Lifestyle
'House of the Dragon' season 2, episode 2: A real no-twin scenario
Emma D’Arcy as Rhaenyra.
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This is a recap of the most recent episode of HBO’s House of the Dragon. It contains spoilers. That’s what a recap is.
Chaos in the Red Keep! The heir to the king is dead! Li’l Jaehaerys’s body – and only his body, as assassins Blood and Cheese have scampered off with his head – has been discovered, and the guards are rounding up everyone. By this logic, their next move should be to run to the now-empty royal barn and shut its doors.
King Aegon is furious, and takes it out on the late King Viserys’s elaborately sculpted facsimile of Old Valyria, the Targaryen ancestral home. Confronted with the destruction of his line’s future, Aegon destroys a representation of its past. Way to live in the now, there, My Grace.
Aemond finds the secret door Blood and Cheese used in the room that he and Criston Cole were plotting in. He then picks up a coin that the show seems to want to invest with symbolic importance, but I rewound several times and still couldn’t make out its design, so your guess is as good as mine.
Alicent is a wreck over the news and blames herself, suggesting that the gods are punishing her for … something she has the good sense not to mention to her father. (Read: The fact that Cole’s White Cloak is more of an Ecru Cloak, these days.) Otto is predictably sanguine: “Some good may yet come of this,” he says. Real goblet-half-full guy, is our Otto.
At the Small Council, Aegon is fuming and foaming, blaming everyone, including Criston Cole, who tells the king that he was “abed,” but not what he was adoing, or awhom he was adoing it with. Lord Larys appears with news that they’ve caught Blood red-handed (and platinum-headed).
Otto suggests Aegon can garner public support and sympathy for himself while turning the people – and the Great Houses who are still undecided — against Rhaenyra. He suggests a funeral procession through the streets of King’s Landing, so that the smallfolk can see Rhaenyra’s cruelty for themselves. That Citadel extension course in marketing is really coming in handy.
Neither Alicent or, especially, Helaena is exactly jazzed about the idea, but they acquiesce. During the procession, the wagon bearing Jaehaerys’s body hits a pothole, because although Aegon II is always announcing Infrastructure Week, nothing ever gets done. The wagon rocks back and forth; Jaehaerys’s tiny body gets jostled. If you, at this point in the proceedings, felt certain that Jaehaerys’s precious little noggin was gonna come loose and bounce down the street like a platinum-haired soccer ball, then A. You are a bad person, and B. Come sit here by me.
Meanwhile, in the Red Keep’s dungeon, Blood hastily confesses that Daemon hired him and a ratcatcher to kill Aemond. But that doesn’t spare him a mace to the face from Aegon. (In the book, Blood suffers thirteen days of torture before being “allowed to die,” so we’re spared that subplot, at least.)
“Mistakes were made.”
On Dragonstone, at the Painted (But Actually Not Painted, Technically Glowing) Table, Rhaenyra hears from her advisors about Jaehaerys, and that she’s being held responsible. She’s legit shocked, but Rhaenys the Always Right isn’t; she casts an accusatory look at Daemon, who avoids her penetrating and insightful gaze. Rhaenyra’s a bit slower on the uptake, but she gets it eventually.
Alicent (Olivia Cooke), Otto Hightower (Rhys Ifans), Aegon II (Tom Glynn-Carney), Criston Cole (Fabien Frankel), Ironrod (Paul Kennedy), and Orwyle (Kurt Egyiawan).
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In private, Rhaenyra lays into Daemon about the murder. He attempts to shift the blame, and conspicuously refuses to tell her what his specific instructions to Blood and Cheese were, if they couldn’t find Aemond. (You’ll remember the show cut away from that scene before he gave those instructions.) She starts listing his manifold shortcomings – can’t be trusted, thinks only of himself, etc. It’s about damn time; dude’s got more red flags than the Kremlin on May Day.
Daemon … doesn’t take this well. He snarls, hurls his goblet across the room and backs Rhaenyra into a corner, because that has always worked for him. But Rhaenyra’s not having it. She finally sees him for what he is, and lets him know it. He still resents that King Viserys passed him over for Rhaenyra, and has convinced himself that that Viserys chose her because he knew that she could never overshadow him the way Daemon would. Rhaenyra corrects him: Viserys didn’t fear him, he distrusted him, just as she now does. She calls him pathetic; he storms out.
This was a corker of a scene, and one that Emma D’Arcy dominated, even when Daemon was physically threatening Rhaenyra. That’s because Rhaenyra’s written and performed with more nuance than Daemon is, with access to wider range of emotions. As a character, Daemon’s still stuck in Underwritten Perma-SmirkTM mode; here’s hoping Matt Smith gets a bit more to work with as the season plays out.
Daemon (Matt Smith) and Rhaenyra (Emma D’Arcy).
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Rhaenyra summons Baela to her chambers. Player Scorecard Time: Baela is one of two kids that Daemon had with his previous wife, Laena Velaryon, who last season immolated herself by dragonfire. (Laena’s dragon, Vhagar, is now ridden by Aemond.)
Rhaeyra asks Baela to take her dragon Moondancer and monitor King’s Landing, making sure to fly high enough to avoid their weapons.
We get a few scenes establishing that both Criston Cole and Alicent feel guilty about Jaehaerys’s murder, given that they were both in, let’s say, a compromising position when it happened. They decide to take a break.

A guilt-ridden and sexually frustrated Cole needs to do something with all that pent-up energy, so he lashes out at Ser Arryk; accusations of dereliction of duty get heatedly exchanged. Cole takes Arryk’s insubordination as a flimsy excuse to task him with infiltrating the heavily defended Dragonstone to kill Rhaenyra. What transforms this Mission: Impossible into a Mission: Highly Unlikely, of course, is that Arryk can pose as his twin brother Erryk.
On Dragonstone, Baela and Jacaerys compare their Daddy issues, which is as good a topic as any for these two to bond over, given that they’re betrothed to each other. Jacaerys acknowledges both his dads – his dad-on-paper, dear queer Laenor (“He had a weakness for cake,” which, hell yeah he did!) and his biological dad Harwin Strong (“They called him Breakbones”).
In which an ill-advised attempt is made to give Aemond some depth
We interrupt this episode to remind you that this is a Game of Thrones show on HBO, so yeah anyway here’s your periodic network-mandated Brothel Scene, ya filthy animals.
Aemond is visiting his favorite sex worker, and confesses to her that he regrets killing Lucerys. Now, I suppose this is another example of the show trying to lend its characters a bit of nuance, something I’d normally appreciate. (As I said, Matt Smith’s Daemon desperately needs more layers – that guy’s a big hunk of narrative matzo.)
But this one really doesn’t sit right, because the show has already tried to issue Aemond a pass for that lethal act. You’ll recall that the season 1 finale went out of its way to depict Lucerys’s murder as a wilful, disobedient act by Aemond’s dragon Vhagar. Between that, and the bit in this scene where Aemond whines that Lucerys used to tease him because he was different, it seems like the writers don’t understand the difference between humanizing a villain (a good thing!) and thinking they need to excuse them (very bad!). Enough with the mealy-mouthed pop-psych justifications! Let Aemond be Aemond, show!
We get a quick scene in King’s Landing with Hugh the blacksmith – the guy who asked King Aegon to pay for the weapons and armor he forged, last episode. That payment still hasn’t come, and he’s got a sick kid and a wife who’s finding it harder to put food on the table, due to Queen Rhaenyra’s blockade of the bay. Seems random, I know, but it isn’t – Hugh’s thread will get embroidered into the “Die, You!” Tapestry soon enough.
Cut to: the island of Driftmark, home of House Velaryon. Alyn the sailor, whom we met last episode, greets his brother Addam, a shipwright. They discuss the war, and Addam mentions that Lord Corlys, head of House Velaryon, “owes you. He owes us.” Hunh. How about that. Sure seems like they’re introducing a lot of non-noble randos for us to follow, all of a sudden. I wonder what that’s about. (I mean, I don’t, because I read the book. But you should.)
Addam (Clinton Liberty) and his brother Alyn (Abubakar Salim).
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Cut to: Pillow talk between Corlys and Rhaenys, both of whom worry about Daemon’s ambition. They mention that he’s left Dragonstone on his dragon Caraxes to try to capture the stronghold of Harrenhal, in the Riverlands.
Speaking of Dragonstone: Rhaenyra is pondering over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore in a spiffy new season 2 set. She summons Mysaria from the dungeons, and asks about her role in Jaehaerys’s murder. Mysaria gives Rhaenyra a version of the spiel she gave Daemon last week: I’m a leaf in the wind, I go where the money is, etc. She mentions that Daemon promised her her freedom, but Rhaenyra is unmoved. Mysaria, who knows how to read a room, mentions that the powerful men of the Seven Kingdoms have never seen her as a person. This, as intended, lands with Rhaenyra, who sees a bit of herself in Mysaria – down to the scar she still carries from her own stint as Daemon’s lover.
On the beach of Driftmark, Addam spies Seasmoke, the dragon once ridden by the dearly departed Laenor (who let’s remember is not dead, just … departed). The beast seems restless. Foreshadowing? More like fiveshadowing.
In King’s Landing, we meet still another random, lowborn dude that we’ll see a lot more of in the weeks ahead. (His name’s Ulf; clip and save for your records.) For now, we follow him through the streets until he stumbles across a grisly scene – by order of King Aegon, every ratcatcher in the city has been hanged by the neck. And yes, Cheese is among them, though the birds have pecked enough holes in him that it’d be more accurate to call him Emmentaler at this point.
Let’s give the boy a Hand
In the Red Keep, Otto storms in on Criston Cole and King Aegon, bitterly berating them for ordering the mass execution of innocent citizens. He fumes to a tipsy, uncaring Aegon that the king’s brutal action has just squandered all the goodwill that Jaehaerys’s funeral procession earned them.
It’s good to see Rhys Ifans let off the leash in this scene – gone is Otto’s static pose of sage and sober-minded concern, replaced by the fury of man who can no longer stomach serving someone as weak as Aegon. Otto gets to spit words like “idiot,” “fool,” “thoughtless,” “feckless,” “self-indulgent,” “ill-considered” and “trifling” and throws his whole body into it. For my money, though, it’s Ifans’s hilarious, slow-burn reaction to hearing about Criston Cole’s Erryk vs. Arryk plan that’s the high point of this episode.
Rhys Ifans as Otto Hightower.
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Ollie Upton/HBO
“I wish to spill blood, not ink!” whines Aegon, which is a line straight from the book, but it’s a good ‘un. He tells Otto to surrender his status as Hand of the King, and names Criston Cole Otto’s successor. Otto leaves, but not before letting on that he’s always known that Viserys never really named Aegon as his successor. The fact that he accompanies this revelation with a rich, sneering, villainous chuckle? Icing on the cake. That Laenor had a weakness for. That cake.
On Dragonstone, Rhaenyra decides to keep Daemon’s promise and frees Mysaria. On her way down to the docks, however, Mysaria spots a disguised Ser Arryk Cargyll making his way up to the castle. She pauses.
Arryk easily Splinter-Cells his way into the castle (it’s all about timing the guard’s movements and shooting out the security cams). He tells the member of the Queensguard stationed outside her bedchamber – Ser Lorent Marbrand, if you’re scoring at home – that he’ll take over. As soon as Lorent is gone, he enters her room and advances on her.
And promptly gets interrupted by his brother, Ser Erryk Cargyll. They fight.
The funk soul brothers, check ‘em out now
As epic throwdowns go, Cargyllbowl is no Cleganebowl. But then, how could it be? That matchup was looming for years, and it pitted one character we’d come to know enough to dearly love against another we knew enough to dutifully loathe.
By contrast, these beardy bros haven’t clocked nearly enough screentime to truly register, separately or together. Still, it’s a solid fight, and it places Rhaenyra in more danger than the book version does. But ultimately Erryk defeats Arryk. The victory is fleeting, however, as a remorseful Erryk throws himself on his sword. Which is stupid and pointless but, you have to admit, metal AF.
Back in the Red Keep, Otto is doing the Seven Kingdoms equivalent of packing up his desk into a cardboard box from the supply closet – you know: picture frames, succulents, a couple of Dilbert strips. He’s still angry, cursing Aegon and Criston for their foolishness. Alicent agrees – mostly. Her eyes dart guiltily as she avers that Criston, at least, is loyal, so you know … there’s that.

Otto says he’ll return to Oldtown, home of House Hightower, where Alicent’s youngest son Daeron awaits.
WHOOP WHOOP WHOOP NEW CHARACTER ALERT WHOOP WHOOP WHOOP. No, you’re not crazy. This is the first we’ve heard mention of Daeron on the show. Daeron’s a teenager who’s been in Oldtown acting as a squire to the head of House Hightower. He’s got a (very young) dragon named Tessarion, and they’ve both got a role to play in this story. Dunno if he’s gonna show up this season, but at least we know he officially exists in the world of this show, now.
Alicent urges Otto not to go to Oldtown, but to Highgarden, home of House Tyrell. (Odds of Daeron showing up this season … shrinking … ) She assures Otto that she can talk some sense into Aegon, and he seems to believe her, because clearly neither one of them has been watching this show.
In fact, when Alicent does try to go to Aegon’s chambers for some of that sense-talking, she finds him weeping – alone, grieving, frightened, caving under the pressure. She leaves.
In her bedchamber, Criston is waiting.
Parting Thoughts
- Rhaenyra, Rhaenys, Rhaena. Daemon, Aemond. Jacaerys, Jaehaerys. And now, with this episode: Daemon, Daeron. I know George R.R. Martin has pointed to English history – all those Edwards and Henrys – to justify so many characters having such maddeningly similar names. But then a thing like Daemon-Daeron comes along and it starts to seem like he’s just goading us.
- House of the Dragon focuses on the noblemen and noblewomen of the Seven Kingdoms. But that means it’s missing something Game of Thrones had in spades – the perspective of the commoner. Don’t get me wrong, all this palace intrigue is fun. But I’ve been missing the earthiness and ego-puncturing humor of characters like Bronn and Davos and Sandor. This episode seems intent on course-correcting that, tossing Alyn and Addam and Hugh and Ulf in the mix.
- I know I’ve already praised it, but Rhys Ifans’s incredulous take upon hearing Cole’s plan was iconic. Jack Benny-level. He should take it on the road, if Westeros has a vaudeville circuit.
- How we feeling about the pacing, this season? I figured we’d be in the thick of it by now. But then Alyn’s still all “War is coming,” and I realized I’m comparing the book, which is a faux-historical account, to a dramatized TV series, which seems in no particular hurry to get to the wildfire factory.
Lifestyle
It Started with a Midnight Swim and a Kiss Under the Stars
When Marian Sherry Lurio and Jonathan Buffington Nguyen met at a mutual friend’s wedding at Higgins Lake, Mich., in July 2022, both felt an immediate chemistry. As the evening progressed, they sat on the shore of the lake in Adirondack chairs under the stars, where they had their first kiss before joining others for a midnight plunge.
The two learned that the following weekend Ms. Lurio planned to attend a wedding in Philadelphia, where Mr. Nguyen lives, and before they had even exchanged numbers, they already had a first date on the books.
“I have a vivid memory of after we first met,” Mr. Nguyen said, “just feeling like I really better not screw this up.”
Before long, they were commuting between Philadelphia and New York City, where Ms. Lurio lives, spending weekends and the odd remote work days in one another’s apartments in Philadelphia and Manhattan. Within the first six months of dating, Mr. Nguyen joined Ms. Lurio’s family for Thanksgiving in Villanova, Pa., and, the following month, she met his family in Beavercreek, Ohio, at a surprise birthday party for Mr. Nguyen’s mother.
Ms. Lurio, 32, who grew up in Merion Station outside Philadelphia, works in investor relations administration at Flexpoint Ford, a private equity firm. She graduated from Dartmouth College with a bachelor’s degree in history and psychology.
Mr. Nguyen, also 32, was born in Knoxville, Tenn., and raised in Beavercreek, Ohio, from the age of 7. He graduated from Haverford College with a bachelor’s degree in political science and is now a director at Doyle Real Estate Advisors in Philadelphia.
Their long-distance relationship continued for the next few years. There were dates in Manhattan, vacations and beach trips to the Jersey Shore. They attended sporting events and discovered their shared appreciation of the 2003 film, “Love Actually.”
One evening, Mr. Nguyen recalled looking around Ms. Lurio’s small New York studio — strewed with clothes and the takeout meal they had ordered — and feeling “so comfortable and safe.” “I knew that this was something different than just sort of a fling,” he said.
It was an open question when they would move in together. In 2024, Ms. Lurio began the process of moving into Mr. Nguyen’s home in Philadelphia — even bringing her cat, Scott — but her plans changed midway when an opportunity arose to expand her role with her current employer.
Mr. Nguyen was on board with her decision. “It almost feels like stolen valor to call it ‘long distance,’ because it’s so easy from Philadelphia to New York,” Mr. Nguyen said. “The joke is, it’s easier to get to Philly from New York than to get to some parts of Brooklyn from Manhattan, right?”
In January 2025, Mr. Nguyen visited Ms. Lurio in New York with more up his sleeve than spending the weekend. Together they had discussed marriage and bespoke rings, but when Mr. Nguyen left Ms. Lurio and an unfinished cheese plate at the bar of the Chelsea Hotel that Friday evening, she had no idea what was coming next.
“I remember texting Jonathan,” Ms. Lurio said, bewildered: “‘You didn’t go toward the bathroom!’” When a Lobby Bar server came and asked her to come outside, Ms. Lurio still didn’t realize what was happening until she was standing in the hallway, where Mr. Nguyen stood recreating a key moment from the film “Love Actually,” in which one character silently professes his love for another in writing by flashing a series of cue cards. There, in the storied Chelsea Hotel hallway still festooned with Christmas decorations, Mr. Nguyen shared his last card that said, “Will you marry me?”
They wed on April 11 in front of 200 guests at the Pump House, a covered space on the banks of Philadelphia’s Schuylkill River. Mr. Nguyen’s sister, the Rev. Elizabeth Nguyen, who is ordained through the Unitarian Universalist Association, officiated.
Although formal attire was suggested, Ms. Lurio said that the ceremony was “pretty casual.” She and Jonathan got ready together, and their families served as their wedding parties.
“I said I wanted a five-minute wedding,” Ms. Lurio recalled, though the ceremony ended up lasting a little longer than that. During the ceremony, Ms. Nguyen read a homily and jokingly added that guests should not ask the bride and groom about their living arrangements, which will remain separate for the foreseeable future.
While watching Ms. Lurio walk down the aisle, flanked by her parents, Mr. Nguyen said he remembered feeling at once grounded in the moment and also a sense of dazed joy: “Like, is this real? I felt very lucky in that moment — and also just excited for the party to start!”
Lifestyle
L.A. Affairs: I loved someone who felt he couldn’t be fully seen with me
He always texted when he was outside. No call, no knock. It was just a message and then the soft sound of my door opening. He moved like someone practiced in disappearing.
His name meant “complete” in Arabic, which is what I felt when we were together.
I met him the way you meet most things that matter in Los Angeles — without intending to. In our senior year at a college in eastern L.A. County, we were introduced through mutual friends, then thrown together by the particular gravity of people who recognized something in each other. He was a Muslim medical student, conservative and careful and funny in the dry, precise way of someone who has always had to choose his words. I was loud where he was quiet, messy where he was disciplined. I was out. He was not.
I understood, or thought I did. I thought that I couldn’t get hurt if I was completely conscious throughout the endeavor. Los Angeles has a way of making you feel like the whole world shares your freedoms — until you realize the city is enormous, and not all of it belongs to you in the same way.
For months, our world was confined to my apartment. He would slip in after dark, and we’d stay up late talking about his family in Iran, classical music and the particular pressure of being the son someone sacrificed everything to bring here. He told me things he said he’d never told anyone, and I believed him.
The orange glow from my Nesso lamp lit his face while the indigo sky pressed against the window behind him. In our small little world, we were safe. Outside was another matter.
On our first real date, I took him to the L.A. Phil’s “An Evening of Film & Music: From Mexico to Hollywood” program. I told him they were cheap seats even though they were the first row on the terrace. He was thrilled in the way only someone who doesn’t expect to be delighted actually gets delighted — fully, without guarding it. I put my arm around his shoulders. At some point, I shifted and moved it, and he nudged it back. He was OK with PDA here.
I remember thinking that wealth is a great barrier to harm and then feeling silly for extrapolating my own experience once again. Inside Walt Disney Concert Hall, we were just two people in love with the same music.
Outside was still another matter.
In February, on Valentine’s Day, he took me to a Yemeni restaurant in Anaheim. We hovered over saffron tea surrounded by other young Southern Californians, and we looked like friends. Before we went in, we sat in the parking lot of the strip mall — signs in Arabic advertising bread, coffee, halal meats, the Little Arabia District — hand in hand. I leaned over to kiss him.
“Not here,” he said. His eyes shifted furtively. “Someone might see.”
I understood, or told myself I did, but I was saddened. Later, after the kind of reflection that only arrives in the wreckage, I would understand something harder: I had been unconsciously asking him to choose, over and over, between the people he loved and the person he loved. I had a long pattern of choosing unavailable men, telling myself it was because I could handle the complexity. The truth was more embarrassing. I thought that if someone like him chose me anyway — chose me over the weight of societal expectations — it would mean I was worth choosing. It took me a long time to see how unfair that was to him and to me.
We went to the Norton Simon Museum together in November, on the kind of gray Pasadena day when the 210 Freeway roars in the background like white noise. He studied for the MCAT while I wrote a paper on Persian rugs. In between practice problems, he translated ancient Arabic scripts for me. I thought, “We make a good team.” Afterward, we walked through the galleries and he didn’t let go of my arm.
That was the version of us I kept returning to — when the ending came during Ramadan. It arrived as a spiritual reflection of my own. I texted: “Does this end at graduation — whatever we are doing?”
He thought I meant Ramadan. I did not mean Ramadan.
“I care about you,” he wrote, “but I don’t want you to think this could work out to anything more than just dating. I mean, of course, I’ve fantasized about marrying you. If I could live my life the way I wanted, of course I would continue. I’m just sad it’s not in this lifetime.”
I was in Mexico City when these texts were exchanged. That night I flew to Oaxaca to clear my head and then, after less than 24 hours, flew back to L.A. No amount of vacation would allow me to process what had just happened, so I threw myself back into work.
My therapist told me to use the conjunction “and” instead of “but.” It happened, and I am changed. The harm I caused and the love I felt. The beauty of what we made and the impossibility of where it could go. She gave me a knowing smile when I asked if it would stay with me forever. She didn’t answer, which was the answer.
I think about the freeways now, the way Joan Didion called them our only secular communion. When you’re on the ground in Los Angeles, the world narrows to the few blocks around you. Get on the freeway and you understand the whole body of the city at once: the arteries, the pulse, the scale of the thing.
You understand that you are a single cell in something enormous and moving. It is all out of your control. I am in a lane. The lane shaped how I drive. He was simply in a different lane, and his lane shaped him, and those two facts can coexist without either of us being the villain of the sad story.
He came like a secret in the night, and he left the same way. What we made in between was real and complicated and mine to hold forever, hoping we find each other in the next life.
The author lives in Los Angeles.
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
Lifestyle
The Nerve Center of This Art Fair Isn’t Painting. It’s Couture.
The art industry is increasingly shaped by artists’ and art businesses’ shared realization that they are locked in a fierce struggle for sustained attention — against each other, and against the rest of the overstimulated, always-online world. A major New York art fair aims to win this competition next month by knocking down the increasingly shaky walls between contemporary art and fashion.
When visitors enter the Independent art fair on May 14, they will almost immediately encounter its open-plan centerpiece: an installation of recent couture looks from Comme des Garçons. It will be the first New York solo presentation of works by Rei Kawakubo, the brand’s founder and mastermind, since a lauded 2017 survey exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s Costume Institute.
Art fairs have often been front and center in the industry’s 21st-century quest to capture mindshare. But too many displays have pierced the zeitgeist with six-figure spectacles, like Maurizio Cattelan’s duct-taped banana and Beeple’s robot dogs. Curating Independent around Comme des Garçons comes from the conviction that a different kind of iconoclasm can rise to the top of New York’s spring art scrum.
Elizabeth Dee, the founder and creative director of Independent, said that making Kawakubo’s work the “nerve center” of this year’s edition was a “statement of purpose” for the fair’s evolution. After several years at the compact Spring Studios in TriBeCa, Independent will more than double its square footage by moving to Pier 36 at South Street, on the East River. Dee has narrowed the fair’s exhibitor list, to 76, from 83 dealers in 2025, and reduced booth fees to encourage a focus on single artists making bold propositions.
“Rei’s work has been pivotal to thinking about how my work as a curator, gallerist and art fair can push boundaries, especially during this extraordinary move toward corporatization and monoculture in the art world in the last 20 years,” Dee said.
Kawakubo’s designs have been challenging norms since her brand’s first Paris runway show in 1981, but her work over the last 13 years on what she calls “objects for the body” has blurred borders between high fashion and wearable sculpture.
The Comme des Garçons presentation at Independent will feature 20 looks from autumn-winter 2020 to spring-summer 2025. Forgoing the runway, Kawakubo is installing her non-clothing inside structures made from rebar and colored plastic joinery.
Adrian Joffe, the president of both Comme des Garçons International and the curated retailer Dover Street Market International (and who is also Kawakubo’s husband), said in an interview that Kawakubo’s intention was to create a sculptural installation divorced from chronology and fashion — “a thing made new again.”
Every look at Independent was made in an edition of three or fewer, but only one of each will be for sale on-site. Prices will be about $9,000 to $30,000. Comme des Garçons will retain 100 percent of the sales.
Asked why she was interested in exhibiting at Independent, the famously elusive Kawakubo said via email, “The body of work has never been shown together, and this is the first presentation in New York in almost 10 years.” Joffe added a broader philosophical motivation. “We’ve never done it before; it was new,” he said. Also essential was the fair’s willingness to embrace Kawakubo’s vision for the installation rather than a standard fair booth.
Kawakubo began consistently engaging with fine art decades before such crossovers became commonplace. Since 1989, she has invited a steady stream of contemporary artists to create installations in Comme des Garçons’s Tokyo flagship store. The ’90s brought collaborations with the artist Cindy Sherman and performance pioneer Merce Cunningham, among others.
More cross-disciplinary projects followed, including limited-release direct mailers for Comme des Garçons. Kawakubo designs each from documentation of works provided by an artist or art collective.
The display at Independent reopens the debate about Kawakubo’s proper place on the continuum between artist and designer. But the issue is already settled for celebrated artists who have collaborated with her.
“I totally think of Rei as an artist in the truest sense,” Sherman said by email. “Her work questions what everyone else takes for granted as being flattering to a body, questions what female bodies are expected to look like and who they’re catering to.”
Ai Weiwei, the subject of a 2010 Comme des Garçons direct mailer, agreed that Kawakubo “is, in essence, an artist.” Unlike designers who “pursue a sense of form,” he added, “her design and creation are oriented toward attitude” — specifically, an attitude of “rebellion.”
Also taking this position is “Costume Art,” the spring exhibition at the Costume Institute. Opening May 10, the show pairs individual works from multiple designers — including Comme des Garçons — with artworks from the Met’s holdings to advance the argument made by the dress code for this year’s Met gala: “Fashion is art.”
True to form, Kawakubo sometimes opts for a third way.
“Rei has often said she’s not a designer, she’s not an artist,” Joffe said. “She is a storyteller.”
Now to find out whether an art fair sparks the drama, dialogue and attention its authors want.
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Michigan6 minutes agoPodcast: Michigan basketball — recapping an elite season, the portal, who starts at the ‘3,’ more
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Massachusetts12 minutes agoNew Mass. rideshare safety rules would boost driver background checks and more
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Minnesota18 minutes agoLocked capitol doors, more security funds are new normal after Minnesota assassination
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Mississippi23 minutes agoMississippi powered Artemis II
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Missouri30 minutes agoKansas City, Missouri, police launch homicide investigation, after shooting at 55th and Prospect
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Montana36 minutes agoEmergency declared as supply chain disruptions hit farms
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Nebraska41 minutes agoToday in History – April 24: Statue added to top of Nebraska Capitol
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Nevada48 minutes agoHenderson mental health professionals to be dispatched through 988