so this was the year that i realized my interest in the met ball has entirely to do with sarah jessica parker’s presence at the met ball (i literally just wrote “at the mall” just then). i realized this when i realized that, this year, sarah jessica parker wasn’t present and my level of care promptly plummeted.
you know who was there though? caroline kennedy.
and you know what? she kind of brought it SJP-style. which is a fact, my feelings about which remain uncertain.
i’m a little wary of being arrested for copyright infringement, so let’s play a game.
as janet malcolm writes in the silent woman, her MASTERPIECE of biographical criticism, the biographer is “like the professional burglar, breaking into a house, rifling through certain drawers that he has good reason to think contain the loot and money, and triumphantly bearing his loot away.”
i’ve been thinking about life-writing in terms of stealing quite a lot in the fortnight since andrew o’hagan spoke at the conference a colleague and i organized up in oxford on life-writing and celebrity. o’hagan’s question was whether our stories actually belong to us. it is a question to which i would answer wistfully but firmly: no.
(a discussion that i will primarily illustrate with random photos from sarah jessica parker’s instagram, because i’ve recently become obsessed with celebrity instagrams and because ❤ …)