Neither did I, until Andy and I were tragically waylaid on our walk to the West Village by The Strand and its bothersome displays of cheap books. Among these was a Robert Coover book I didn't yet possess (for a dollar!) and a book called Women Physicians: Careers, Status, and Power, written by the aforementioned Dr. Lorber. A little Googling told me that she's a New York professor of women's studies and gender studies, as well as a (possibly erstwhile?) staunchly left-wing political activist. I'm excited to read this.
What really caught our eyes, though, was a large pile of art auction catalogues for a dollar each. We got the idea to cut out pictures from them and decorate our (now formerly) barren walls painted in an unthrilling shade of Institutional Beige. Of course, this means that what is habitually sold at Sotheby's dictated my choices of wall hanging. While there are now some Henri Matisse and Jean Arp pictures up, there's also a healthy dose of relatively bland obscurata, including the hilariously named Kees van Dongen and such minor Impressionists as Armand Guillaumin and Albert Marquet. Yes, yes, art isn't supposed to match the sofa or whatever, but as much as I love, for instance, James Ensor, medical school is grotesque enough without photos of twisted, screaming masked people to come home to.
Food tonight: paprika-dusted sweet potato chips and broiled zucchini stuffed with a chickpea/mushroom/onion/garlic/basil/lemon filling, creamy with goat cheese.
Much like our walls, this food aspires to elegance one day, when it's gotten rid of its student loans and can afford to hang real paintings.