by Erica Kent
FEB 2019 | Fiction
I’m twelve at the neighborhood block party. The band jams. Bales of hay are scattered around a little platform stage. Kids sway around the edges. Grown ups laugh and drink. Little kids run and race their bikes, jacked up on cotton candy.
by Nicholas Fox Weber
DEC 18-JAN 19 | Critics Page
It was a dinner party in Paris, but everyone was American. All the other guests were “people of means,” substantially, and connected to the art world. They were collectors and lawyers and money people. None of them made art, but all of them put it on a pedestal.