So many issues regarding elitism have arisen lately in my quasi-literary life that I’m impelled to write an essay. I don’t flatter myself that I have a "literary" life, hence the above qualification. Books have always been a refuge, even when I don’t read them. In my childhood I had a packed bookcase at the right side of my bed on top of my bureau. That bookcase was like the walls of Babylon. It prevented dragons from getting through to me.
MoMA Now – Learning to Live Without a Canon
"MoMA Now" includes the works of over four hundred artists. I got seasick at first when I realized that Picasso and Matisse each are represented only a couple of times by my recollection, and Leger and other touchstones once among over four hundred creatives. That means the MoMA curators have blown up the canon.
Greenwood by Michael Christie
Greenwood by Canadian writer Michael Christie speaks and sings with a clear voice that never fails its author.
The Man in the Red Coat by Julian Barnes
Wilde, who shines on every page he inhabits, wasn’t as modern as he thought he was. Foppish writer Count Robert de Montesquiou-Fezensac wasn’t as talented as he thought he was. More people now read Wilde in a day than have read Montesquiou in a century.
Reading Sontag Approaching Artaud
Everyone has at least a few good ideas in their lives. Even my cat, Boo Boo, has some good ideas.
Framing Michael Stewart
I waited in three lines to see Michael Stewart. The first line was for the metal detector outside the Guggenheim Museum. The second line, inside the Frank Lloyd Wright rotunda, was for my reserved ticket. The third was to get into the gallery to see Basquiat’s “Defacement,” his portrait of Michael Stewart being “defaced” by police violence.