That summer, we set out partially for a family vacation, but also in search for inspiration. The destination was the “west,” or what Dad called “the wild,” far from our oak and pine tree-covered corner of the Northeast. It was my mothers’ idea; she, the architect-turned-artist of the family, decided that in the desolation of the sun-baked clay, she and I would find the subject of a new series of paintings. Setting out in our rented car, we didn’t really know what to expect—would there really be “deserts” and “caverns” like in the westerns, little shacks along the road where old men drank beer and splayed out their feet on the porch, gazing out across dust and childhood dreams?
At school, I no longer had to wait. I was free to do as I pleased and ceased observing the day altogether. But strangely, immediately, Shabbat presented itself to me in a transfiguring light, the radical antidote to all that displeased me here.
“I know myself,” he cried, “but that is all.” -F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise Oh, Francis. If only I could say the same. This last line from a book I recently pulled from the towering stack on my desk … Read More
On Monday, February 10, the Daily Princetonian published an article about senior football captain Caraun Reid’s accomplishments and his opportunity to play in the NFL. The article relayed that Caraun is a special talent, but the photograph accompanying the article was not of Caraun from this fall’s victory over Yale, but of me jumping in the air.
“Clo? How you doin?” Luke says. I take a deep breath. “I’m okay, just getting ready,” I venture. “Where the hell are you?” he slurs. I am in Forbes’ dungeon-like art room in Princeton, NJ. Luke is outside a sports … Read More