Chameleonic photographer Cindy Sherman is featured in March’s Harper’s Bazaar in a send-up of street style Instagrammers that makes both the artist and the magazine look out of date and tone deaf.
The Art of Style paints a stunning portrait of Jacqueline de Ribes, superficially a woman who embodied glamor and grace, but a peek beneath the surface showcases the broader complexities of her as an individual and creator.
Surfing along New York Harbor on the Staten Island Ferry, a fairly tranquil experience were it not for the tourists snapchatting the Statue of Liberty, can still cause a bit of anxiety.
An oversize facsimile of Rush poppers, tipped over, pouring out its viscous contents: this example of underground gay iconography blown up to almost belligerent proportions perfectly represents the aims of Party Out of Bounds: Nightlife as Activism Since 1980.
Last month’s spring/summer 2016 collection presentations are quickly fading from memory, and we as a culture are in the throes of divination. What’s the next trend? What’s the new black? Will fringe be back?
If there were ever a fashion world equivalent of Andy Warhol, the universe found it in Downtown street kid Stephen Sprouse.
The fashion world’s elite came out last night in what is likely one of the most important events in the industry, as well as a huge fundraiser for the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
On the heels of a desultory interpretation of a prolific artist’s life (looking at you, Björk), the Museum of Modern Art (MoMA) dedicated a retrospective to one of the foremost subversive queer filmmakers of our time.
In general, it’s very difficult to assume the mantle of a Warholian legacy.
In his new film, director Frédéric Tcheng traces the voyage that Raf Simons, the current creative director of the House of Dior, embarks upon when designing his first haute couture collection there.
Amidst the magical girls and sentient robots that dominate the Japanese graphic novels and comics known as manga, pockets of intrigue and eroticism lie.
Long brushed off as a horrendous excuse for a film, Paul Verhoeven and Joe Eszterhas’s epic flop Showgirls may have more than meets the eye. Or, at least, its vulgar superficiality may be worth critical re-evaluation