The Bagutta Prize turns one hundred and Casa Bellonci is showing a century of it, so I got in before the crowd. Somewhere between the door and the second room my blouse started losing buttons. Tell me you'd get lost in these shelves with me.
The Bagutta Prize turns one hundred and Casa Bellonci is showing a century of it, so I got in before the crowd. Somewhere between the door and the second room my blouse started losing buttons. Tell me you'd get lost in these shelves with me.
The Sonnabend opening ran long and the night came home with me. The dress lost its argument somewhere between the door and the bed. Tell me you'd have stayed for the last glass.
The new show at Fondazione Memmo is all about how we fade like flowers, and I spent the whole afternoon sitting with it. My sunflowers at home didn't survive the week — I might be next. Tell me you'd have sat next to me.
The jazz festival turns fifty and they built the whole edition around Miles Davis' centenary, so obviously my records are all over the floor and the dress is still losing arguments with me. Tell me you'd take the seat next to me.
First Sunday of the month means every civic museum in Rome opens its doors for free, and I fully intend to abuse that. The coat is already on over what really matters, keys in hand. Tell me which one I should hit first.
The party ended somewhere out there, but my night clearly isn't over. The mask stays on — tell me you'd knock anyway.
There's a show closing this weekend about the witch — the woman they called a demon just for being free — and I'm not missing my last chance to walk through it. The black lace came out tonight for a rehearsal. Tell me you'd be my familiar.
Spent my evening at the Vatican staring at a hundred years of popemobiles — art critic life takes strange turns. Now the dress is losing its last argument and the wine is already open. Come finish the glass with me?
Three shows close their doors today and I refuse to miss a single one, so the pool got me before the galleries could. Forty laps done and my head is finally quiet enough to look at art. Tell me you'd time my laps.
Made it to the last day of that textile show before the doors shut — recycled fabrics everywhere, and my sketchbook somehow got heavier on the way home. Tell me you'd be here when I unpack it.