So Emma and I finally made plans to see the reportedly underwhelming Kiki Smith exhibit at the Brooklyn Museum, which was not as exciting as the one we saw with all of the blood and hair and sperm way back when, but did have a couple of good mobiles with crows or ravens or something exploding through some kind of window. It had something to do with the Anunciation or something. I don't know.
But nobody told me that Judy Chicago's "The Dinner Party" is permanently installed at the Brooklyn Museum, or else I probably would have been there back in September. It was so much more beautiful than I expected, and was totally worth the trip there, in the icy, driving rain, without an umbrella, in gale-force winds. In the very unlikely event that I become surreally wealthy, the first thing that I am going to do is order a full set of replicas of all 39 floral/vulvic place settings from the installation. Somebody mark my words.
And then Emma and I went out and caught up over coffee and scones at Trois Pommes in Park Slope before I slogged all the way home in the actually pouring rain, to the point that I came in and my roommate's parents took a picture of me because I looked so sad and bedraggled. My clothes are literally drenched, still. On the bright side, I apparently clean obsessively when I'm trapped indoors, and you can now do surgery off of our floor. (I wouldn't actually let you. If you got blood on that floor, I would be furious.)