Why is art with themes and readily available meanings so often privileged above pure aesthetic beauty?
“What do you call one’s self? Where does it begin? Where does it end? It overflows into everything that belongs to us — and then flows back again. (…) One’s self — for other people — is one’s expression of one’s self; and one’s house, one’s clothes, the books one reads, the company one keeps — these things are all expressive.” — Henry James, The Portrait of a Lady An editor sent me an email over the weekend asking me to submit a bio to accompany an article. “Just nothing more than 10-15 words please,” it read. Sounds innocuous enough, but what that basically translates to is “summarize your entire life in ten words please.”