me all day

Jean Beraud La Modiste sur les Champs Elysees.jpg

Slap those hat boxes with Amazon Prime tape, and it’s like we are one and the same. 

come on, louis.

10-Gauguin-avenida de clichy Paris-1889.jpg

So there’s not really much to say other than Louis Anquetin’s “Avenue de Clichy” is a big, fat phony of an artwork.

Is that too much? Fine. I’ll utilize appropriated here.

Louis Anquetin’s “Avenue de Clichy” is a raging example of appropriation.

Let’s start with composition: Vincent van Gogh’sCafe Terrace at Night” is almost exact in both style, layout, and color.

How about characters: Pretty apparent Anquetin studied Georges Seurat’s “Afternoon on the Grande Jatte” because hello, look at that woman facing the left of the painting! They’re like twins.

No, but really, more characters: No surprise, either, Anquetin’s lookin’ to Toulouse-Lautrec, either. I say this for two reasons: One, he’s totally pulling from a Moulin Rouge dancer with that chick hiking her dress up in the rain, and two, that cropped face in the bottom right?? Couldn’t be more blatantly borrowed from Henri if we tried.

At least we know now who was the science nerd doing all the homework for the Post-Impressionist jocks, amirite? Raise your hand, Louis. And stop trying so hard.


rainy day

rainy day.jpg

Caillebotte, you’re such a downer to be painting these rainy days all the time.

simonetta + botticelli.


Spoiler: This is going to require like, a four piece series on Botticelli because I have just learned TOO MUCH and I need to break it all down.

So. some quick facts:

1. Sandro Botticelli was a wicked Florentine painter best known for careless, lost gazes under incredible hair.

2. His main squeeze muse was a chick named Simonette, who was apparently a bonafide babe (see above). And like every sad romantic movie, she was totally unavailable and floated miles outta Botticelli’s league (she married a distant cousin of cartographer Amerigo Vespucci).

3. Renaissance painters were cool, yet essential, additions to the royal courts…think of the kids that’d make your group project look super awesome while still being able to party. They were responsible for producing commissioned works by patrons, either royals/dignitaries/super rich folk that wanted to look good and pious in a public realm.

I mention all this because Simonetta died in 1476. Does she look familiar?! She’s just about every gf Botticelli painted, including Venus in The Birth of Venus. (Note: Scholarship LOVES to argue just who modeled for what, but it is what it is). Botticelli asked to be buried at her feet, and WAS (!!!), almost 40 years later, in 1510….so yeah, Imma go with he painted her a lot.

Like, boo, Botticelli, come on! My heart goes out to you like this Saint Augustine guy’s.

the izards


“Oh, thank God, an actual post that suggests scholarly knowledge, not just a meme praying for the weekend.”
“Christ, Alice, that’s not what it says. Can’t you read?!

You know all those bloggers that have reached a measly 314K following, and they all suggest, “Oh, just write about what you love! The masses and Madewell sponsorships will magically accrue!”

Well, a.) I’m still waiting, Madewell…and I can totally rock denim better than weighted down mothers…and b.) these women all have a point. Kind of.

It’s been awhile since I’ve posted about the visual interpretation of a work, and I really miss doing that. To be honest, I think I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole of really cool, quippy one liners (thx, thefatjewish and daddyissues_!) and while funny sporatically, it’s not what drove this blog to its fruition and inevitable success.

I digress. Let’s get to the artwork.

The presentation of Mr. and Mrs. Ralph Izard in John Copley’s over-sized portrait is…overstated, to say the least. I mean the lush tapestry, references to Rome (the Colosseum, the sculpture) all suggest not only *total* well-traveled luxury, but also total nonchalant airs of intelligence and culture. Read: Sophisticated AF.

What strikes me as odd in this image, however, is this sculpture sittin’ pretty right smack in the middle of the table. Scholarship suggests it’s of Orestes and Electra, which (HELLO?!!) is the weirdest couple to present between husband and wife.

Orestes and Electra were brother and sister, and plotted to kill their mom and her lover to avenge the death of their father, King Agamemnon. Seems like a pretty messed up relationship to put in between ’em, no? Like, we can’t get a more nurturing couple in Greek mythology to suggest fidelity and love?

I mean, the answer is clearly no. It’s Greek mythology, after all. Everything’s like, rape and shower sex.

Anyway, after all this staging, the Izards didn’t even own the painting! They continued their travels, Copley kept the work, and then exhibited it under the bland title “A Conversation.” Copley’s widow then sold the work to the Izards’ grandson in 1824. It remained in the family ’til the MFA in Boston bought it in the early twentieth century.


Manet’s Lady with Fans knows what’s up between now and Pay Day.



That feeling when you asked someone how their weekend was out of courtesy, and wish you hadn’t.

Yeah, Sharon, no one cares about your “first pilates, then brunch” shirt, let alone it being your actual weekend agenda.

God, those people are the worst.

love this.


Ordered Milk & Honey by Rupi Kaur today, and just filled with all the emotions from an email from Amazon that said it’s shipped.

SHIPPED. Like, it’s not even in my HANDS YET.

Just you wait for the brokenhearted-turned-to-triumph chick in me to be UNLEASHED.

And I’m not even SAD about anything! I’m really just excited to take on all those ocean of emotions just page after page after page.

(Work of sensual hands against a bare back by Egon Schiele)


It’s as if Egon Schiele has overhead the same boring talk and posts I have all week.

Nobody cares about your Color Run, Sharon.


one of each


Yeah, but hold the fruit; I’m not trying to play any games with being healthy this week. I packed a salad for lunch and I’m like, yeah, what burger place delivers?

Unless, are those ladyfingers? I’ll pretend they’re ladyfingers.