ms.chief's scrapbook

essentially, i'm still a 12 year old girl obsessed with boys, tragedy, and idealism. i like telling my secrets to strangers. http://mzchief.tumblr.com/ask

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I’m not one to over sentimentalize celebrity tragedy, but I’m genuinely upset over the loss of Robin Williams.  Growing up in San Francisco, he was a hometown hero, and generally reputed to be kind and lovely. He feels like he was an uncle i only saw every couple of years on random holidays; I know that sounds silly, but it seems I’m not the only person that feels that way.

Since his passing, there have been so many warm tributes and such wonderful stories have come out about him, and you notice in clips of his interactions with interviewers and other comics how much they regarded him, not only as a peer, an artist, but as a human. 

It breaks my heart to think of someone who took such pleasure bringing joy to others had such a deep sadness. I hope his family finds peace knowing how beloved he was and I hope his soul is at rest.  

I had an amazing birthday week. So grateful for the love I have in my life. #latergram #luckygirl #lifeisawesome ❤️🙏

I had an amazing birthday week. So grateful for the love I have in my life. #latergram #luckygirl #lifeisawesome ❤️🙏

"Straight" #AiWeiWei made from rebar that was collected and straightened from the collapsed school buildings from the 2007 Sichuan earthquake. (at Brooklyn Museum)

"Straight" #AiWeiWei made from rebar that was collected and straightened from the collapsed school buildings from the 2007 Sichuan earthquake. (at Brooklyn Museum)

theparisreview:

“It’s the story of what it means to live in a cultural climate that stifles almost every creative impulse, and why it so often seems we should stop trying.”

Dan Piepenbring on Cory Arcangel’s new book, Working on My Novel, a compilation of tweets from people who are putatively at work on novels.

"Arcangel suggests there’s something inherently ennobling in trying to write, but his book is an aggregate of delusion, narcissism, procrastination, boredom, self-congratulation, confusion—every stumbling block, in other words, between here and art. Working captures the worrisome extent to which “creative writing” has been synonymized with therapy; nearly everyone quoted in it pursues novel-writing as a kind of exercise regimen.”

And so Working on My Novel is a brilliant litmus test—there are those who will read it as a paean to the fortitude of the creative spirit, and those who will read it as a confirmation of the novel’s increasing impotence. A form that should provide a “radical critique of the therapeutic society,” as Franzen writes, has instead been co-opted by that society. It’s failing better than the best Fail Better adherent could hope.”