I spontaneously bought a bottle of Moët, packaged in a bent-up box thick with dust, the afterno
I spontaneously bought a bottle of Moët, packaged in a bent-up box thick with dust, the afternoon of Tuesday, November 8. I was walking down Church Avenue in Kensington past my local pharmacy (where I was greeting with a “Salaam! Have you voted?”), a Bangladeshi dress boutique, a Polish deli, a halal butcher, a Jewish center, a 50-year-old pizzeria, when the surge of optimism rose in me. By Wednesday morning, I had taken the bottle out of the fridge and hidden it somewhere I couldn’t see. And I cried. I have cried so much since then. To describe the events of last Tuesday as anything other than a tragedy is to lie. On Election Day, a new coalition of white voters—many of whom crossed party lines—elected an unstable, fraudulent, serial liar and misogynist who campaigned on racist nationalism. It is a resounding loss for everyone who believes that the United States is at its best when it is at its most diverse and most equitable, and a shift in power that deeply threatens this country’s most vulnerable. Many of us are afraid, all of us are uncertain of what will come next. And so we turn to art: for comfort, for inspiration, for fuel. Art in the Wake of Trump -- source link
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