In talking, shyness and timidity distort the very meaning of my words. I don’t pretend to know anybody well. People are like shadows to me and I am like a shadow.

Gwen John

In a Gwen John k-hole because I’m in love with her and now I have to read everything she’s ever written.


She painted. She had a little success. She died. I should hate her story but it seems to me exemplary. She made exactly enough space in her life to set her easel down. The push for honesty in her work is amazing; the way she painted the light hitting the side of a brown teapot, or the slope of a mansard roof. I look at her sad, frank-eyed portraits of herself and of other women, and think if that is what the truth looks like, then she was painting a losing game.
But she did not compromise. She worked with her elbows stuck out, jabbing them both in the eye: on one side her brother Augustus, with his lifestyle and his fame and his sentimental line, and on the other, Auguste, the genius, his lecherous old hands coaxing flesh from stone.
She stood in the middle, looking straight at her subject: Gwen.

"My hero: Gwen John" by Anne Enright
Zoom Info

She painted. She had a little success. She died. I should hate her story but it seems to me exemplary. She made exactly enough space in her life to set her easel down. The push for honesty in her work is amazing; the way she painted the light hitting the side of a brown teapot, or the slope of a mansard roof. I look at her sad, frank-eyed portraits of herself and of other women, and think if that is what the truth looks like, then she was painting a losing game.
But she did not compromise. She worked with her elbows stuck out, jabbing them both in the eye: on one side her brother Augustus, with his lifestyle and his fame and his sentimental line, and on the other, Auguste, the genius, his lecherous old hands coaxing flesh from stone.
She stood in the middle, looking straight at her subject: Gwen.

"My hero: Gwen John" by Anne Enright
Zoom Info

She painted. She had a little success. She died. I should hate her story but it seems to me exemplary. She made exactly enough space in her life to set her easel down. The push for honesty in her work is amazing; the way she painted the light hitting the side of a brown teapot, or the slope of a mansard roof. I look at her sad, frank-eyed portraits of herself and of other women, and think if that is what the truth looks like, then she was painting a losing game.

But she did not compromise. She worked with her elbows stuck out, jabbing them both in the eye: on one side her brother Augustus, with his lifestyle and his fame and his sentimental line, and on the other, Auguste, the genius, his lecherous old hands coaxing flesh from stone.

She stood in the middle, looking straight at her subject: Gwen.

"My hero: Gwen John" by Anne Enright

The same albums have been in my car since high school are The Head On The Door, Yuck's self-titled, TPOBPAH's Belong, and a mix CD that is just Interpol’s Antics and every time I get in the car nobody has changed them.

If memory serves me well
we used to go out into the field
and lie and swell
Quite openly we swole
until we grew so big
the boys would see us
and want to touch us
Sometimes we’d let them
Moreoften
we swole so big that
they grew frightened
picked up their things
and ran away
leaving us gently
resting in our size

For women, food is often presented as extremely serious, as either an expression of health and virtue or a terrible moral transgression. Maybe snackwave is a reminder that food can also be fun.

"When Pizza Is Political" by Anna North for NYT Op-Talk

:)