Was steered, very much, by the city, like an old Checker. And it was awesome.
Francesca Woodman at the Guggenheim was intimate, very serene and perfect to do first. I got to be very close to every image and read everything and relax in front of my favorite of her photos. That was a really special experience and geared me up to be the blur of self-righteous outrage I become after a few minutes in a museum. By the time I got to Cindy Sherman at the MoMA, I had real momentum going on my mass-shaming of museum-goers who do nothing but take poor-resolution photographs of the art. People herding ahead of me with i-devices and Canons are no match for my indignation. Both shows still really overwhelmed me.
The Taschen cashier teased me with a returned copy of Pinxit. I spent every waking second at rest reading the Marbled Swarm, the experience of which is like having a meandering, indulgent conversation with an old best friend who has always justified the things about you that you like but know are not good, whose vignettes you take in as things you have been through yourself, oh my god, I needed it so badly. It is my favorite book I have read in a very long time.
My boyfriend made me cackle in the Cafe Sabarsky, with a penis joke. I was dripping with sweat. I felt very classy.
In the hotel I kept unfolding the cover of the Francesca Woodman monograph because it is, on its underside, a giant copy of one of her photos. It's on my wall now, over my bed, where I have been, catching up with books and watching my boyfriend's present to me, the entirety of Daria.
I managed in between long, long naps to post a new installment of Very Literary that received a lot of positive attention. I am very grateful, even though it isn't a thorough exploration of its subjects. I could have gone on listing presses I want to talk about forever, but that is what Very Literary itself is for. All the omissions I made smacked me firmly in the face and I continue on now, armed with a lot of subjects to cover in future posts.
My favorite part, even though I was feeling extremely unwell and looking for a place to sit down, was when I got my boyfriend and I lost around St. Mark's, because we were actually walking around other people who didn't seem furiously hurrying away from where they were. And when I got home and since I've been home this week, I haven't gone through the usual separation anxiety I used to get from visiting Manhattan. I still do get pretty sick and experience serious dread going to my parents' house. I am happy to find out that leaving there has resolved a lot of problems. Being in proximity to places and institutions I love, having a job I love, doing the things I most want to do (practically in a vacuum), with someone I love immensely and not spending any money doing it (I do not exaggerate, my expenses are nil and it has everything to do with the cost of living here) - all of that and having extremely capable access to a fast train to New York, I am very happy for right now and so much happier than I used to be, when I would have to take six months to recover after going from the MoMA to a house peninsulaed by unforeseeable acres of farmland. Now I have only to get over how ill others think of the city where I live, versus a place like New York - the efforts of individuals aside, which should be commended and respected, that is a strong brand, NYC. "Harrisburg isn't effectively branded" is an understatement that no amount of hyperbole can accurately capture.
As considered on my commute, in relative solitude, along the riverfront.