Lifestyle
'House of the Dragon' Season 2, episode 3: Make it make sense
Alicent (Olivia Cooke).
Theo Whitman
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Theo Whitman
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.
Credits! Which bring with them two new additions to the “Die, You!” Tapestry!
1. Li’l Dead Jaehaerys, lying in state. (That embroidery-vine that creeps along and slices him across the neck? A nice touch. A nice, mean touch.) 2. The executed ratcatchers of King’s Landing, hanging from the walls of the city.
I like this! It’s kind of like a “Previously On …,” but in mixed media (colored thread and bloodstains).
Oh and: I just now noticed how accurate the tapestry’s renderings of Aegon II and Rhaenyra are. Aegon’s sporting a haughty smirk, while Rhaenyra just looks P.O.d. Spot on!
We open on a stretch of river (the Red Fork) by an old mill where some cows are grazing on the border between the lands of two Riverlords – House Bracken and House Blackwood. A young knight, Ser Amos Bracken, is confronted by a young knight of House Blackwood. (This may or may not turn out to be Benjicot Blackwood; if so, he’ll be back.) The Brackens have declared for Team Green (Aegon II), while the Blackwoods are, fittingly enough, Team Black (Rhaenyra). They fight, and we smash cut to …
The aftermath of the first armed conflict of the Dance of the Dragons: The Battle of the Burning Mill. Ser Amos is dead, as are many soldiers and at least one cow. RIP, Ser Loin.
On Dragonstone, they bury Arryk and Erryk side by side. Jacaerys seems concerned that Rhaenyra isn’t on a war footing yet. (This will be a theme of the episode – lots of old dudes thinking young Rhaenyra is too soft and unprepared.)

But Rhaenys the Unfailingly Awesome and Inviolately Right knows what’s up, because knowing what’s up is like her entire deal. She approaches Rhaenyra by the gravesite, having correctly sussed out that this incandescently stupid effort on Team Green’s part means that someone sensible like Otto Hightower is no longer advising Aegon. She urges Rhaenyra to reach out to Alicent one last time, to avoid the slaughter that dragon-on-dragon combat will surely bring.
In the Red Keep, Criston Cole seems to have gotten the news that Operation: Twinsies! went pear-shaped. As he walks to the Small Council he, and we, learn that Aegon has dismissed Cole’s fellow members of the Kingsguard and replaced them with the king’s loutish drinking buddies.
We also learn that Cole chooses not to wear the badge of the Hand of the King, instead pinning it to his chair at the Small Council table. I’d like to say this tells us something meaningful about Criston Cole besides “Hates to accessorize,” but I’m not sure it does.

At the Small Council, there is squabbling. There is also Aemond, seated at the Council, which is a new development. He’s fiddling with that coin he found last week. Aegon is also fiddling with something – the Valyrian steel dagger. Yes, that dagger. The one that belonged to Aegon the Conqueror, the one inscribed with the prophecy of the Prince that was Promised, the one that will, in a 150 years or so, be used by the assassin hired by Littlefinger to take out Bran Stark, the one that Arya will then use to kill Littlefinger, and the one that she will use to turn the Night King into so much shaved ice.
Criston resolves to take a small number of soldiers out to seize the small castles near King’s Landing, add their soldiers to his number, and ultimately march on Harrenhal in the Riverlands, which has declared for Rhaenyra. It’s basically the plan he and Aemond came up with in the season premiere, with one revision: Aemond and Vhagar will not provide him air cover – they’ll stay behind to protect the city. Alicent isn’t thrilled with this plan – or with Cole.
On Dragonstone, Rhaenyra thanks Mysaria for warning the guards about the whole Arryk/Erryk michegoss. Mysaria, in return, asks to be a member of Rhaenyra’s court, because Rhaenyra showed her mercy. During this scene, the dragon Seasmoke, once ridden by Rhaenyra’s first husband Laenor, flits about in an agitated manner. If you didn’t put a pin in that plot thread last week, do it now. It’s coming back.
Pencil’s out; we’re gonna be throwing a lot of names at you
Rhaenyra meets with Rhaena. Player Scorecard Time: Rhaena is the younger of the two daughters that Daemon had with his late wife Laena; her older sister is Baela. Baela has a dragon called Moondancer, but Rhaena is dragonless.
Rhaena (Phoebe Campell) and Rhaenyra (Emma D’Arcy).
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Rhaenyra instructs Rhaena to gather up Joffrey (the youngest son Rhaenyra had with Laenor, but actually Harwin Strong), and the two very young sons that Rhaenyra had with Daemon (who are named Viserys and, resigned sigh, Aegon, whom we refer to as Aegon the Baeby to distinguish him from King Aegon the Aess). Rhaenyra is sending them to stay with her cousin Lady Jeyne Arryn in the Vale for safety, and wants Rhaena to go with them. Rhaena mentions the dragons Tyraxes and Stormcloud. Fill out your dragonspotting cards: Tyraxes is a very young dragon bonded to Joffrey, Stormcloud is another hatchling bonded to Aegon the Baeby.
Rhaenyra mentions that even the Vale isn’t safe, and that Rhaena should eventually take them across the narrow sea to the city of Pentos.
Daemon, astride Caraxes, arrives at the gloomy, cursed, rainy ruin of Harrenhal, in the Riverlands. Harrenhal is the largest castle in Westeros, but these days it’s mostly abandoned and crumbling into the mud.
He’s greeted by Ser Simon Strong and his grandsons, and behaves in his predictable, preening, mistrustful, jerkface manner. A young woman enters and casts an appraising gaze at him. He inquires about Simon’s loyalty to his great-nephew, Lord Larys Strong, who serves King Aegon the Aess. Simon dismisses this and accuses Larys of having his own brother and father killed (he’s right about that; we saw it happen last season); Simon makes it clear he’s bending the knee to Rhaenyra. Daemon clouds the issue by insisting on being referred to as “Your Grace” – which is to say, as the King, and not just the Queen’s consort. No, it’s not subtle, but it is Daemon.
Daemon’s plan is to gather up the armies of the Riverlands and garrison them at Harrenhal. To that end, he demands to speak with Lord Tully, who heads the Great House of the Riverlands.
Stately Gwayne’s manner
Criston Cole (Fabien Frankel).
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Back at the Red Keep, Criston Cole is about to depart with five men to seize the nearby castles in King Aegon’s name. Cole’s sporting a new, battle-ready Caesar cut that does not look great on him, I guess so his war-helmet fits better? Alicent insists that her brother, Ser Gwayne Hightower, join the party. Gwayne’s got flowing, lustrous red locks, so there goes my war-helmet theory. He’s a bit of a snot to Criston, but it’s not like Criston doesn’t deserve it. Go nuts, Gwayne. Snot away. Snot like the wind.
On Dragonstone, around the Painted (But Not Actually Painted, Technically Glowing) Table, Rhaenyra’s advisors urge her to seize the moment while she’s waiting for their armies to gather – those from North, and the Vale, and the army Daemon is ostensibly building in the Riverlands – and send the dragons out to burn every Green stronghold to ash.
Rhaenyra slaps them down, knowing that their plan would escalate the war into a dragon-on-dragon conflict that no one would survive (NOTE: But that would be very very cool to look at and make for some pretty awesome television).
Gerardys (Phil Daniels), Ser Alfred Broome (Jamie Kenna), Rhaenyra (Emma D’Arcy), Baela (Bethany Antonia), Lorent Marbrand (Max Wrottesley), and Jacaerys (Harry Collett).
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On Driftmark, Rhaenys brings her man Corlys a pick-a-nick basket that, she makes clear, she didn’t make herself, because of course she didn’t, she’s Rhaenys. She broaches the possibility of replacing the current heir of Driftmark (young Joffrey, whom they know was fathered by Harwin Strong and not their son Laenor), with Rhaena, their by-blood grand-daughter. Keeping it in the family.
Rhaena leaves for the Vale with the various moppets, the two hatchling dragons and – the show takes time to establish this, so it’ll probably be on the quiz – four dragon eggs.
At the Red Keep, Queen Helaena proves that she may be spacy, but she’s not dumb. The reason she hated having all those commoners stare at her during the funeral procession was not revulsion, but shame – she knows that their kids die in far greater numbers; why should her grief be placed above theirs? Got a good head on her shoulders, does Helaena. Pity it doesn’t run in the family.
King Aegon the Aess is being fitted for armor, as he intends to fly out on Sunfyre to help Criston Cole’s mission. Larys Strong meets with him and deftly scores a neat two-fer. 1. He convinces him that if he does leave King’s Landing, Alicent and Aemond will seize control and 2. He gets Aegon to name him Master of Whisperers.
A ruthless, cunning advisor and a ridiculously pliant king? What could go wrong?
Aegon (Tom Glynn-Carney) and Larys Strong (Matthew Needham).
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Guy walks into a bar …
Cut to the Street of Silk in King’s Landing, where we catch up with Ulf, the guy we saw stealing an apple and stumbling across the hanged ratcatchers last week. In an impressive tracking shot, we follow him as he enters a boisterous tavern, glad-hands a bunch of folks, sits down at a table and starts spinning a tale about his true parentage. He claims to be half-brother to both the late King Viserys and Prince Daemon and is, like Daemon, uncle to Queen Rhaenyra.
In so doing, he introduces a term we’ll probably be hearing a lot of, in the coming weeks. “Dragonseed,” i.e., an illegitimate child of Valyrian blood (read: House Targaryen and House Velaryon).
Just then Aegon the Aess enters with his repellent homies, dragging with them a squire for whom they will enjoin the services of a sex worker. Ulf’s loyalties to his kin Rheanyra dissolve like beer foam, and he leads a cheer for the king.

Another contract-fulfilling Brothel scene: Aegon stumbles across his brother Aemond with his favorite sex worker, and proceeds to be even more of a jerk to him than his baseline-level jerkiness, which is, let’s recall, a tremendous lot. This scene isn’t doing much work except to remind us that Aemond doesn’t hold his older brother Aegon the Aess in high esteem, a thing we already knew.
On Dragonstone, Rhaenyra mournfully regards some of the toys belonging to li’l Viserys and Aegon the Baeby, which are metal and sharp and pointy, because Westeros ain’t got a Consumer Product Safety Commission. She puts away Tetanus: The Playset and reads a note from Alicent that she’d previously ignored.
On her dragon Moondancer, Baela discovers Criston Cole, Gwayne and the small company of men. (You’ll recall that Baela had been tasked by Rhaenyra to monitor the comings and goings of Team Green around King’s Landing.) She chases them into a forest and loses them.
Back on Dragonstone, the news of Cole’s mission causes Rhaenyra’s council to go back to their sword-rattling, urging her to cry havoc and let slip the dang dragons of war, already.
Daemon (Matt Smith) at Harrenhal.
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At Harrenhal, the cursed castle is giving Daemon creepy, if a bit-on-the nose, dreams. In one, he happens upon his wife-niece Rhaenyra as she was back in the day (welcome back to the stage, Milly Alcock!). She’s stitching li’l Jaehaerys’s head back on his body.
Daemon wakes up (OR DOES HE) (no yeah just kidding, he totally does) and comes across the young woman who earlier in the evening looked him up and down like a side of Valyrian beef. She tells him he will die in this place. This is Alys Rivers. She’s a thing.
In sept, shun
On Dragonstone, Rhaenyra tells Mysaria that she wants to speak directly with Alicent to try to prevent the war. Mysaria says that it will be easy enough to smuggle Rhaenyra into the city (wait, really?) and that Alicent only goes outside the walls of the Red Keep to light candles in the Grand Sept. If Rhaenyra were to go there, she could talk with Alicent in private, queen to dowager queen. (WAIT, REALLY?)
This seems like a dumb plan, but then, dumb plans are fast becoming Standard Operating Procedure on this show: First you had Operation: Blood and Cheese, then Operation: Twinsies! and now Operation: Two Queens Stand Before Me.
Rhaenyra and a bodyguard (Ser Steffon Darklyn, former member of the Kingsguard), dressed as members of Westeros’s holy order, make it to the Grand Sept with an ease that borders on the ludicrous but that is impossible to get truly mad about because why get hung up on realism in a show about dragons? Rhaenyra’s bodyguard waits in the courtyard (why, though?) as Rhaenyra enters the sept.
Alicent arrives with her security detachment, who also wait in the courtyard, because Alicent is not now and has never been in any danger whatsoever so it’s cool don’t think about it STOP THINKING ABOUT IT.

Alicent starts lighting candles, Rhaenyra sidles up to her and threatens her with a dagger. They proceed to have an angry, whispered discussion that nobody around them thinks is at all noteworthy because evidently Alicent has a known habit of bellying up to altars and getting into heated, hissing exchanges with the nuns. Must be Tuesday.
Anyway, never mind, let’s just try to enjoy this moment, because here’s Olivia Cooke and Emma D’Arcy back on our screens, together, and – oh, happy, unlooked-for bonus! – nobody’s mentioned negronis yet.
As for what they are talking about, well. It plays out something like this:
RHAENYRA: Uch, men are the worst, so eager for battle, not like us sensible gals, right, girlfriend?
ALICENT: Surrender!
RHAENYRA: Let’s talk terms.
ALICENT: Terms, shmerms, you totally Pez-dispensered my grandkid.
RHAENYRA: That wasn’t me and anyway your dragon bit into my kid like he was trying to see if he was a jelly or a custard donut. Usurper!
ALICENT: Me? I’m no surper! Viserys changed his mind!
It goes round like this for a while, but then we finally get to the meat of it. Alicent explains that a not-entirely-coherent Viserys, on his deathbed, spoke Aegon’s name, and mentioned the prophecy of The Prince that was Promised.
I like what D’Arcy does with this moment – they let us see the knowledge that Alicent clearly misunderstood Viserys’s final words hitting Rhaenyra like a thunderbolt. We see shock, then realization light up Rhaenyra’s features – and then, finally, frantically, hope. “It was just a story he used to tell … about Aegon the Conqueror,” she says, and becomes insistent: It’s a mistake! It can be corrected, and thousands of lives could be saved! All Alicent has to do is acknowledge it!
Alicent, of course, has meanwhile embarked upon her own emotional journey with an entirely different destination – disbelief, then doubt, then worry (could Rhaenyra be … right?) – but then finally: Resolve. No, there was no mistake, and anyway it’s too late. War is already here.
She gets up to leave, and tells Rhaenyra to hit the bricks. Why she doesn’t immediately have any of the guards standing right outside the sept’s door seize Rhaenyra and chop her into a fine bloody tartare-like mince is anybody’s guess. I guess we’re supposed to see it as her recognition of the friendship they once shared, but boy howdy does it not make sense.
I probably don’t need to tell you that this whole scenario with Alicent and Rhaenyra having a secret, last-ditch meeting is a pure show invention – nothing remotely like it exists in the book. And it’s attempting to do what most show-invention scenes attempt to do, which is to invest the book’s thin and broadly drawn historical figures some measure of the weight and depth they need to emerge as fully dramatized characters.
From where I’m sitting, all it’s done is give Alicent still another chance to implicate herself in the carnage to come, which she promptly seizes. The one thing that was keeping Team Green from coming across like the show’s clear, abject, capital-V Villains was the possibility that Alicent had made an honest mistake at Viserys’ bedside. But this episode establishes that even if she did, and she knows she did, it wouldn’t matter. She’s all in. So, uh: Mwah-hah-hah, I guess?
Parting Thoughts
- We got a Sir playing a Ser this week. The great British actor Sir Simon Russell Beale played Ser Simon Strong, and in just a few lines, he made the character seem … lived-in, enfleshed. He could easily have portrayed him as frightened and obsequious, or indolent and pompous – the script would have supported those readings. But instead he played him as someone who’s simply resigned to his lot in life in a way that seemed kind of charming. Warm, even. And warmth, in the world of Westeros, is notable. And risky.
- Were you okay with the smash-cut to the end of the Battle of the Burning Mill? Shades of the first season of Game of Thrones, when Tyrion got knocked unconscious at the beginning of the Battle on the Green Fork (and saved a big chunk of the production budget in the process). But then, there’s precedent – Bilbo Baggins spent the Battle of the Five Armies in The Hobbit unconscious, too. And by hand-waving away the Battle of the Burning Mill like it did, the show neatly underscores its military insignificance, as it was really just an excuse for two long-feuding Houses to beat the medieval crap out of each other.
- Last season I worried that we’d never get to see D’Arcy and Cooke share the screen again. I figured the plot had moved them both past any chance to exist in the same room believably. Key word there: Believably. So no, I didn’t buy it, and no, I don’t think it added much, but I did like seeing them trading lines again.
- Just a periodic check-in on how we’re doing on pacing. The section of the book Fire & Blood that covers the Dance of the Dragons is roughly 182 pages. With this episode, we’ve only covered about 42 pages of it. That’s a little less than a quarter of the story told so far. It’s not a precise gauge, granted, because so much of what the show’s doing is invented; very little that happened in this episode, for example, happened in the book. But in terms of the simple chronology of events, it’s useful.
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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