This book has only just been released, but I had the privilege of seeing an advance copy and I can honestly say that it’s the most inspiring book I’ve ever seen. Alexander Girard was a genius. Everything he did was beautiful and original and idiosyncratic. I love him. But I don’t love how bloody prolific he was—makes me feel like a total slacker.
I read this book along with Vulgar Favors and Wonder Bread & Ecstasy in one week and I feel like they belong in one entry—kind of a triptych about the sordid underbelly of gay life. Just buy them and read them. You won't be sorry.
David Hicks was the chic-est decorator ever. But what I really love about his work is that it’s not just chic—it's fun and playful and joyful, all the things I believe good design should be. Love him, love him, love him. Respect.
Back to my camp childhood. I read it the summer of my Bar Mitzvah and dreamed of clawing my way to the witty Manhattan world of Fran Lebowitz. I should send her a thank-you note for creating my sensibility and my aspirations.
Not the biggest John Irving fan, but I love this book. I’m Sam the Skeptic and I hate magical realism, but I was totally able to suspend my disbelief for this book’s fate-based conceit. For a similar freaky-but-utterly-convincing-supernatural sitch try Patrick Süskind’s Perfume. Fab.
Just found out that Dawn Powell lived in my apartment building in New York. Kinda’ made my heart race. I love her. This 1942 page-turner about social climbing in New York is still relevant today. Sadly, I only discovered Dawn Powell in my camp adulthood.