But then again, maybe not. Analyzing every word, every inflection of my voice. Trying to read my body language for any sign of discontent. His lips are smiling.
But his maddeningly perceptive gaze is burning right through my impassive expression, boring straight into the root of my unease like a drill. I huff out an aggravated breath and take a sip of my martini. Stop it. I said I was fine and I meant it. Sincerity rests on those lusciously full, bowed lips, fashioned into a comforting smile. He said wife. And the somebody sitting across from me—a tall, tan Adonis with cornflower blue eyes, bourbon brown hair sprinkled with the first signs of maturity just at the temples, and a pronounced, chiseled jaw—is my husband, Tucker DuCane.
The best man I know. Not a superhero. And he actually cares enough to help them. The man is practically a shoe-in for sainthood. Simply circumstance. Being married to the top publicist in New York is no picnic, especially one as notorious for her razor-sharp tongue as her colorful clientele. Except it does.
Well, it did.
A tall, tuxedo-clad young man with angular features and the smoothest, darkest skin I have ever seen approaches our table with a blinding white smile. DuCane, Mrs. Lovely to see you again. Another date night?
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Sick of us already? I could never tire of my favorite guests, especially with Mrs. DuCane helping me nab the biggest campaign of my career. And I owe it all to you, Mrs. I just simply made a call. It was nothing. But the fashion industry here is fiercely competitive, and even an extraordinary beauty like him was struggling to get seen by the right people. So I made a quick call, no biggie.
Donatella owed me a favor anyway. Bilal makes quick work of taking our order, not even bothering to ask the desired doneness of our prime steaks—he already knows—before thanking me again. After checking on his other tables, he returns with a stellar bottle of Cab.
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Goes to show just how steeped in routine we are. Same restaurant, same food, same wine every third Friday night. Routine is good. Burned for him. And he had only touched her with his mind. She came to him at dawn, his bleakest hour. As the beast raged inside him, threatening to consume him, he vented his centuries-old despair in an anguished cry that filled the waning night.
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And she answered, a ray of light, piercing his darkness. A beautiful angel. Her compassion, courage, and innocence awakened in him an exquisite longing and tenderness.
He knew he must possess her, for only she could tame his savage side and lift the dark shadow from his soul. Apart they were desolate, bereft. Intertwined physically and spiritually, they could heal one another and experience an eternity of nights filled with love. He excelled at bold, futuristic day wear: belted unisex jumpsuits, vinyl miniskirts, dresses accessorized with astronaut-chic Plexiglas helmets.
Other ensembles, especially the tacky evening gowns souped up with metal armature, are best ignored. Remember the future? Jason Farago , brooklynmuseum. Will Heinrich , frick. Young visitors will delight in seeing Big Bird, Elmo, Miss Piggy and the Swedish Chef; adults can dig deep into sketches and storyboards and rediscover some old friends. Farago , movingimage.
George Gene Gustines , societyillustrators. Two tall armatures of interlocking steel rectangles, the taller of them rising more than 18 feet, support heavy orbs of different-colored marble; some of the balls perch precariously on the steel frames, while others, head-scratchingly, are squinched between them. Farago , metmuseum. Guggenheim Museum through Oct. Sculpture is only one part of the practice that earned Leigh the Hugo Boss Prize , but it is the one that inspired this show of three large objects in a gallery off the rotunda.
For Leigh, loopholes might include representations of women that link back to ancestors or empower women by drawing on the freedom available through art.
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In that sense, these sculptures are sentinels, and placeholders. Martha Schwendener , guggenheim. New York City is a gateway for new talent. Some come to light only after artists have departed, as is the case with Baltrop, an American photographer who was unknown to the mainstream art world when he died in at 55, and who now has a bright monument of a retrospective at this Bronx museum. In assiduously recording both the architecture of the piers and the amorous action they housed, Baltrop created a monument to the city itself at the time when it was both falling apart and radiating liberationist energy.
Cotter , bronxmuseum. Plastics transformed the material world after World War II. Today, they pollute our oceans.
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A better future will be made with … algae. Or bacteria. Electronically active bacteria power a light fixture. James S. Russell , cooperhewitt.
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