What MEDIA Taught Me About Love
Examining my love life is a bit like overturning a large rock in a damp, dark forest. There are all manner of squishy, squirmy, eyeless horrors wriggling in the mud, things I could dissect and bisect that would still live quite contently, however horridly, in all their undulating halves. There is simply no microscope strong enough, no section small enough, to arrive at the nucleus of why we love whom we love, but oh, do we try. So which wormy creature to examine first? How to choose?
I AM AN AIRPORT KID
I grew up at the Marine Air Terminal in New York City. At the time I was unaware of the unique perspective it afforded me—how few children gestated in the belly of a great, round terminal, nourished by ephemera and the hollow, high-topped sound of cavernous spaces carved in marble. I was a wild thing in a civilized cave, hiding behind wooden benches my father salvaged and meticulously arranged. He recognized their beauty and inherent historical value, and saved them from the garbage heap.
It’s impossible to properly encapsulate Bowie’s deep and abiding influence on fashion. Like his song, he was all Sound and Vision—wonderful to hear, and a sight to behold. He was relentlessly chameleonic, yet somehow steadfastly authentic—a feat difficult to achieve. Bowie transcended genres, redefined them, embraced then sloughed them off for bold, new skin. He was one of a select few artists who never felt like a caricature of himself; he created a brand without ever feeling branded.
It may not be immediately apparent, but several essential elements coalesce to create the multifaceted knitwear company, Tahki Stacy Charles.
A drive to innovate, a determination to render the runway in forms accessible to the women who populate this planet, and a desire to develop and deliver a cohesive and consistent story that fellow knitters can recognize and appreciate—this and so much more contributes to Tahki Stacy Charles.
Dreams And false Alarms
I can remember, when I was very little, paging through one of the airport books my father had written and seeing a picture of a young woman standing next to a small airplane. I think I noticed her because, like me, she had very short hair—at the time, my older brother and I received our haircuts from our father’s barber, so my hair never grew past my ears. She was tall and lithe, possessing a gamine beauty I found enthrallingly relatable.
Ronja tv review
Ronja hasn’t budged from where we left her—irretrievably stuck in hard-packed snow. She shivers, nervously eyeing the sky for the next blizzard. She imagines Mattis finding her lone ski piercing the ground like a tombstone. Heartsick, he drops to his knees, screaming her name and flinging himself onto her snowy sepulcher. The thought elicits immediate tears as Ronja shrieks for help, her calls dampened by the deaf winter woods.