’m going to Milan in a few weeks and maybe I’ll the guts to steal me a little one of these!
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Shoe Poms

August 24, 2016

A big tragedy as of late was that these shoe pom-poms were sold out.  I swear, sometimes I feel like I live in a war zone, given all I go through…

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I don’t have the best kicks to go with these, though, so…

Find Me!

July 31, 2016

Last week, my husband and I went to visit Mont Saint Michel, an iconic island monastery in the muddy shores off Normandy.  For those of you who don’t know what it looks like––which I can’t imagine is many people––here’s a picture.

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It was the kind of visit that reminds you of why it’s so stupid to call places “too touristy,” which someone did about MSM later that day.  There’s a reason so many people want to see a spot like this one.

Anyway, afterward I was doing a little Googling on the Fraternity of Jerusalem, the religious order that now lives there (the Benedictines were the original tenants, and were invited back in the nineties after exile post-French Revolution, but decided it was a little too bustling for them.)  I came upon the following from an article in the Telegraph.  Guess which part caught my eye:

“After many ups and downs – post-Revolution, the Mont was a jail – a religious presence returned to the rock in the Sixties. It is now maintained by monks and nuns from the Fraternity of Jerusalem. “There are two realities here, spiritual and tourist,” Sister Nathanaël told me. She had travelled widely as a commodities trader before taking holy orders. The realities meet up when Sister Nathanaël walks from her quarters up to the abbey church. She may be stopped two dozen times in 200yd by people with questions (“Is this place religious, then?”) or wishing to have photos taken with her. “The smile is vital,” she said. “And we usually manage it, but not absolutely always.” There are rewards. A visiting Japanese woman had recently been called to Christianity by St Michael. A medium on a retreat had renounced his spirit-contacting activity as displeasing to God.”

I must find this Japanese woman!  If you get this, reach out to me!  I’ll come to Japan to talk to you…

Other things I want: a pink ombre sweater and a French straw hat.  Ugh, I’m such a WORLDLY creature!

 

Sergey Konokov

June 2, 2016

When it comes to acquiring art, I like to go one of two ways: first, buying works by friends, or second, buying pieces that have good stories behind them, whether it’s about how I stumbled upon the artist or the artist’s personal story or whatever.  So for my first significant painting purchase, the story goes: my husband and I were wandering around the Marais neighborhood in Paris.  It was a Saturday, so we couldn’t do much, and it was drizzling rain, so we were both irritable about not having much we could do.  But then we turned right down a street lined with art galleries, and realized an activity was right at our doorstep (so to speak.)  Most of what we saw was mediocre, but the work of Sergey Konokov stood out.  Dark, technically mature (amazing, as the artist is only twenty-one), equal parts Francis Bacon and The Ring (post-tape watching.)  The painting of the dogs fighting would be great in a dining area, just to make your guests feel mildly uneasy during a fancy supper.

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To the Is-Land

May 18, 2016

The New York Times is running a little series on islands this week, and I’m thrilled, but a little sad they didn’t call and ask me to contribute. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been fascinated by islands: their miniature sustainability, the way they all seem haunted, even the jolly Caribbean ones. I was obsessed with drawing road maps as a kid, and, perhaps because islands were manageably small, I chose to plan out a million different islands, the towns or counties (depending on how big I decided to make it), the cul-de-sacs and stretch of stores. Then I’d decide where my friends would live and where I would live (always the nicest part of town, as I was a bit of a snob then.) I was also enchanted by addresses, for reasons I’ve never quite understood. Even now, when I visit a new place, I pick out the houses I like best, and imagine a card being sent to me at that address. 90 Church Street, Charleston, South Carolina. 36 Quai de Bethune, Ile Saint-Louis, Paris. Ballamona Estate, Oak Hill, Isle of Man, United Kingdom.

I’m so beguiled by islands, in fact, that I paid $500 to be a “fellow” in an artists’ commune on Governor’s Island last summer, even though I could have paid $0 to continue writing from my couch. I even wrote the above paragraph (talk about a pause in rumination) from an empty bedroom (I’m guessing) of a crumbling, plumbing-free house on Governor’s, which is full of decrepit and vacant old buildings (another obsession.) One day a friend came to visit and we wandered around the place, sneaking into buildings with the doors slightly ajar, fantasizing about writing a YA book in which all the tri-state area teens are relocated to an ominous boarding-school-type facility on the island after a nearby nuclear disaster––OR WAS IT?

The issue with loving islands is that eventually, you’ll start to want them to be smaller, more sparsely populated, more island-like. It’s like a drug, except instead of more, more, more, it’s smaller, smaller, smaller. A fondness for Ireland becomes an obsession with the Aran Isles; affection for Venice morphs into a burning desire to set foot on Poveglia Plague Island. Best of all, the Thimble Islands, the improbably adorable little specks in Long Island Sound, so close to where I lived for so long and yet I never even thought to go. With names like Frisbie Island, Little Pumpkin Island, Potato Island, Cut in Two Island, and so on. The coast of Maine? A dream for an islet junkie.

My fantasy of the ideal island home has changed a great deal over the years. It used to be Saint Croix, in the US Virgin Islands, or Aruba––the Caribbean was my jam, before I deemed it too touristy to sustain real life. More recently, it was Governor’s (they say you can’t sleep overnight, but ferry employees do, which might be something to look into.) Now, I’m kind of into islands in this neck of the woods: Isles of Scilly, Blasket Islands (only bunnies live there now), Faroes (which are Scandinavian, if you wish.)  Or maybe I’ll just make like Andrea Zittel and construct my own little island and float off on it.

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Robert Smithson’s “Island Project”

 

Concept Tumblr

May 4, 2016

Last week, when my husband and I were in Rome, I saw a nun driving a car across the Isola Tiberina, and then she honked at someone!  I was tickled.  My husband said, “Nuns doing stuff is the best.”  And lo, a concept Tumblr was born!  I won’t start it because I would inevitably run out of steam, and you know how much it pains me to see abandoned blogs, but here is a blueprint of what it might look like:

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Playing croquet…

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Baking bread…

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Voting…

Nuns In The Surf

Playing in the ocean…

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Chilling at the bar…

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Smoking herb…

Nuns Having Fun (2)

Rollerskating…

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Eating cake…

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Working at a spa…

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Playing basketball…

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Enjoying a lager!

If you know that this Tumblr happens to exist already, just don’t tell me.  I’d rather live blissfully ignorant of my generally derivative life than look the blinding sad truth in the face.  I do, however, note the existence of a calendar called NUNS HAVING FUN or something to that effect, which I would like to own.  If you could mail it to me c/o the Guggenheim Museum, that would be much appreciated.  Consider it a belated birthday present.

 

Munich Outpost

April 4, 2016

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Manic Monday

January 11, 2016

One time, a friend of mine told me he liked my blog because it was a throwback to those days when people just “wrote about anything they felt like” on their sites.  I guess now it’s all too polished (aka written for an audience of people other than said blogger’s father, husband, and lone friend who likes ad lib) and curated and sponsored.  Well, no one sponsors me, so I guess I can just say what I like!  Which is helpful on this particular Monday, because I haven’t been unproductive exactly, but I just can’t seem to concentrate on anything for more than twenty seconds at a time.  Below are the subjects I find myself flitting between:

  1. I’m way late to this game, but damn, Petite Meller is one weird child-woman.  It makes me uncomfortable to watch her pale ass writhing around in a pastel onesie, and yet I have had this video on in the background basically all morning. I think these Kenyan schoolgirls might be my newest fashion obsession.  I’ve considered Googling “African private school straw hats” a few times in the past hour, but I’m worried Google would just shoot back, “You’re a fucking racist.”  And it would be justified in doing so.Petite_BBLV_09Also, when I finally get around to creating my hat label, Whimsical Haberdashery, Petite Meller will definitely model my first season.  Last note on her: she’s apparently obsessed with Freud, and The Guardian just ran a long piece on the return psychoanalysis, which I recommend although I’m too lazy to link to it.  Bottom line: Way to go, Freud!  You may be dead but you’re still killing it!
  2. I keep meaning to tell someone this because I think it’s hysterical, but the other night I had a dream that the only “serious” critic (whatever that means) to give my book a mediocre review and I drove on ATVs to the Grand Canyon for a little day trip.  It was really fun, actually.  I think we should consider doing it in real life.
  3. I’m pursuing a number of very different stories at the moment, and ergo am trying to find a bunch of new sources and have no idea how to go about getting them, aside from this: if you happen to have a son at the Westminster Abbey Choir School, or are a Hare Krishna convert who wears a traditional robe most of the time, or you’re currently in drug rehab and considering becoming a Christian, or maybe you wear the same thing to work every day a la Matilda Kahl, shoot me a note.
  4. I’m lying to you and to myself here––I haven’t been thinking about any of the above.  I’ve just been looking at pictures of Petite Meller.  WHY.  I get the whole shtick, right now, immediately.  I don’t need to hear her breathy whispers about her philosophy degree or her one-woman campaign to help us all bring our libidinal subconsciouses (subconsciousnesses?) to light––I see where this is all headed, which makes me hate it.  So why am I lusting after her fake-rosacea?  Lord, grant me the strength to resist her (but not yet.)

    Oh and PS, she totally stole this hat idea from me.  Ask my husband.  He knows.

    Oh and PS, she totally stole this hat idea from me. Ask my husband. He knows.