Jacquemus Look 29
Jacquemus: It’s kind of like when you are a child and have no concept of what it is that adults are doing. If someone asked four-year-old you to draw a picture of what was your dad or mum was wearing when they left for work this morning- you have no concept of a 3 piece suit or even the ability to call it into your memory- it is just several scraps of fabric pieced together in some way- in a way that looks big and pointy and professional, proportionally skewed because you are looking up at it, because you are only a few feet tall.
Kids can say things like my mom drinks forty-five cups of coffee every day or our neighbor to the right of us, Marissa, can scream so loud that it will give you an ear infection.
Some exaggerations are not on purpose. Not if you are really convinced that your grandma’s house is that far away—a 100 day long drive, several million miles, to south-central Florida.
Y/Project look 6
Y/Project: Pirate alien from the future hits the streets tries to infiltrate a gang, but does so very poorly!
Maybe could be a pitch for a made-for-TV movie on the sci-fi network?
Once saw one late at night about evil giant genetically mutated spiders that attacked a ski resort. There was a scientist or something who, when one of the giant spiders came down the big stone fireplace in the center of the lodge to attack, killed the spider with the antlers of a mounted buck head on the wall. Then the other guy said, “Hey doc, nice rack!” Which is the only line from the movie I remember.
If someone could please make note to the future pirate alien of common slang terms in today’s society that they just may not be familiar with: Rack = pair of breasts, or a rack of antler on a deer or any other space animal with symmetrical bone structures coming out of their skulls. That is, if bones exist in space, as maybe one would not need them to weigh one down in terms of gravity and whatnot. I did not do well in middle school science. That being said, a pair of breasts.
Area look 20
Area: This seems an appropriate venue as any to describe, in detail, the way my childhood kitchen looked. My childhood home was last decorated decades before my family moved there. We are talking early 70s. The kitchen was one long room with a kitchen table at the end of it and everything was sunshine yellow, which looked nice and cheery in the day time, but sickly in fluorescent light when the sun went down. There was mustard yellow and brown linoleum tile in a geometric print on the floor. The cabinets were blonde wood with yellow ring patterns in them that shaped, to a child’s mind, alien faces. There were beige kitchen towels with images of black and white kittens hung over the rack under the sink. The countertops were burnt orange and peeling. On the wall was a poster of all the kinds of fresh chile peppers in the world, and hung parallel next to it was a poster of all the chile peppers dried and shriveled with their seeds sprinkling out of them. The microwave was small and loud and dark brown, and you had to hit in a very specific place, right under the timer, with the soft bottom of your fist whenever it stopped working.
Rosie Assoulin look 11
Rosie Assoulin: I know this from talking to them about this at length: most of my women friends have dreamed they are pregnant at some point. I have. If you take all my dreams, cumulatively, I would have close to 30 children and none of them look like me. They are tiny and pink and one of them, though I would not be able to select which one when looking out at all 30 of them in front of me, in more of a nightmare sequence, tried to drown me in what resembled the swimming pool at my aunt’s apartment complex.
Richard Quinn, Central Saint Martins Graduate Collections look 139
Richard Quinn: Sometimes, when hungover, it is easier to take on reality if you work under the assumption that no one can see or recognize you. Not even you roommate can make the connection that yes, that is you in your underwear making velveeta for breakfast. That might have been your women’s study professor at the grocery store where you were crying by the bulk nuts at the state of your affairs, but she does not process that your face is yours. You are a blur, like a predating giant bird of prey that is flying towards its victim at such a fast pace that it becomes indistinguishable- this is you, except you are walking, not flying, and at a noticeably slow pace for a human being. Walk home on the main street of your town eating the block of cheese you just bought with your fingers like an animal, no one knows the name to put to the blank slot that is your face, lucky you!