Power lunch

Another productive therapy session!

Sophie Calle’s “On the Hunt”

My favorite excerpts:

“Gentleman of leisure seeks lady of means. Would ignore stain if dowry is good.”

“Neurasthenics, neurotics, illiterates, egoists, antimilitarists need not apply.”

“Queen of a pretty seaside resort, 18 years old, pleasant face, asks for kind little husband to make a happy man.”

“Sociable without being a socialite, sentimental yet modern, looking for oblivion in marriage.”

“Preferring kindness to beauty…Personal fortune not needed, only need to be healthy and sober.”

“Looking for a brave heart, oval face, good teeth, beardless, sober, fortune for two. Noble, politician, pianist.”

“Charming little blonde doll, 32, dreamer, searching land and sea for a spouse from a dream, my husband yet unseen, my celestial beam!”

“Preference for a vegetarian spiritualist.”

“Preference for aristocracy.”

“Old, poor, ugly, yet whoever will marry me will not be disappointed.”

“Would marry a weary person who is really cultured. Urgent.”

“Prince, middle-aged, would marry shepherdess even without flock.”

“Intelligent but not intellectual.”

“Beauty, region, fortune not important, as long as kind.”

“SOS final shipwreck of the heart.”

“The most radiant contemplative epicurean, 59, charming flaws, suddenly cannot bear the weight of her unused tenderness and is starting to get out of control.”

“I dream of fervent tenderness, protection, thoughtfulness, mutual adoration.”

“Profession doesn’t matter in view of the current climate.”

“Pretty West Indian swallow, 36, 3 chicks, is looking for metropolitan bird to fill the gap in their nest.”

“Daft person still believing in love, already half a century…Sentimental to excess, sensual but cerebral, feminine but futile, hopes for a miracle.”

“Would like to meet not-too-ugly Mr. to share Bach, Van Gogh, Jean Daniel, and steak au poivre.”

“Sad clown, oddball, would take off red nose and pajamas for good run with superb romantic flower. Materialistic nags, don’t bother.”

“Whipping lover, like Father Flog, dreams of a sensual cerebral and rebellious accomplice for whom affectionate welts are an extreme homage and able to see in her partner’s talent erotic attributes that offer a little bit of madness.”

“I avoid amazons and proud bachelorettes.”

“You are full of wit, with a big house to fix up.”

“Which diamond of great purity would share a padded case with a solitaire 52 carats? Fakes need not apply.”

“Looking for the LAST man of her life to block off melancholy, anesthetize memories, conjugate verb to love.”

A proper fall walk through Central Park.

Everything always comes back to Sappho’s Fragment 31.

The ducks say hi!

Boston: City of Spiritual Refreshment

I was just in Boston to visit Hannah for three nights. It’s been such a long time since we’ve had a weekend like this—I can’t believe how much I needed it. In 2023, I came for Valentine’s Day weekend, and we went to the Dita von Teese show. In 2024, I was there for another perfect weekend, attending her and Michael’s wedding the day before I left for Ireland. Very happy we planned this for early September, as the air was so perfectly crisp and the collegiate vibes were at their peak. This is what we did:

- Arrived at their house at 10 p.m. on Friday and crashed on the sofa almost immediately.
- Saturday began with breakfast in downtown Rozzie, cute small town wandering, a visit to Joanne’s perfect shop to buy souvenirs, though no Joanne this time. Stopped at the farmers market - Michael bought provisions for a future dinner and I bought the most incredibly fragrant (greenhouse-grown) guavas.
- Hannah and I set off for the Harvard Art Museums, where we communed with John Singer Sargeant’s Study for Seated Figures for “El Jaleo,” Edo-period The Four Accomplishments, David Smith’s Medals for Dishonor, and Henri Toulouse-Lautrec’s The Black Countess.
- Afterward, we prolonged our art high with a visit to the incredible secondhand shop Retrospective and the restaurant Pammy’s next door, which provided a feast for the senses. I sipped on a mocktail called the Bitter Ex, and to eat, I had the grilled oysters with eggplant, and a spring onion purée, spaghetti with sungold tomatoes and smoked trout roe, and the black bass with strawberries (!), confit fennel, and curry leaf. During the meal, the sky opened up and it began downpouring, complete with thunder and lightning. We enjoyed watching the action through the window.
- We planned to see a midnight movie, even though none of us are late-night people, so we cajoled ourselves to stay awake by watching True Blood and Downton Abbey. We also watched the Wuthering Heights trailer at least four times. We ate the guavas and, sadly, none of us liked them.
- Somehow, we managed to stay awake and drive to The Coolidge, a stunning 92-year-old cinema, to see Hundreds of Beavers at 11:59 p.m. Exceptional film. I can’t remember the last time I laughed that hard.
- The next morning, we got a delicious Greek brunch, and then Hannah and I strolled around, looking at the shops. It was raining but lovely to be out. We went to a record shop and I “shazamed” like four new favorite songs that were playing. Feels good to refresh the playlists—I’ve been listening to a lot of the same stuff.
- We then attended at breathwork session at a studio that’s a favorite of Hannah’s. I have been thinking a lot about breath and achieving different states of consciousness using breath control, so I was looking forward to this. Well, I breathed so deeply and forcefully during the session that I began to experience tetany (“lobster-claw hands”). The feeling in my brain was definitely euphoric and subspace-y, but I was quite nervous about what the fuck was going on with my hands (“It’s your heart meridian opening,” the breathwork facilitator said. Well, actually, it’s your blood alkalizing!). I would like to keep practicing breathwork, as I think carving out time to breathe consciously does provide a powerfully calming effect, but I’m unsure if inducing hyperventilation is the right way.
- Michael cooked us dinner when we got home. Farmers market chicken with potatoes - super delicious.
- We then set off for the Rilo Kiley show, which was the “anchor activity” for our visit. This show blew me away. It was fabulous to see Jenny Lewis on stage again, singing these songs from what now feels like a bygone era. I had somehow never heard “Does He Love You?” before, and it made me cry.
- Monday morning I finally slept in after many nights of patchy sleep. Then it was time to hug everyone goodbye.

Salon of the Venuses

On Sunday, I sat on the bench in Gallery 811 of The Met and communed with the atmosphere created by Cabanel’s The Birth of Venus. From afar, Venus looks like she may be asleep, but under the shadowy crook of her arm, her eyes are very much open and narrowed at the viewer. I enjoyed watching patrons, upon passing by her, do a double-take, slow to a stop, and inevitably pull out their phone to capture her. Observing the passersby as part of the artwork, I made penetrating eye contact with certain individuals as they broke their gaze from the painting. Their perception upon realizing they had just been perceived was jarring for us both—I’ve come to really love the highly discomfited shock of meeting a stranger’s eyes.

I feel drawn to this vantage point again and again, as it helps me get a read on the quality of my psychosexual energy that I’m putting out into the world. I was last here in June, on the cusp of the first truly brutal NYC heat wave, steeling myself against a week without air conditioning, under the deep influence of lustful misery. Perhaps I had been here inadvertently trying to seek council or solace from Venus herself.

In June, I sat here and sobbed. On the last day of August, I made several men jump… just by looking at them.

Lately, I notice a new Rodin every time I’m at the Met. This one is Pygmalion and Galatea. From the exhibition copy:

According to classical mythology, the sculptor Pygmalion so desired a marble woman he had carved that Venus, the goddess of love, granted her life. Rodin depicts the statue of Galatea quickening at the sculptor’s touch, her glowing body emerging from unfinished stone. Yet this Pygmalion is not the handsome youth of tradition, but rather a stocky, bearded man resembling Rodin, whose name is prominently inscribed next to the mythical sculptor’s on the side of the base. In his quest to endow his figures with living force, Rodin regarded himself as a modern Pygmalion.

At this point, a guard announced to the room that the museum would be closing in 15 minutes. Feeling that I was in a bit of an art trance that I wished to prolong (which would not be possible if I were jostled amongst the rush, noise, and confusion of the departing crowd), I asked him what the most direct way to exit would be. By way of answering, he beckoned me across the gallery, unhooked a velvet-rope partition in front of an elevator, and escorted me down to the lower-level members’ entrance. I thanked him and walked back into the 5 p.m. sunshine.