She Who Laughs Last: On Comedy and Revenge in Nora Ephron's Heartburn

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She Who Laughs Last: On Comedy and Revenge in Nora Ephron's Heartburn

In her lecture “On Beginnings,” collected in the book Madness, Rack, and Honey, the poet Mary Ruefle considers Gaston Bachelard’s idea that “we begin in admiration and end by organizing our disappointment,” which she simplifies even further into “origins (beginnings) have consequences (endings).” Pulled and paraphrased from Bachelard’s The Poetics of Space, where it originally referred to the practice of poetry and the ways we deal with the intrinsic inadequacies of language, it is a concept that can also be applied to an act even more mystical and bewildering: that of falling in love.

As Ruefle elaborates, “the moment of admiration is the experience of something unfiltered, vital and fresh” not unlike the sense of potential, amazement, and naivete with which one might enter a new romance. As the initial illusions fade and the realities make themselves known, the clarity afforded by disappointment becomes an opportunity to take agency and make decisions in marked contrast with the uncontrolled fall at the onset. Or as Ruefle puts it, a moment of “dignification” where the writer—or for our purposes, the lover—can take back control of the story.

For writer and director Nora Ephron, dignifying the consequences of her origins meant using it as fodder for her literary work. From the Esquire magazine essays that pulled from her daily life to the dynamic romantic comedy heroines she wrote to deliver her personal philosophies on screen like Meg Ryan-shaped ventriloquist puppets, Ephron was an unapologetic miner of her own lived experience; a self-described “cannibal” who took her screenwriter mother’s adage to heart that “everything is copy.”

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Reckless (A Performance Score)

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It begins with a canvas covered from end to end, a single color.

Perhaps orange? Perhaps blue.

(Echoes of a long-ago lesson about restoration: the solid and color-blocked works are more difficult to restore. The simplicity puts the emphasis on the brushstrokes and texture, the errors more noticeable, the damage, the aging, the chips, the fades.)

The canvas is of an average size, slightly larger than a large book, something that can be carried.

(That is the main rule of this.)

We’re calling it reckless and it is a co-creation with accident.

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On Bluets

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On Bluets

“There was a time when I would rather have had you by my side than any one of these words; I would rather have had you by my side than all the blue in the world.”

I chose Bluets because I wanted to learn how to let go of a dream.

In the first version of that sentence, I wrote: a dream that no longer fit, but then went back and removed that part because it’s not really that the dream doesn’t fit; it’s simply that I want to wear something else, regardless of how good the dress looks.

(Then again, multiple things can be true because I can also think of all the ifs that would have made me want to keep wearing that dress.)

I try to explain this to my best friend, but he doesn’t understand because so many of the ifs went his way. Our conversation keeps getting interrupted because HBO and Hulu are in a bidding war over one of his films. When he returns to the table I say: it doesn’t make sense to you because the same people who keep offering you more, keep offering me less.

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Rabbit is the New Beef: The Immersive Lesson in the Disorder of “Junkspace”

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Rabbit is the New Beef: The Immersive Lesson in the Disorder of “Junkspace”

Stepping into Rem Koolhaas’s legendary essay “Junkspace” is a disorienting experience. Existing in a liminal space somewhere between prose poetry and art manifesto, Koolhaas’s words on the state of modern architecture and building design boldly challenge the reader from the onset. One doesn’t need to read a single word to find its 16 pages of justified text, lack of paragraph breaks, and unconventional punctuation, visually arresting. Moving further into the text reveals the content of the essay echoes the incongruity of the style. From its bizarre opening declaration that “Rabbit is the new beef” through to its concluding ellipsis, we immediately recognize that this is not a traditional essay, but rather one that pushes us past the boundaries of the mainstream to deliver its message.

We begin with the one-word title “Junkspace,” which can be read as either uncharacteristically straightforward or frustratingly deprived of context.  That this essay is where Koolhaas first introduced this word, which is entirely of his own making, strongly suggests the latter. Either way, the essay is an exploration of junkspace, a term Koolhaas has coined to refer to current trends in buildings and other designed spaces which he finds have devolved into a state of being somehow both function-driven and form-less, where commerce, artifice and expansion dominate all other motives.

The term is a play on the concept of “space-junk,” defined as the debris humans leave behind while exploring space. To Koolhaas, the inverse junkspace “is the residue mankind leaves on the planet”. It is the “fallout” that remains after the program of “modernization has run its course”. Koolhaas seems to lament that despite existing in a time when we are building more and have more freedom than ever before, “we do not register on the same scales. We do not leave pyramids”. We only leave junkspace. In other words, junkspace is the disappointing denoument of humanity’s progress.

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On Desire Paths: Seeking the Voices Left Out of Urban Design

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On Desire Paths: Seeking the Voices Left Out of Urban Design

I’m endlessly seeking shortcuts. In an effort to buy back precious minutes lost to reasons both cognitive and cultural, I’ve gamified my commutes, perpetually scanning my environment for more efficient ways to get where I need to go. With the precision of a skilled hunter, I skip entire city blocks by cutting through semi-public buildings, calculate the risks of jay walking across thoroughfares, and shamelessly trample diagonally across beautifully manicured, but inconveniently placed lawns. Sidewalks become mere suggestions. “Keep off the lawn” signs? Challenges. My need to get where I need to go as expeditiously as possible always superseding the plans set for me by some distant figure.  As creative as these choices may feel, these meanderings are not unique to me, but rather part of a centuries long tradition of living beings charting alternate paths.

They’re called desire paths, an undeniably romantic name conveying sentiments of yearning both illicit and indulgent. At their simplest definition, desire paths—also known as desire lines—are natural unpaved pathways created by human inclination and instinct, rather than planning. It’s the worn dirt path cutting through a grassy college quad. A sandy shortcut leading down to the beach. The track of slushy muddy footprints slashing through an otherwise pristine blanket of white after a snowfall.

The visuals can be arresting, poignant, even humorous, serving to convey seemingly universal truths about animals and humans alike. To some, desire paths are found art waiting to be discovered in the most prosaic of places. An exquisite corpse created collaboratively by paws, feet, or bicycle tires motivated through equal parts impatience and curiosity. To others, the trampled lines take on deeper symbolic meaning representing everything from charming ingenuity and independence to civil disobedience, protest, and even anarchy. In every case, desire paths illustrate a fundamental tension between theory and practice, planning and usage, and the myriad ways humans relate to their built and natural environments.

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On Dance as Embodied History

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On Dance as Embodied History

When I took my seat at The Joyce Theater earlier this afternoon for a performance of Ayodele Casel’s “The Remix,” something felt very familiar. It was my first time in that performance space, seeing a new-to-me artist, but I couldn’t shake an overwhelming feeling of familiarity. I searched my eyes along the stage, which was dotted with cozy arrangements of chairs and pillows, a clothing rack, an old black & white style box TV. In the background, a DJ was playing music that, while not recognizable as a specific song, again felt familiar. Not quite déjà vu, but close.

The show hadn’t started yet, but some of the dancers were mingling around, stretching, moving and testing out steps. Soon, Ayodele Casel came out on stage, and began to address the audience, talking about her life and memories as a “black and Puerto Rican kid born in the Bronx,” sharing a poem she wrote referencing days spent at Nuyorican Poet’s Café in her 20s, and expressing her deep-seated childhood desire to be a part of all this (spoken with arms spread out wide over the stage, the theater), I understood that what I’d been feeling was a sense of shared memory—shared desire. A recognition of knowledge existing under the surface of the performance, which was about to tell a story so similar to my own.

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Josiah McElheny's “From the Library of Atmospheres II” 2025

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Josiah McElheny's “From the Library of Atmospheres II” 2025

It takes me a few minutes to understand why I feel so uneasy in front of Josiah McElheny’s “From the Library of Atmospheres II.” a sculptural glass assemblage at James Cohan’s 48 Walker Street gallery. It is, I finally realize, because though I am fully aware that I am peering into a world of glass and mirrors, my reflection is missing. Like a child or a puppy encountering an unfamiliar object, I keep stepping closer and further away from the work, tilting my body from side to side, as if convinced that by finding the correct approach I will solve the puzzle presented.  

My efforts are in vain. I feel like a vampire. A ghost in the gallery.

McElheny achieves this haunting effect with a simple trick; the clear glass window I am looking through is in fact a two-way mirror like the kind in tv detective show interrogation rooms (perhaps also real ones; I’ve not had the pleasure). Observing this work, I’m intensely hyperaware of my presence in relationship to the art. I am removed, on the outside looking into an enclosed world where McElheny’s carefully arranged hand-blown bottles exist in their own mirrored isolation. It is also an interrogation room of sorts; the bottles in ongoing conversation and observation with themselves—a self-interrogation, an, as McElheny describes, “infinite narcissism.”

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Distance Drawings by Tony Cruz Pabón at Museo del Barrio

Distance Drawings by Tony Cruz Pabón at Museo del Barrio

The distance from San Juan, Puerto Rico to El Barrio in Harlem is approximately 1,610 miles. By plane, it’s four hours—give or take tail winds—plus traffic and the TSA line. By boat, a few days with stops along the way. FaceTime and phone calls seemingly shrink the space from here to there, but the expanse swiftly returns. Since 2003, the Puerto Rican-born artist Tony Cruz Pabón has meditated on the true immensity of distance, using graphite pencil to attempt to draw a line the physical length from his San Juan hometown to places elsewhere on the map.

It is an exercise rooted in failure. Each iteration of Cruz Pabón’s Distance Drawings is newly created in situ at galleries and museums around the world, from Berlin to Brazil to his latest attempt in El Museo del Barrio here in New York City. The works are always limited by the time and space allotted by the galleries, as well as the physical demands of the body. Working only with a pencil and a piece of wood that serves as both straightedge and measuring device, Cruz Pabón painstakingly charts these abstract representations of distance and time directly onto the gallery wall, drawing line after line while the other works of the exhibition are mounted around him.

The version in El Museo covers the length of one wall in tightly spaced horizontal lines that wiggle slightly over the natural bumps and texture of the gallery-white paint beneath. The spacing between the thin lines is imperfect, creating patterns of light and dark, a gradient representation of the dark and light aspects of journey, travel, and diasporic experience. Like the final squished-together letters on top of an amateur birthday cake, the lines start to lean and tilt in increasingly more dramatic increments until they reach the opposite wall and cause the artist to run out of space, tiny early errors magnified. Though he worked consistently from morning to night for nearly three weeks prior to the show opening, he was ultimately only able to complete about 5.2 miles of lines, a distance that amounts to a mere .32% of the journey.

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Blue Accidents

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The grocery store sends a carton of blue eggs instead of the ones I usually buy. These blue eggs are more expensive, but the store doesn’t charge me the difference. The packaging celebrates the blueness, but the reality is disappointing. Blue chicken eggs only appear blue in contrast to the brown and white chicken eggs. They are not like robin’s eggs which are so distinctly blue that a shade of blue is named for them. Nobody paints their walls Chicken Egg Blue. Eggshell paint, like nude stockings and stilettos, is assumed to be a shade of white.

I look this up to confirm and learn that while, no, there is not a paint called “Chicken Egg Blue,” there is one called “Duck Egg.”

I feel about the blue eggs the same way I felt about the Blue Spruce, which I read about before I saw, imagining a sparkling ultramarine tree. Years ago, I filmed a TV show in the hangar where Howard Hughes built a plane that couldn’t fly. When telling this story, I invariably mix up the plane’s name with the tree’s name.

Goose eggs are always white, but now I have an idea for my sculpture.

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Madonna and Child by Alvin C. Hollingsworth

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It’s only on the third visit that I finally see it. The tiniest little figures, barely larger than matchsticks, on a field filled with large swaths of black and brown. During my first and second views I’d assumed the painting was an abstraction, the black mountainous streaks standing in for the mother and child. A comment on mother nature and the earth, I surmised. It’s not until I wandered past and looked closer that I realize the truth of it; the tiny little streaks of white are the point. In an instant, the piece has become my favorite.

They remind me of worry dolls. The tiny matchstick dolls clothed in scraps of colorful knit fabric my grandmother bought for me from a museum gift shop during a family vacation. They came in a little yellow box, smaller than my childhood palm, tucked along an instruction card explaining that I could whisper my worries and concerns to the dolls before bed at night, leaving them to rectify the situation as I slept.

On the walk home from the gallery I think about the miniscule mother and child, and wonder what it is about it that I find so enchanting. It reminds me of one of my favorite paintings, Virginia O’Keefe’s Black Abstraction, which depicts a tiny white dot in a black abyss. Forever attracted to the horror of the sublime, terrifying reminders of just how small and inconsequential we are.

(In my early 20s, I moved to Firenze to attend culinary school. After sleeping most of my first day, I woke up in the morning and turned on the TV in time to catch a meteorologist giving the weather report on a news program. She wore a blue dress and pointed to a boot-shaped map I’d previously only seen in textbooks and globes in my high school classrooms. I knew where I was, but it was only seeing the map that I realized I had crossed an ocean alone and for the first time in my life didn’t know a single other person anywhere on that entire continent.)

Ornithology

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Eugene updates me on the mural progress while I’m away filming. He takes our dog Jojo for his afternoon walk around to the place where an artist named Dan has been filling the building’s recently renovated retaining wall with a pattern of geometric birds. The mural was commissioned in collaboration with the Audubon Mural Project by our board in honor of our friend and longtime resident Sandra who passed two year ago from cancer. She was an artist—a gilder—and one of the most vibrant members of our little community who was always the first to organize building holiday parties and summer socials in the garden. The plan for this mural had been in the works for a while; after months of delays, I was surprised to hear it had finally started in earnest. I ask how it looks and Eugene sends photos, blurry because Jojo is pulling on his leash and because taking photos is merely logistical to him. A visual transfer of information. It’s: which of these shampoos should I buy? It’s: which looks better with these pants—the gray sweater or the navy?

I look at these on the ride home from work, sitting in the passenger seat of a car being driven down dark rural Tennessee roads by a PA named Claire.  The brightness on my phone is too high and the colors fill the car with light. I’m exhausted because I’m stretched beyond my limit this month, but looking at the photos I feel a pang of disappointment.  A sign-up sheet in my building lobby had been asking for volunteers to help paint and I’d wanted to sign up. I wanted to take part in this community art.

            Our neighborhood is filled with these bird murals, which are part of a long-term art project that I admittedly don’t know as much about as I should by this point. “The Audubon guy lived around here” I explain when visiting friends ask about the giant birds on walls and garage doors and rolling store shutters. “He’s buried in the cemetery at the corner of my block.” My knowledge about this is very vague, caught from bits of information I’ve read here and there—I know Audubon’s legacy is “complicated” (read: racist) and that education about this is part of the project. I know the murals are done by a variety of local artists who each work in their own individual style, but that each mural features an actual species of bird. The quality varies. Some are majestic. Some are playful. Some are a little wonky.  A handful are, frankly, hideous.

            I have my favorites—a blue jay rising over a 99-cent store on 151st by the artists Mary Lacy. A pair of chunky orange and yellow warblers near the 157th subway by George Boorujy, and a mosaic-sculpture hybrid by Jessica Maffia on 173rd made of foraged-glass mosaics that spell out the American robin birdsong in the form of a spectrogram. The mosaics are tucked between a v-formation of six outstretched cast hand sculptures in a shade of brilliant robin’s egg blue. In the 15 years I’ve lived in this neighborhood, these birds have become parts of my day; surprises to wonder about while running errands, walking the dog, visiting friends, sitting in traffic. A sixth story flock of birds covers an entire building facade at the light where my Uber usually turns off the main avenue toward my block. When I see them after a long day I mentally start to relax knowing it won’t be long before shoes off, bra off, a snack, the couch.

Art in the Hospital Corridors

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My husband Eugene had surgery last Tuesday. It was a long-planned, minimally invasive procedure that went extremely well, but which did require a few days of post-surgery hospitalization at NYU-Langone Hospital. As his support person, I also spent the better part of last week at this hospital, which I quickly learned (much to my surprise and delight!) has a rather extensive visual art collection of paintings, collages, photographs, murals, and sculptures installed throughout its campus.

The most well-known piece in the hospital’s collection—even to those who have never stepped foot inside the building—is Spot! by Donald Lipski (2018). A four-story sculpture consisting of a giant Dalmatian puppy balancing a yellow taxi on his nose. The dog portion was made from a modeled frame, while the yellow cab is an actual ready-made Prius taxi that was donated by Toyota to use in the sculpture. Located at the children’s hospital entrance on 35th street, the dog is meant as a playful and encouraging welcome for the children coming in for procedures. In an interview about the piece, Lipski explained that the sculpture of a brave doggy “achieving the impossible” was meant to inspire children during a frightening moment in their lives. (When reading about the piece, I learned that during the height of Covid-19, they added a large NYU-purple mask over the dog’s mouth to encourage children to do the same.)

Glissando, 2013

I spent a lot of time thinking about what kind of art one would want in a space like a hospital; a place where events wonderful and terrible, mundane and terrifying, joyful and heartbreaking are constantly and simultaneously occurring. Unlike the usual bland wall décor typically found at corporate hotels or standard doctor’s offices, the pieces at NYU-Langone don’t exist just to fill wall space. This is art that feels engaging, varied, and thoughtfully selected. It is work that seems to have things to say, though never so much that it pulls focus or takes over the room. The art is there to support the mission; it is not the purpose itself.

Unlike the deliberately bold Spot!, the majority of the works I saw in the adult spaces of the hospital avoided the figurative and leaned toward total abstraction. Like the iridescent twisting waves of The Moon’s Eyelid by Alyson Shotz (2018), the bright screen-printed color stripes of Royal Curtain by Gene Davis (1980), or the Turkish onyx twists of the sculpture In Pursuit by Leon Axelrod.  Emotionally, the works are overwhelmingly calming, often encouraging, playing with color, shape, texture, and light in ways that allow for joy without demanding it.

My absolute favorite of the pieces I saw while my husband dozed in his anesthetized stupor is the sunlight-catching Glissando, a 2013 mixed-media installation of clear polycarbonate Lexan squares suspended with thin stainless steel and aluminum wires. By the artists Tim Prentice and David Colbert, the piece stretches and cascades over the sunny lobby connecting the hospital’s Kimmel and Tisch buildings. In many ways, this silent musical performance seems to best capture the spirit of a collection that is ready to come alive and share its stories with anyone interested enough to pay attention, but just as easily recede into silence for those with other, more pressing, concerns.

Time to Take Resy off the Table

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There’s an early episode of the HBO series Sex and the City where Kim Cattrall’s character Samantha Jones finds herself a sudden social pariah, blacklisted from every hot restaurant in town after making an enemy of a powerful New York City socialite.  Watching Sam fall into despair as doors are slammed in her face and she’s repeatedly rejected trying to make a dinner reservation, I realized the comedic situation seemed just a little too familiar for comfort.

Booking dinner reservations in New York City these days feels frustrating at best, and often even impossible. The process of planning a meal with friends now includes time spent commiserating about how difficult it is just to find a nice place to eat. As we obsessively scroll through apps and fruitlessly place ourselves on dozens of waitlists, it begs the question: have restaurant reservation apps turned all of us into social pariahs?

Purportedly created to simplify and democratize the process of booking restaurant tables, the current generation of reservation apps burst into New York’s dining scene in 2014 with the launch of Resy. Co-created by media entrepreneurs Ben Leventhal and Gary Vaynerchuk, Resy was conceived as a cooler, trendier mobile-based underdog intended to compete with the longtime desktop reservation stalwart OpenTable.

From the beginning, Resy had a different mission than OpenTable. The latter was primarily a service for restaurant owners with a business model based on subscription fees and a per-diner charge that prioritized putting as many diners in seats as possible. By contrast, Resy was more status and customer focused; designed to give avid diners access to exclusive and sought-after dining experiences, which it packages with shiny “best of” lists and magazine-style editorial content. Unlike OpenTable, Resy only charged restaurants a low flat fee, encouraging cost-conscious owners to make the switch in droves.

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