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W hen I was younger, my best friend and I decided to switch gender roles, simply because he had always been curious about the appearance of a woman and its apparent advantages. He wouldn’t mind putting on makeup and such for a party and would borrow my derby shoes because he wanted to add extravagance to his black and somber ensemble.
As many of you know, Philadelphia has a lot of thrift stores, whether in our bubble of West Philly, in Center City or on South Street. Among all of these, Philly Aids Thrift, located in South Street not too far from Penn’s landing, stands out for its two-floor building full of cheap prices, furniture, books, and clothes including suits and wedding and prom dresses . The store is run by both staff and numerous volunteers . A few days ago, I became one of those volunteers .
While walking with a friend in West Philly the other day, she pointed to a mural that I had forgotten to look at. For some reason, this led us to talk about the fact that we both were appreciative of any kind of art in general. Any art, whether it was done during the Renaissance or the Modern Age, whether it encompasses the impressionist or contemporary movement , is valuable not only for its aesthetics , but also for the time and effort put into it . Yet, there seems to be a lessened enthusiasm of many to appreciate a sort of new art that comes off as art done for sheer fame.
L ast Tuesday, the video “First Kiss” went viral with more than 10 million views in its first two days online. I found out about it on my newsfeed, the seemingly fastest way to know about events and news these days.
W hen I applied for housing last year, I automatically opted for the single option. Like every new freshman, I wondered whether having a roommate would enable me to attain the social scene of Penn more easily, but I rapidly gave up on that moment of hesitation upon reassessing the fact that I like being on my own. I enjoy meeting people, discovering new surroundings and new personalities, but at the end of the day, I also enjoy my own company. People have the right to vote, to eat in public, to embrace, to marry, to make art, to observe art. I have the right to be alone.
More than four decades after France’s May 1968 revolution’s slogan, “Pleasure without obstruction,” was launched, the omnipresence of sexuality — or rather the liberation of sexuality — in France remains well-known worldwide. Sexuality in France is viewed in every context with regards to its language of seduction, or a notion of eroticization in every act. This omnipresence is often stereotyped by those in the United States, who do not hesitate to claim “More sex please, we’re French.” The movie “Blue is the Warmest Color,” which was released a few months ago in the United States, questions this view of sexuality.
As Black Friday settled itself among the frozen pavements of New York City, I walked to the David Zwirner Gallery, determined to tackle the art of Yayoi Kusama, a Japanese artist who has enhanced a lot of discussions in my surroundings these days. A line full of beanies and long coats greeted me, long enough to scare many who weren’t ready to be that dedicated to art.