It was the familiar state of panic I’d experienced frequently throughout four years of undergraduate life; the same sputtering and aimless flailing, the same frantic attempts to free myself from a tangle of bedsheets. On those mornings I was greeted by intermittent flashes of assignments yet undone while I fumbled for an alarm clock that got perpetually misplaced at the crucial moment, and some memory of which class I was about to be late for. Now I sat straight up and conked my head. Sooner than usual, everything came back into sharp focus—graduation and Régine, Madeline and Dorian, and how could I forget?, the four-foot apartment that I lived in, with the tin ceiling whose duty it was to smash my dream-filled head into waking life. A lot of people thought I was joking when I told them my New York “apartment” was only four feet tall, but with my negligible income as a part-time library assistant in the Yale Art History archives—depleted constantly by my acquisition of thrifted wardrobe pieces—I had been lucky to afford even that.
What do You think about An Innocent Fashion (2016)?
