The last time I lived in New York was during (though at the tail end of) a brief window of the possible. It was exhausting. Now that the window—there should be a better word for it—has closed, and I, semi-returned, I am enjoying how people have relaxed their principles, left their stations, switched them up, to be expected, of myself as well. Maybe because of the neologism polyester, maybe because of the nuclear winter that a “performance velvet” creative unconscious is eeking out, live and colorless. There is no need for rigidity when there are no spatiotemporal values to be espoused, no cultural Calvinism to be flexed, and no canals. I am thinking about Mondrian’s father, with the originary double ‘a’ in his cap, so strict, so religious, so much a believer, and how he came around: to the theodicy of something quiet and private and elegant and else.
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