Art speaks the truth
Little House in the Big Woods
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Maskerade
I’ve barely noticed the lockdown, so busy have I been sublimating any anxiety into frenzied and probably pointless activity. In the past month, I’ve made 250-odd (and I do mean odd) fabric masks. Initially they were commissioned by medical personnel to protect and prolong the use of N95 masks, and later they were requested by everyone from Native American groups to food banks to homeless shelters. No one knows whether cloth masks shield the breather or the breathed-upon from COVID-19, but nearly everyone is required to wear one now. The utility of the masks I make, in particular, cannot be known since I work on donated fabrics—different ones on different days, none bearing any mystery as to why they were donated. The conundrum of the masks is that the more impervious they are, the more impervious they are. In other words, a mask that allows you to breathe is not preventing disease transmission. I know more than the average person now about masks, and that means I know nothing, sinc...
A tree grows in Manhattan—and dies
The Days of the Locust has come to an end. The tree for which the blog was named fell more than a year ago, and though there was once talk that the city would replace it, there are now other, more urgent priorities, and replacement seems unlikely. So I close this chapter. But a new chapter begins! I invite you to visit my new blog, Up the River, at https://rivertheup.blogspot.com.
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