The way human beings speak is so heartbreaking to me—we never sound the way we want to sound. We’re always stopping ourselves in mid–sentence because we’re so terrified of saying the wrong thing. Speaking is a kind of misery. And I guess I comfort myself by finding the rhythms and accidental poetry in everyone’s inadequate attempts to articulate their thoughts. We’re all sort of quietly suffering as we go about our days, trying and failing to communicate to other people what we want and what we believe. Text by Annie Baker
There was darkness all around me. And then someone took me by the hand. There was brightness too. The light dazzled me. I made every... Read More

Photo by Max Vadukul
An 1980s photograph by Max Vadukul for Yohji Yamamoto speaks to a creative relationship that still endures. Max attended the Women’s Spring Summer 2024 show... Read More

I’m young. I might have forgotten the best and deepest things. I look like a good fresh memory. My mind is dying. You could give... Read More

Symplegma by John Henry Fuseli

Abstract Expressionist, Joan Mitchell, in her studio. Paris, 1956.

Ingrid Bergman in Journey to Italy (Roberto Rossellini, 1954)
Where do you go to my lovely?

Photo by Cristina Malcorra

Photo by David William Baum. 90º












































