Lifestyle
'House of the Dragon,' Season 2, Episode 4: A dragon-drop interface
Ser Simon Strong (Sir Simon Russell Beale) and Daemon (Matt Smith).
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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.
Credits! No additions to the “Die, You!” Tapestry this week, but dollars to donuts there will be next week, after the events that finish off this episode. Because: Sheesh.
Daemon – whom you’ll recall is currently staying at dark, decaying (and hella cursed) Harrenhal castle and attempting to build an army of Riverlords – is dreaming.
He’s dreaming of a dark and empty Great Hall in the Red Keep. He crosses to the Iron Throne, where sits a younger Rhaenyra (aka Milly Alcock). She descends the steps of the throne and accuses him of wanting to destroy her. This is all sufficiently creepy to dislodge the Perma-Smirk (TM) from Daemon’s face long enough for us to register his abject fear.

But then he resorts to old habits. In this example, “old habits” refers to “beheading someone at the foot of the Iron Throne,” a thing he did to Vaemond Velaryon last season. Young Rhaenyra’s head gazes up at him, telling him he got what he’s always wanted. She’s not wrong; her crown now lies at his feet. Then he wakes up, imagining for a fleeting second that his palm is smeared with blood.
I don’t love the show splitting Daemon off from the rest of the ensemble, and I don’t love this thuddingly literal “symbolic” dream stuff (blood on his hands, seriously?) but I do love Matt Smith finally getting to play any emotion besides sneering, omnidirectional disdain.
Ser Simon Strong informs him that Criston Cole has struck out from King’s Landing and taken the castles of House Rosby and House Stokeworth, and added their soldiers to his number. He wonders if they may be headed to Harrenhal (spoiler: They’re not headed to Harrenhal).
Daemon had hoped to meet with the Lord of the Riverlands, Grover Tully, but it turns out he’s on death’s door and ringing the doorbell like he’s a vacuum salesman with a quota to meet. House Tully has instead sent his grandson and heir Oscar, a stammering tween who is loath to take any action while his grandfather clings to life. (Yes, yes – Grover and Oscar. In the book, there are other Tullys named Elmo and Kermit. You get it.)
Corlys and his seamen
On Driftmark, Rhaenys shows up to the dock and casts an appraising gaze upon Alyn the sailor. She takes a particular interest in his cheekbones, so similar to the ones she sees across the dinner table every night. She tells Corlys that she knows who Alyn’s father is, and he doesn’t deny it. She then says she’s headed to Dragonstone because Rhaenyra’s missing (Again! Some more!) and her advisors are growing restless.
In King’s Landing, in the Red Keep, Alicent meets with Maester Orwyle, who supplies her with Moon Tea, a potion that aborts pregnancies. They both pretend it’s for an unnamed friend of Alicent. Alicent, succumbing to the doubts planted in her head after her wildly improbable plot-contrivance of a meeting with Rhaenyra last episode, asks him if Viserys really wanted Aegon to inherit the Iron Throne. Orwyle, sagely, pretends not to have any opinion whatsoever on the subject and gets the hell out of there so fast he practically leaves an Orwyle-shaped hole in the wall.
On Dragonstone, Rhaenyra’s advisors squabble over what to do about Criston Cole’s growing army, and its as-yet-unknown destination. The chief complainant here is Ser Alfred Broome (keep an eye on this guy), who promptly gets shut down by Corlys. With Rhaenrya still MIA, Rhaenys urges her fellow advisors to trust that she’s attempting to end the conflict.
Rhaenys (Eve Best) and Corlys (Steve Toussaint).
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Cut to: The conflict! Specifically, the walled port town of Duskendale, ruled by House Darklyn. Criston Cole, leading Aegon’s army, has sacked the town and littered the shore with many dead Darklyn soldiers. Cole summarily beheads Lord Gunthor Darklyn (who warns Cole that he will die in a similar manner; put a pin in that, too), cleans his sword with a cloth and tosses the cloth aside. And you thought they couldn’t make Cole any more of a jerk. Traitor, murderer … and a litterbug? Overkill! Also that haircut is still not doing him any favors.
He tells Gwayne Hightower that they will take their army northeast, along the coast – and not make for Harrenhal, after all. (Told you!)
At the Small Council, Aegon the Aess fumes, as is fast becoming his wont. He’s heard that Daemon has taken Harrenhal and is worried. Lord Larys Strong assures him that Harrenhal is a cursed place that will overpower Daemon and sap his will. Aemond, who’s been secretly trading raven-messages with Cole (DO U LIKE MY NEW HAIRCUT? CHECK ONE: __ YES __ NO), informs Aegon that Cole is marching on the small, poorly defended castle of Rook’s Rest, along the coast. If he takes it, snoots Aemond snootily, they will have seized all the coastline near the island of Dragonstone, meaning that Rhaenyra’s ships and armies will have to travel very far out of their way to land on Westeros.
Aemond then proceeds to throw some shade at Aegon, but is careful to do so in the language of High Valyrian, which the rest of the council seems not to understand. Aegon responds in kind, albeit in a halting, grammatically tortured manner. (A nice, small, characterizing touch.)
Aemond (Ewan Mitchell).
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Sir Larys visits Alicent to ask about her absence from the Small Council and, being Larys, quickly gets up to speed on absolutely everything going on with her, though she speaks to him only in empty platitudes. To wit, he 1. Sees the empty vial of Moon Tea – and her suffering its physical side effects, 2. Inquires after her feelings for Criston Cole, and reads the truth in her reaction and 3. Notices that she’s been reading the same tomes that Viserys used to obsess over and can tell she’s questioning her role in placing Aegon on the Iron Throne. He seems reassured when Alicent tells him that whomever Viserys intended to succeed him, it no longer matters. The die is cast, what’s done is done, you dance with the dragon what brought you, etc.
Murder and pestle
Back to Harrenhal, back to Daemon’s creepy ham-fisted dreams: He follows a figure through several hallways, until it finally stops and turns to him: It’s himself, wearing Aemond’s eyepatch. He’s then in a kitchen as Alys Rivers – the witchy woman we met last episode – is preparing a potion.
Alys Rivers (Gayle Rankin).
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Ollie Upton/HBO
She’s got Daemon’s number, all right. She tells him tales about the curse of Harrenhal, and mentions that she knows he fought with his wife, because he’s been at the castle for a while and sent no ravens back to her. Does he perhaps hope to raise an army to challenge her himself? Does he not resent her? Having successfully gotten under his skin, in his head – and under his lacefront – she gives him the potion she’s been preparing. To help him sleep, she says.
The next day, at a meeting with various Riverlords, Daemon is still guzzling down her goof-juice and is seriously tripping. Ser Willem Blackwood tells him he’ll join Rhaenyra’s army – but only if Daemon uses his dragon to reduce the Blackwood’s longtime rivals, House Bracken, to cinders.
But Daemon is miles away, hallucinating that a serving girl is his dead wife Laena.

At the Small Council in the Red Keep, Aegon gets fed up with all the talk of shrinking resources and the heroism of Criston Cole, who keeps scoring victory after victory and earning the sobriquet “Kingmaker” in the people’s eyes. He storms out and heads to his bedchamber, where Alicent is searching for Viserys’s old books. This kicks off a difficult but chewy conversation in which Alicent makes it plain that she, like her father Otto, sees Aegon for what he is, and is bitterly disappointed in him.
“You have no idea the sacrifices that were made to put you on that throne,” she tells him. She’s right, he doesn’t. But he desperately wants to be respected and now sees in the eyes of his mother, and in those of his Council, that it will never happen.
I really dug these scenes, because they efficiently set up the stupid, willful decision that Aegon’s about to make, but they don’t only do that. They also give us a peek inside Alicent’s head, as the story she told herself about Aegon, and about her own pure, noble intentions, continues to crumble.
Aegon (Tom Glynn-Carney).
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In the woods near the castle of Rook’s Rest, Criston’s now sizable army prepares to attack. (Note: Rook’s Rest is the seat of House Staunton – and Lord Simon Staunton is one of Rhaenyra’s advisors around the Painted (But Not Actually Painted, Technically Glowing) Table.
Criston insists on advancing on the castle in broad daylight, something Gwayne thinks is insane, given the danger of Rhaenyra’s dragons. He’s not wrong, but there’s something Criston isn’t telling him – and, by extension, not telling us. This show loves its inessential mystery.


Queen Rhaenyra returns to Dragonstone and has to deal with a lot of butthurt white dudes, who, in their defense, react to her stealth mission to King’s Landing with the same angry incredulousness that I did. She apologizes for her absence (too quickly!) and explains (too patiently! She owes these jamokes nothing!) that she needed to know for certain that peace was no longer an option, and she knows that now. But she cautions them not to mistake her patience for weakness. (You guys? I think she’s talking to us.) She has decided to send a dragon to challenge Cole at Rook’s Rest.
Gwayne Hightower (Freddie Fox).
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Theo Whitman/HBO
Her suggestion that she go herself, on Syrax, is shot down. She’s too important. Jacaerys volunteers to go, on Vermax. But no, he’s too inexperienced. Finally Rhaenys steps up, because of course my girl Rhaenys steps up. What could she do but step up? She’s Rhaenys.
Rhaenys will fly to Rook’s Rest on Meleys, the Black’s largest and most battle-tested dragon. The Goldilocks choice! Make way for Princess Rhaenys the Always Right about Absolutely Everything! Except This Decision She’s Making Right Now, Possibly!
A game of dunces and dragons
Pre-battle montage!
King’s Landing: A petulant, drunk King Aegon heads to the Dragonpit and mounts Sunfyre.
Dragonstone: A badass, confident, grimly smiling Princess Rhaenys heads to the Dragon…dock(?) and mounts Meleys.
Rook’s Rest: Cole’s army approaches the castle, some 1500-men strong.
Meanwhile, Rhaenyra tells an impatient Jacaerys about the secret that Viserys passed down to her: Aegon the Conqueror’s dream, the Song of Ice and Fire, the prophecy of the Prince that was Promised, and how you just have to gut out those last coupla seasons because you can tell they’re rushing things to get to the end oh and don’t get me started on that whole “And who has a better story than Bran the Broken?” nonsense. We cut away before Jacaerys has a chance to ask her if his cable package includes HBO, does that mean he has MAX too, or …?

The attack on Rook’s Rest is on: Cole’s army advances, while the castle’s archers proceed to turn them into so many of your nana’s tomato pincushions.
But then the cry goes up: Dragon! Specifically, Meleys, with Rhaenys the Badass on her back. They proceed to turn a few of those tomato pincushions into flame-roasted tomato pincushions.
Gwayne Hightower (Freddie Fox) and Criston Cole (Fabien Frankel).
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Gwayne snaps at Cole in a very “I told you so” manner, which is not a good look on him. But Cole sends up a signal – a series of soldiers tootle on a series of horns. It’s no lighting the beacons of Gondor, but it suffices. A few miles away, Aemond, mounted on Vhagar, hears the battle-toots and prepares to take off – but before he can, King Aegon flies overhead astride Sunfyre. (This is accompanied on the soundtrack by an effect that sounds an awful lot like “Wheeeeeee!” which I hope is Sunfyre and not Aegon but I am not entirely convinced of that.)
This angers Aemond, and, for reasons of his own, he decides to hold off on entering the fray. He tells Vhagar to chill, and the dragon sullenly flumps his head down onto the forest floor and heaves a big sigh like a yellow lab when you stop throwing the tennis ball.
The confrontation between Rhaenys/Meleys and Aegon/Sunfyre is nasty, brutish and short. Sunfyre lights Meleys up with dragonbreath, and then Meleys tears into Sunfyre’s flesh with her huge talons. And teeth. And probably whispers some really vicious, cutting insults into Sunfyre’s ears while she’s at it. Point is: Meleys and Rhaenys are winning the day.

But just then, Aemond shows up, astride Vhagar – and Vhagar is older and meaner and bigger than the other two dragons, who currently are locked in combat above the battlefield, combined. At first, Aegon is heartened by this, but quickly realizes that Aemond is just going to have Vhagar dracarys the hell out of both he and Rhaenys at once. Which means Aemond could defeat the enemy and take the crown in one fell-beast swoop.
Vhagar breathes fire, and Sunfyre takes the brunt of it. He and Aegon tumble into the nearby forest; a worried Criston Cole takes off to help his dumbass king.
As for Rhaenys and Meleys? They’re fine, but you knew that. Oh sure, Rhaenys’s platinum-blonde Edgar-Winter-is-Coming wig got a bit singed, but it’s Rhaenys, so it looks damn good on her. She begins to retreat from the battle, but looks back at Vhagar. We can assume she hears Daemon’s words from the season premiere – how they’d need two dragons to challenge Vhagar.
But Rhaenys gonna Rhaenys; she and Meleys turn and face Vhagar and Aemond head-on.
It, um, doesn’t go well. Vhagar grabs Meleys in her claws and proceeds to brulee the smaller dragon’s creme. They tumble into the battlefield, taking out many soldiers as they do. Cole falls off his horse and passes out.
Vhagar gets up and takes off, Godzilla-ing much of Cole’s army under her talons as she goes.
Meleys is still airborne, though; she and Rhaenys survey the carnage and look for Vhagar, who has somehow vanished, despite being the size of a super-yacht. There’s a fun moment when Meleys looks back at Rhaenys; dragon and rider exchange a look of, “I got you, girl.”
But alas: As Meleys and Rhaenys fly above the castle, Vhagar swoops up and clamps Meleys’s neck in her jaws. The two dragons and their two riders soar higher, and then Meleys’s neck snaps. Vhagar lets go and flies away, as Rhaenys falls back earthward, staring down the barrel of the camera all the way. (If she’s gotta go out, I suppose there are worse ways to go out than to Hans Gruber it.) As they crash into the castle’s courtyard, Meleys explodes, which is not a thing I knew dragons did, but I probably should have guessed.
Cole awakens on a field of battle that looks like a vast plain of blackened chicken. He sees that what’s left of his army is winning the day by invading the castle through the new, Meleys-shaped breach in its walls.
He resumes his search for Aegon, and at one point tries to get a soldier to help him, but the soldier has been reduced to ash. Cremains of the day joke goes here.
Cole finds a gravely wounded Sunfyre, and also finds Aemond, who’s advancing on his older brother’s dragon with his sword drawn. Cole shouts at him, and Aemond stops. He kneels and picks up Aegon’s dagger (yes, that same damn dagger again, you know the one, the Forest Gump of Westeros, I don’t have to go into it all again, do I?).
When Cole gets a little closer, he sees the (possibly lifeless) body of Aegon lying beneath Sunfyre. Meanwhile, Aemond saunters out of frame in a very self-satisfied “Welp, my work is done here; gotta be hitchin’ a ride on the wiiiiind” sort of way.
Parting Thoughts
- Join in me pouring out a few shots of Alys Rivers’ goof-juice for our gal Rhaenys. Rhaenys, the Queen Who Never Was But Damn Well Should Have Been And So Would Have If It Hadn’t Been For The Patriarchy. Rhaenys the Always Right. Rhaenys Whom You Should Have Listened To All Along. Rhaenys Who Made The Silly Wig Work For Her. Rhaenys, My Queen.
- Another couple shots for Eve Best, who was never given enough to do, but did what she did with steely eyed intelligence and tremendous authority. With her loss, the show suffers a considerable hit, both in terms of its cast and its characters. Best gave a standout performance – but Rhaenys was the only character who talked sense to Rhaenyra and Corlys. With no Otto for the Greens, or Rhaenys for the Blacks, Westeros now suffers from a dearth of grownups.
- Never a fan of dramatizing dreams, in fiction. It’s a crutch. Too often they’re used like a cheat-code to “reveal” a character’s thoughts, anxieties, obsessions, fears, etc. And just as often, they don’t actually reveal much. Did we need to see Daemon pop off young Rhaenyra’s head to understand that he’s ambitious? We did not. (But I suppose a case could be made that what Daemon’s dreams do reveal is that he’s feeling guilty about it all.)
- I like Alys Rivers. I am not alone. She’s a survivor, that one.
- Still loving Sir Simon Russell Beale as Ser Simon Strong! I like how pays due deference to Daemon, but he’s no lickspittle. Dude’s got some dignity, some gravitas.
- Next week: Dragon recruiting drive! Semper fi-re! The few, the proud, the Meereen!
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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