issue no. 6: on art

What's another hole in the wall?

The premiere volume of Love and Other Rugs is presented by Backdrop.

commitment and command strips.

Over the years I have tried, without much success, to fall in love at museums. In college, while abroad, I went to a pop art museum in Vienna with a boy who I'd chased consistently for years. Our museum pace was a match, our interest in Lichtensteins, and Warhols of Elvis was a match, the man was not. The chemistry wasn’t there, I guess. Years later, it all came to a crashing end when he asked for my recommendation for a special first date spot. They now have a child. I then tried my hand at broadening to different area codes. I was heading to Austin for work and started chatting with someone I knew who lived there. Our first and only date began with an hour long silent James Turrell viewing at sunset. Not as romantic as you think. We laughed later about re-meeting in total silence and then went our separate ways. My most recent ex hated modern art so we’d pace through museums pretending to like what the other person wanted to look at. The one before that cared more about the building than its contents, but to be fair he was an architect. I was seemingly better off wandering around museums alone.

Now, I go to museums less often—to see New York’s rotating modern shows, or while in a new city to inject culture and history in between my solo wines and vintage shopping. To get inspiration for art and framing and wall color. And of course to feel my mother. The last day we spent together was at a museum, so when I go, she is neither alive nor dead.

I was on a date in December when the man across from me asked what my favorite museum was. It was a refreshing question, I thought among the what bars do you love, or how long have you known the mutual friend we have, or how long have you lived in South Brooklyn. Since college, mine had been The Peggy Guggenheim Collection in Venice, Italy. Right on the banks of the canals, Peggy lived there for over three decades with her dogs and her paintings and her Calder sculpture on the marble patio. It is magic. 

That’s a good one. His was The Frick. Classics. I’d never been. So I dragged myself to it’s temporary home the next week, in the rotating door that was the Whitney then the Met Brauer and now the temporary home of the Frick’s masters collections while repairs on its permanent home were being made. The art was not for me. Stunning but stand-offish. Much like the boy who suggested it. 

Peggy’s Calder & the only painting from the Frick I snapped before they told me to put my phone away.

These days, I’ve been thinking about the art of commitment—and well the art of art—committing, de-committing, recommitting. Putting holes in the walls and then patching them over with a vaguely unmatched color of caulk. 

In my last apartment, it took me a year to hang anything on the walls. Commitment issues. Every room had stacks of paintings propped against walls just mere feet below their possible resting place. Poster rolls overflowed a converted trashcan and shoe boxes of slides and photographs waited patiently to be scanned and printed and matted in frames. But after a break-up and a stint in Vermont at the beginning of Covid I knew enough was enough. I laid every piece of art I owned on the floor and made decisions about what to frame—making 4 trips to my local art supply store (it's my go-to for cheap frames) and a vintage store called Mother of Junk (which is only for the brave of heart). And then I put everything up, except the really heavy stuff, with Command™ strips. I was not so keen on permanence I suppose. Or maybe permanence was not so keen on me. 

My mom used to tell a story from her marriage about being evacuated from her apartment during a major wildfire in Oakland and having to grab what was important quickly—the art, the photographs, the slides (2000 of which now live in a suitcase in my closet). It made me think about go-bags and what I would run out the door with. My cat for one, my mother’s ashes (although perhaps redundant to save ashes from a fire), and of course the art—my art, her art, the investment pieces, the art I’ve spent hours un-framing and reframing. Maybe that’s why in my last apartment everything was hung up the way it was—one Velcro strip away from running out the door with it in a hurry.

Old & new. Both washed in Cool Moon white from Backdrop.

When I moved into my new apartment I refused to wait so long again—I gave myself a month to fill the walls. Solid brass nails to break through concrete, mounting wires, a dedicated plan. I hung not one but two six-foot tall posters by hoisting one side up on a stool while holding the other on my knee. The frames had been old medical conference posters I had found for $100 at another chaotic Brooklyn vintage spot—then they got to house a Gucci poster of a dinosaur and a photo collage of the Corbusier buildings in Chandigarh, India. The exercise so clearly lacked a boyfriend with a pencil behind his ear and a box of power tools. Instead I counted the distance between where the two holes needed to go using the length of my own foot and wrote on the wall using a pen. I don’t subscribe to the “measure twice cut once” practice, which is why everything I hang up is at a small tilt. But I think it adds character, and distracts you from the gap where the crown molding is trying to part ways with my parquet floors. 

Quickly, I hung up a gallery wall—mostly with photographs my mother had taken in college or during her travels. Next to it, an original cinema poster from the movie Desperately Seeking Susan. As the furniture and floor plan evolved, pieces moved around, posters from travel filled gaps, a giant painted record by John O’Hara moved from my living room to my bedroom. A slow dance. 

Since my time at Domino, a shoot that always stuck in my head was one where a couple in Milan had hung up only frames in their bedroom. A milky grey blue backdrop and a wall of nothing. It was perfect. And in the same spirit, even more than collecting art, I collect frames. I think I got this obsession from my mother who left every yard sale or church swap meet or trip to Goodwill with a frame. And guess what, something will eventually fit (I too have this theory about gowns: buy the dress—there will always be an occasion). Commit to the possibility. Maybe frames are people waiting to meet the right person—setting the stage to hold the full picture. 

Frames in Milan plus Early Stuff from Backdrop.

As it turns out, my favorite thing to photograph at a museum is frames—the actual art you are meant to see, to react to, to be in the moment with. And if you really miss something you can buy the catalog or find someone else’s photo of it on the internet. Not the frames though. I always find myself documenting how the pieces interact with one another, what space they fill, the wall color behind them. My camera roll filled with matting and corners and groupings—inspiring the next time I take everything down and re-arrange the room. 

I often wonder when I’ll settle in on something unchanging. 

I started to think about how relationships are like exhibitions—a much anticipated opening, member previews to your closest inner circle, busy days, slow days. No show is without controversy, an option to extend an end date, for some a fade to black quiet close and for others a record breaking weekend before the show moves onto the next city. All that’s left at the end is screenshots of the artist's best nudes on your phone and maybe a poster from the gift shop. Maybe that means marriage is like a permanent collection, but I’m not sure. 

Speaking of marriage, I have 8 weddings this year—talk about committing. At a bachelorette in Charleston this weekend, I saw commitment up close—wives and mothers and fiancés. We were not in town for the culture or even the food, but rather to parade our bride around in various white outfits and get other people to buy us drinks. There is always a mood board and something penis shaped. Plus, a small sect of the uncommitted, tasked with sussing out the single bachelors who happen upon the same bar.

My grandmother at her engagement party in 1950.

It was this very weekend that I had the shortest relationship of my whole life. I mean this man and I dated in my head for less than 24 hours before he called it quits. 

After meeting at our respective bachelor/bachelorette parties in Charleston, we spent an afternoon chatting about life and school and the world of DTC companies. It was the start to a romcom: The next day, we happened to be on the same flight back to New York—seats 7F and 6E stamped in my brain, matching Away suitcases. When we had gotten to the last escalator at LaGuardia on the way to baggage claim, he said, I just want to tell you why I am going to ghost you, because I’m going to ghost you. I laughed. Is he really a ghost if he says goodbye?

I thought more about what we were talking about last night and I’m going to focus on my situationship. Listen, I have to give him credit, at least someone was out here committing to something. And for what it’s worth, I’d never traveled with a man before so at least I’ll have that memory.

He was so quickly on and then off the wall. A Command™ strip of a man. A vision of the future but not worth putting a hole in the wall for. 

if you are looking for art

1. Really good prints—I’ve talked about Renew Finds & their insane print collection before, but it's worth repeating. Other go-to favorites: Yvon Lambert in Paris and Printed Matter in NYC.

2. Scavenging for frames—On the list of priorities that surpass finding a boyfriend is finding a framer. But in the meantime, I do everything myself, scooping frames from art supply stores and free piles. If you are in New York—Mother of Junk, Reuse America, all the Housing Works, and really any block in Brooklyn. I also love the metal frames on this customizable site.

3. Seeking inspiration—I often turn to my friend Shannon, who runs an interior dreamworld and shop called Yowie. She has the absolute best taste in art and her bold and brazen framing is super inspirational. Jason Saft is another I look to, he’s an impeccable home stager who makes any house look like a home. And is the reason I own a poster of Madonna’s 1985 hit film. 

sloppy secondhand: dating your friends

Each week I’ll pick a favorite vintage spot & a local watering hole—maybe you’ll find a new-to-you sofa or a new-to-you man. All I can promise is perhaps some promiscuity and a little credit card debt. Adding the ones I can to an Instagram guide here and will update as we go.

I have spent most of 2023 trying new restaurants, revisiting old haunts and dating my friends. On Valentine’s Day while I was in the midst of producing a 200 person party with free vibrators, the New York Times published this article on platonic friendships. It was poignant. 

The bar at Jac’s & shelves at John Derian.

Jac’s—I love this part of New York, it feels immediately upscale and old school. Jac’s is no different. New from the team behind Wild Air and Contra—I had two martinis, a Caprese martini and one made with a new obsession, Body Vodka, and a creamsicle pie. No men were present.

John Derian & a lot of good bookstores—a few blocks away you can begin an iconic vintage bookstore journey (Mast, Dashwood, Bonnie Slotnick Cookbooks to name a few)—weaving you throughout NoHo and East Village, not before stopping and John Derian for all things old and new: ceramics, textiles, wild paper decorations.

5 things on my mind or in my cart.

At Domino, we had a column called 10 things where we asked cool people to curate beautiful things, places, inspirations. I’m giving you 5.

1. Books & Hooks—On my last romp around South Brooklyn, I picked up a rail of brass hooks and a new book on Joan Didion from Primary Essentials. Their collection of vintage design books is really next level, I almost left with a book on the works of Charles & Ray Eames but limited myself to one. PS. (go read Stephanie Danler’s latest musing on Joan’s aprons in her new substack).

   

2. A Green Loveseat—I trudged around Horseman Antiques’ Brooklyn Showroom for an hour or so and found a little green sofa that I loved but did not buy. Still waiting for the one.

3. Lucite Shelving—after getting rid of my peloton earlier this year, I turned the space it occupied into an office. All that's missing are shelves. I found these on an internet search for magazine racks. 

   

4. A Great Divider—Herman Miller on Ime Vintage. Swoon.

5. Hot Vintage & Platforms—I am going to a million weddings this year and gave myself a small ‘new dresses’ budget. I left without this Moschino but ooh baby. To pair with my wedding look all I can think about is platforms—these two vintage YSL pairs: cheetah and purple rope and these buttery ones from Larroude.