Certain American dishes are best made for a crowd. Take, for instance, Brunswick stew and booya. They’re brewed most often in the fall, with a traditional base built on whatever a hunter brings home.
As we head into the next two bloody months, we could use some semblance of faith we’ll pull through together in one piece.
It’s International Clown Day! That’s right, there’s a day set apart to commemorate the women and men who have make us laugh even when we don’t feel like it.
I don’t have time to write and cook today because I’m half way down I 95. Instead, I pulled from the archive a post about politicians campaigning at state fairs.
We all agreed that the hollow below would make a perfect place to live if ever the world descends into dystopian reality.
Maybe it’s that we’ve learned how to accept life now. Maybe, in some manner, we’re figuring out how to patch together a shade of what was once our daily routines. Or maybe it’s this, from the philosopher Jeff Goldblum. Whatever has happened, small moments of grace have surfaced–some of wonder and others of blessed normalcy.
I had to get out of the house today and, lucky enough to have a car, drove twenty blocks to the edge of Brooklyn.
If the current powers-that-be do look to the Works Progress Administration for inspiring a way out of our mess, we should all insist they hitch the Art programs to it.
Tom lives to photograph. I’m nothing if I can’t untangle lives that went before us. I think for us both, Dead Horse Beach is a portrait of brutal carelessness, giving up its ghosts with each low tide. That it draws so many to it–Tom and me, for instance–in wonder of its past and what it teaches us today is a reason to celebrate all the ugliness strewn across the sand.
It has always amazed me how many women artists continue to work in the shadows of men. The case of women graffiti artist is particularly glaring and yet their contributions are among the most essential lessons on why graffiti is such a dynamic artistic expression.