Skip to main content

Pride Month II



Today, for Pride Month, I'm putting a spotlight on Nan Goldin, a photographer who has changed the world.

Goldin grew up within a mendacious family--possibly no more mendacious than your average family--and yet Goldin decided that she herself would attempt a life without bullshit. No lies. In her teens, she picked up a camera and began taking photos, and she was good at it. Suddenly, she had a career.

Goldin has many gay friends, and during the early days of AIDS, she took photos of various difficult stories she was living through. You can see one here: "Cookie at Vittorio's Casket, 1989." There is a sense of fearlessness; you can detect the strength and intelligence of the artist, even though she is actually not in the image.

Possibly Goldin's most famous image is a self-portrait, "Nan, One Month after Being Battered" (also included here).

When the opioid crisis became overwhelming, Goldin recalled her AIDS activist friends, and she herself became an activist. She began staging protests and die-ins. She and friends littered a section of the Met with countless orange pill bottles. Goldin also gathered people to toss billions of small prescription slips into the air at the Guggenheim--an image captured in newspapers.

Goldin's work has had a major role in exposing the Sackler family, and for that we can all be grateful.

Many thanks to Goldin for her inspiring work.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...

My Favorite Pop Song

  One thing I admire about Prince is his weirdly pretentious verses: Dream, if you can, a courtyard-- An ocean of violets in bloom. Also: Touch, if you will, my stomach. Feel how it trembles inside. No one else writes like this. Did people try to shoot down these choices? Did a producer say, "We'd like to rethink this one... Touch, if you will, my stomach...."  I can't help but wonder. But it's the chorus that makes this a classic. It's direct and universal--and it ends with that bizarre flourish, the allusion to "the crying doves." (Prince's song was number one in America for quite a while; it defeated Bruce Springsteen's "Dancing in the Dark.") How can you just leave me standing-- Alone in a world that's so cold? Maybe I'm just too demanding. Maybe I'm just like my father--too bold. Maybe you're just like my mother; She's never satisfied. Why do we scream at each other? This is what it sounds like when doves cr...