By now I’m sure you’ve seen your artist friends complaining about the “outrageous” gallery display on Instagram photos by the “fucking asshole” that is Richard Prince. And if you haven’t, you probably just haven’t been on Facebook. And that’s fine because Facebook can be extremely emotionally taxing.

So if you’re not up to speed and don’t want to perform a simple Google search, I’ll sum it up:

Richard Prince is making bank off of adding comments to other people’s Instagram posts, screenshotting them, blowing them up to fit ~6×4 canvasses and basically masturbating in his genius. And furthermore, the original Instagram holders are getting no credit. And no compensation. After searching through any pictures I could find of the New Portraits showing, on display at the Gagosian bookstore, I was mostly just extremely sad none of my selfies had made the cut. Maybe if I had kept that one up of me drooling? Drool is in right now. But after I could get past my own deflated ego, I easily found this the funniest and an extremely well-thought out piece of art. A lot of people would yell at me for thinking that but that’s fine. I was a monster in my teenaged years and I can handle being yelled at.

But think about it. This is something extremely representative of the times and that’s crazy cool. I’m someone who believes art that reflects the times is very important because how else will the future get to know us? Art should promote discussion, art can shock, and today Instagram is art. Instagram is art and news and fame and celebrity. It’s an important tool that has been utilized by now word famous models, brands and Richard Prince.

© Richard Prince. Courtesy Gagosian Gallery. Photography by Robert McKeever. Photo: ? Richard Prince. Courtesy Gagosian Gallery. Photography by Robert McKeever.

Very Kardashian, New Portraits is shallow and deep and outrageous and hilarious and deserves a pat on the back. And some people also think it deserves about 90k a pop to take a piece home. I don’t have 90k and I have nowhere to put a blurry blown-up screenshot of a JUNGLEPUSSY selfie in my apartment. That’s okay, though. I don’t need to own beautiful things to appreciate them.

I understand the argument, I get why people are pissed off, and they should be. Richard Prince just white man capitalized on so many artist’s hard work and if they want to send him bags of shit, they should have a right to. Every opinion I’ve heard about this phenomena has been valid. 

There’s that quote that’s something like “good artists copy, great artists steal” that people keep attributing to Picasso but I’m almost 87% sure someone on Tumblr just made up. I’ve always agreed with it because if you take a look around you, everything is stolen on some level. But once you’ve stolen something, it’s now yours. There’s nothing new under the sun, blah blah blah. 


School’s out, blues in.

I can’t remember the last time summer actually meant summer. I’m also sure that’s not an original thought and I should get over it. Mercury is retrograding and I’d yank a bull’s balls if I said I wasn’t feeling that in full force somehow. Absolutely everything has gone wrong. It was one of those domino-effect things. So now I’m starting all over and really trying to do it right this time.

Currently, my landlord is trying to fix my kitchen sink which has resulted in my bath tub not being able to stop pouring water. Has there ever been a landlord who hired a professional first? They’re probably not in my budget if they exist. You really get down in the mud when denied the most basic of things. I probably shouldn’t mention how my water pressure is similar to a hail shower, lest I wish to have a toilet that goes inflated for weeks. I’ll deal.

It’s about that time when a commercialized holiday comes up and everyone says things like “DON’T FORGET THE REASON!” The reason for memorial day? Are you kidding? I love cooking food on grills outside and shopping is an IV drip. I know the damn reason. Don’t patronize me. The next time these shoes will be on sale will be when I don’t want them anymore, and I refuse to pass something like that up.

I had a discussion with some friends about some art the other day, as usual. A buddy ole pal brought up Ed Ruscha and said a bunch of things about how he didn’t like his work, including the infamous “I could’ve done that!” line.

The thing is, all of us could have done anything. The bigger thing is, all of us didn’t. Anything can be art but you need half a brain, a little education and a bit of marketability to make it art.

And that’s something that is very important to remember. Not everyone’s idea was a good one at first. This isn’t inspirational want or anything, I’m trying to tell you to shit on a canvas and sell it to people once you’ve figured out what makes it art.

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My mother recently found out that I, her daughter, am pretty vain.

The first thing I apparently said when I was in the room with her and my surgeon was “Am I still pretty?” which I think is an extremely valid thing to ask.

The right side of my face is still swollen but now it’s kind of cute and I can handle it. It’s almost endearing is what I’m deciding and forcing anyone else to think if for some strange reason my face stays like this. This is highly unlikely but I am always preparing for the worst.

Not being able to eat has made me want to eat anything I have to chew to digest. Like any sane person, I’ve been watching chef documentaries and dreaming of opening my own pop-up food stand. Or whatever. The more likely version of that story is me diving into a weird and primarily sex-enfueled relationship with a chef where I use him for dinner. I love food more than I could ever love any person. Besides my mother, who thought I should probably take it easy another day and not come to cultural fest they’re having downtown with her where she’s now sending me pictures of her having a great time. That’s fine, I hate fun anyway.

I’m imagining myself swimming in a sea of creamy tomato and spinach sauce, where cheese tortellinis the size of submarines float by me. As the food mermaid I am, I hurry towards a rather plump one and take a bite. It barely leaves a mark in the large delicious..thing. I make a bed on it and fall fast asleep. And that’s kind of a sick thing to imagine, but that’s what I want.

And I can’t wait to try this great recipe I found in my darkest hour at Cooking Classy





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You learn a lot after you go through a wisdom tooth extraction.

Things like: building up a tolerance to pain medication is very real, your mom is still the only woman you could ever sell a lung for, and not only is American Idol still on but that the winner is from the same place the first boy who ever broke your heart is from.

I didn’t have to go to India for an eye-opening experience.

Two days spent on the couch thinking about what I’m going to do now that I’ve almost graduated college. Naturally, I’ll do what any forward moving renaissance city-girl would do. I’m going to blog about it.

Two incidents reminding me of my very short fling with an Icelandic ballroom dancer. One incident asking about group sex, the other was simply watching that new show “Younger” starring Hilary Duff and Sutton Foster when that Swedish author comes into play. He looks and talks exactly like the Icelandic ballroom dancer. I’m not insinuating that all Nordic people look and talk alike but this didn’t prove me wrong.
Regardless, it was a short fling because he was an Aries and I’m a Scorpio and do I even have to go on? There was a point where I thought the sex was just really good but now I’m having best I ever had not-blackout sex with someone I don’t hate (weird). The white line highway also came a little into play on his part and it wasn’t a good look on him.  Not to mention he started hooking up with his 60-year-old millionaire student who was blonde. He’s back in Iceland because he’s just a bad boy who couldn’t play by the rules. Last time he came to visit the grand USA he didn’t even come visit me even though he said he would. I hear from our one mutual friend I didn’t miss anything and “he’s just an asshole now,” but because I am petty, I deleted him on Facebook. We still Snapchat. Usually when my not-boyfriend doesn’t text me back. I have needs.

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