Celebrity Fashion News
Every so often, I get caught up with the desire to find a creatively and spiritually fulfilling hobby — and then I inevitably end up parking myself in front of the TV to binge-watch yet another European crime drama. I’ve done this so many wretched times in the past few years that most of the shows have blended together in my mind to form one 500-hour-long dark murder mystery — with two mismatched detectives who have terrible work-life balance, and constant rain — that occupies far too much brain real estate.
In order to paint a portrait, Kohshin Finley starts with a poem. The artist creates gray scale, photo-realistic portraits of people of color, but he begins by writing a poem that weaves his personal history with the subject’s. The portraits have names like “A Poem for Joy and Resilience” and “American Man in a Hoodie” and each subject’s face has been dabbed with white paint.
Becoming a mother is a process — matrescence, I can’t quite bring myself to call it — and not usually a smooth one. My theory is that, these days, the identity transformation begins the first time you apologize for posting so much about your baby on social media. And it’s complete the first time you find yourself jumping into a new mom’s mentions to give her unsolicited advice.
For years, I’ve thought dating apps should come with a little widget so people can record themselves saying hello or counting to ten. There are some dates I wouldn’t have gone on had I heard the person’s voice beforehand, and I’m sure the reverse is true. Sometimes a voice just sounds “right,” and sometimes it doesn’t, in the same way that sometimes a person smells “right,” for whatever reason, and sometimes they don’t.
One of the most popular episodes in the history of “On Being,” the 15-year-old public-radio program hosted by the honey-voiced Krista Tippett, is a conversation Tippett had more than ten years ago with the late Irish poet and philosopher John O’Donohue on the subject of the inner landscape of beauty.
We spent the last two hours of Bonnie’s birthday drinks talking about shitty men and didn’t think to apologize to Bonnie about it until after we got kicked out of the bar, long past closing time.
The bartender had tried to wait us out. Our group had become way too terrifying and annoying to approach. Our faces were red and our eyes were red and our auras or spirits or vibes or whatever were reddest of all. A dank, singed red that dimmed to black.