Untitled: The Artist is Not Quite Present

Spent most of the night here without any internet access, but now at the 11th hour, it's back on.  So here I go!

I raced home on my bike from work today to get the girls up to a member's preview of the new Cindy Sherman exhibit at MoMA.  In a blog that is deeply invested in promoting art by women, Cindy, like Marina, is one of my personal heroes.   Both girls use themselves as a subject and put themselves in tight places, but unlike Marina, whose art is personal and autobiographical, Cindy explores the range of the female experience, and obscures her own body in these heavily textualized archetypes that she critiques and often destroys.

I LOVE her work and have for a couple of decades.

And we never really know who the artist is.  Cindy, "herself," (unlike Marina) is never quite present.

And every single piece is titled "Untitled."

Omg, I took these photos of the exhibit's entrance illegally, and didn't even try photographing inside.

In a couple of the rooms, I told S. to close her eyes, and we did the whole thing in 30 minutes, so I'm going to have to go back when I'm by myself.  This week, the kids have been home.

Tonight we watched Bill Cunningham's New York.  Bill Cunningham is the long-time society and street fashion documenter fort the New York Times, and has my ideal job in you must know.  I was struck, while watching by how much we have so much in common.  We are both cyclists; we both take photos from our bikes.  Also, we both love Paris and cheap restaurants, we are religiously inclined and deeply admire dandies, and we are rather dull dressers who admire the sartorial work of strangers on the street.

But I digress . . . more thoughts on Cindy to come!