All about the lard.

Looo Looo.

“Figure of a Woman” by Vilhelm Hammershøi

One of the wife’s favorite movies…

I’ve been reading through Joy Ride, John Lahr’s recent anthology of theater criticism and personality profiles. In the introduction, he has this to say about his editor at The New Yorker, Deborah Treisman:

But, short or long, the mind-meld never lost its thrill. On the edited page, you are still you, but somehow brighter, clearer, smoother, almost glamorous. You words dip and swing with their proper music; your hard-won meanings land with their intended clout. No wonder the relationship feels so intimate and joyous. You are being given the greatest of gifts: to be your best self in print.

This is so true and when you’re lucky enough to work with an editor like this it is something to be savored. I love that Lahr was generous enough to point this out.

[Photo Credit: Graham Turner]

Cool out.

Photo Credit: Cate Dingley via MPD.

What is a quince, Alex?

“F” for Fatale.

Play that record you fool.

Picture by Egon.

Monday Morning Modigliani 

Drawing by Diebs.

Darren Carroll: Sweet and Meaty. 

Together, like it was before.

Picture by Roy Price

Cool Out.

Picture by Miles Hyman

‘Tis the season.

Frank Miller. 1984.

“Size L” (from Guandong Big Girls Series #3, 1995) by Wang Yunpeng

Cool Breeze.

Really strong story by N.R. Kleinfeld in the Times: 

They found him in the living room, crumpled up on the mottled carpet. The police did. Sniffing a fetid odor, a neighbor had called 911. The apartment was in north-central Queens, in an unassertive building on 79th Street in Jackson Heights.

The apartment belonged to a George Bell. He lived alone. Thus the presumption was that the corpse also belonged to George Bell. It was a plausible supposition, but it remained just that, for the puffy body on the floor was decomposed and unrecognizable. Clearly the man had not died on July 12, the Saturday last year when he was discovered, nor the day before nor the day before that. He had lain there for a while, nothing to announce his departure to the world, while the hyperkinetic city around him hurried on with its business.

Neighbors had last seen him six days earlier, a Sunday. On Thursday, there was a break in his routine. The car he always kept out front and moved from one side of the street to the other to obey parking rules sat on the wrong side. A ticket was wedged beneath the wiper. The woman next door called Mr. Bell. His phone rang and rang.

[Photo Credit: Josh Haner/The New York Times]

Hey Now.