NAZI SCIENTISTS? WEAPONIZED LYME DISEASE? CREEPY EXPERIMENTS IN GENETIC MUTATION? NO.
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The Death of Jackson Pollock
This August marks the 60th anniversary of the night when Jackson Pollock died, thrown from the wheel of his car into the woods on Springs-Fireplace Road. To this day, Pollock still looms larger than any of the legions of young artists who have followed his phantom to the East End — and a steady stream of curious fans, many of them born long after the great man’s death, still makes the pilgrimage to his gravesite at Green River Cemetery. Jennifer Landes reflects on what happened that night and why.
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Trump ahead on Newtown Lane
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So many of the artists we claim as our own here, particularly the noted ones, are from somewhere else.
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How do two artists create a happy home among the billionaire hedgerows of Bridgehampton, raise a couple of good kids, and still manage to create captivating work? Bastienne Schmidt and Philippe Cheng have found the magic keys.
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It’s sad but safe to say that we won’t see the likes of Tina Fredericks, real estate royalty, again. She didn’t just sell to the stars — she had her own star wattage. She befriended the mighty, but never kowtowed, and never neglected her clients on the other end of the socioeconomic spectrum. She died last year, but her vision and perspective live on in the dramatic, but ingeniously human, touches of the house she built on Georgica Pond.
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Like the California pop of 1960s and ’70s, the sound of Jack and Eliza is as warm and irresistibly bittersweet as the last day of summer vacation.
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As author of the Social Q’s column in The New York Times, Philip Galanes delivers sage and amusing answers to readers’ personal-life queries, from “Is it too soon to text back?” to “Can I tell my motherin-law her wigs are ugly?” This time we had a few questions about him.
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Rumor has it that the celebrity-studded Artists–Writers Game is looking for young blood.
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Alec Baldwin revives a town-hall style discussion series amid a historic election.
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When Paton Miller stumbled into Fairfield Porter’s studio in the 1980s, he found not just a workplace, but a surrogate family — and, hidden and forgotten in a corner of the old barn, a trove of irreplaceable paintings that would change forever his understanding of art, creation, and fame.