I have recently realized that if I had to choose one and one-only sentence to encapsulate my personality, it would be: “a person for whom dancing parties are a matter of the utmost importance.”
The click of roller skates echoes under the high, vaulted ceiling. And the Virgin Mary gazes down upon it all, smiling benevolently, as if to say, Let’s have a good time tonight. Let’s celebrate. It’s all right.
It turns out that in Chelsea all they’ve got is Chardonnay, and you can’t see the art for the money anyhow. In Soho all they’ve got now is clothes. So where do you, the young art-liker turn?
In my experience, our burden of being unspeakably alone is eased by a subscription to Netflix, especially if you consider that nothing happens after we die and then we just sleep forever, more or less.
When you clean, you can now be sure that 99.9% of germs have been eradicated and that your floors will literally sparkle. But what if your apartment isn’t the only thing in need of cleaning. What if you’re dirty?
Where Joel tips over into mawkishness, R.E.M. give a more complex version of the experience of living towards the end of the cold war, i.e. the end of history.
If a fascist reich was to be established anywhere today, I believe it would necessarily have to exchange iron eagles for fluffy kittens, swap jackboots for Converse, and the epic drama of Wagnerian horns for mumbled ditties on ukuleles.
Everyone chips in so that Andy will shave half of his head or Dave will lie in a bath of baked beans, and a child in Mozambique gets the vaccine he needs to not die tomorrow.
Too often we emerging photographers, rather than providing unique contributions to discourse, arrive to reproduce images, reinforcing an existing visual narrative.
Yvonne Rainer … 911 calls … schizophrenics … what happens when you retrace your YouTube steps?