I count my MFA as one of the best things I’ve ever done. Yet sometimes I do find myself wondering: Could I have found what I was looking for some other way? How did it work, exactly, in the age of patrons and salons?
As I pursued this line of inquiry, the story of Hayford Hall came to light.
We live in an age of worry -- things are falling apart, hell is other people, you’re wasting your life -- and it can seem like nobody understands your particular flavor of agony. Until now! Whatever your existential dilemma, at DIAL-A-MODERNIST, we've got an answer for your every despair. Dear Modernist, I work at a high-powered consulting firm in Manhattan and I feel totally guilty about loving my job! I just want to live and wear…
If you were around Paris in the 1920s, you might have heard of one Mina Loy travelling in the same circles as the likes of Djuna Barnes, Gertrude Stein, and Ezra Pound. You might also have heard that she was a fictional person, and, despite her stern denial of this rumour, if you were looking at her reception as a Modernist writer you could be forgiven for believing it.
Instead of relying on complicated mathematical formulae to calculate gratuity (typically 15-20% of the bill), tip the waitress with the plaited wreaths of hair by sliding a shilling under the edge of your plate, so that she may not find it till you are gone, and her scorn, as she picks it up with laughter, may not strike on you till you are past the swing-doors.
