Reading about Swinton's collaboration with MoMA, I couldn't help but reminisce about a certain afternoon back in 1996 that I spent in the company of Quentin Crisp where sleep would also prove to be transformative -- for me.
James Fallows wrote of Romney, "there is so little there, there." Isn't it funny that a few days earlier, in a column comparing Romney to Hemingway's Jake Barnes, I wrote of the Republican nominee that "there is no there there"?
The novel is a young man's recollection, and as such it's exceptional. In other words, it's good, and here it is in an edition that delves even deeper into that young man's sustaining romantic obsession.
The Metropolitan Museum in New York, in its current exhibit on the collection of Gertrude Stein and her family, has made a decision to suppress the ugly truth about her collaboration with Nazism during the German occupation of France.
Barney Rosset died last week at age 89, and for those who valued his contribution to upholding First Amendment rights in this country, his championing the works of artists, the event truly marks the end of an era.
A large segment of the letters -- the first written when he was not quite 8 -- are juvenilia and could be the sentiments of any young whippersnapper. Yet there are occasional hints at what would become the acclaimed Hemingway mode of between-hard-covers expression.
Ladies and gentlemen, let me make holiday shopping easier for you and suggest that, instead of the torture of shopping in the crowded malls, you might want to escape into an old-fashioned heaven of a book store.
Three major shows at San Francisco-area art museums made the pioneers of modern art hard to avoid, but instead of a learning experience, the shows were a lost opportunity to look at the origins and meaning of art.