Essays

Dressing Up in the Age of Dressing Down

How often do I think "elegant" or "gorgeous" when I am getting ready to go out? These days, anything but denim and leather seems to be deemed uncool. Maybe it’s time we tried a little splendidness.

2/3/12

The Quest to Divest

Using up, paring down, getting rid of, resisting acquisition: It could be my stage of life or the unhappy economy—either way, I’m hoping to get more out of less. But for a lifelong accumulator, this is not easy.

12/7/11

Father's Day

Absence is usually what comes to mind when I think of my father. So for once I’m paying homage to his presence—and to Shakespeare’s, whose plays he taught—in my early life.

10/20/11

THE TIMING was mystically apt. I saw the write-up for a raffish new production of Shakespeare’s Cymbeline by a group of young players called the Fiasco Theater, and I got a ticket for October 1, the day after what would have been the ninety-ninth birthday of my father, Russell. I wasn’t tearful about it—quite the contrary. For decades I had dealt with his abandonment of our family with a defensive combination of pain, anger, and sardonic humor. None of these stances acknowledged even a whiff of lingering affection. Read more...

Fall at the Mall

Disenchanted with fashion hype, yet still lusting after clothes I don't need, I offer not a shopping list but a modest rant.

8/29/11

Isle of Women

The men of this Breton island spent more time at sea than on land. Women held the fort—and they still do. Maybe that’s why I feel so at home here.

6/27/11

My Grandfather's Bed

A piece of furniture, shut away in storage for 25 years, is back, and with it the memory of a man whose eccentricity I admired and whose anxieties I inherited.

4/16/11

Doing It for Love

Just in time for Valentine's Day, an essay in praise of the much-maligned amateur.

2/13/11

"CLASS CONFLICT," to me, means that I can't fit in another Learning Experience because I already have one scheduled for that time slot. I am a relentless student: toiling at the ballet barre, pounding through a Bach fugue on the piano, attempting to draw a naked body in an overheated studio. I don't do any of these things like a "real" dancer, musician, or artist. I am a dabbler. A dilettante. A hobbyist. A rank amateur (is there any other kind?). I write professionally, but in other arts I am a permanent beginner. I improve, but I do not master. Read more...

Venetian Peacock Syndrome

Can a committed fashion neutralist find happiness in living color? My adventures in the red.

1/19/11

Killer Shoes

BLACK SWAN is a melodrama, a mad fantasy…and yet, it is true that ballet is a severe, imperious art, testing the body to its limit. A suffering pointe-shoe novice tells all.

12/30/10

Next Stop, Berlin

Born in 1945 to a mother who came from a family of European Jews, I have an uneasy relationship—to put it mildly—with Germany. Now I’m going to see for myself.

11/2/10

Dressing Up in the Age of Dressing Down

How often do I think "elegant" or "gorgeous" when I am getting ready to go out? These days, anything but denim and leather seems to be deemed uncool. Maybe it’s time we tried a little splendidness.

The Quest to Divest

Using up, paring down, getting rid of, resisting acquisition: It could be my stage of life or the unhappy economy—either way, I’m hoping to get more out of less. But for a lifelong accumulator, this is not easy.

Father's Day

Absence is usually what comes to mind when I think of my father. So for once I’m paying homage to his presence—and to Shakespeare’s, whose plays he taught—in my early life.

Fall at the Mall

Disenchanted with fashion hype, yet still lusting after clothes I don't need, I offer not a shopping list but a modest rant.

Isle of Women

The men of this Breton island spent more time at sea than on land. Women held the fort—and they still do. Maybe that’s why I feel so at home here.

My Grandfather's Bed

A piece of furniture, shut away in storage for 25 years, is back, and with it the memory of a man whose eccentricity I admired and whose anxieties I inherited.

Doing It for Love

Just in time for Valentine's Day, an essay in praise of the much-maligned amateur.

Venetian Peacock Syndrome

Can a committed fashion neutralist find happiness in living color? My adventures in the red.

Killer Shoes

BLACK SWAN is a melodrama, a mad fantasy…and yet, it is true that ballet is a severe, imperious art, testing the body to its limit. A suffering pointe-shoe novice tells all.

Next Stop, Berlin

Born in 1945 to a mother who came from a family of European Jews, I have an uneasy relationship—to put it mildly—with Germany. Now I’m going to see for myself.

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