Babes at the Museum

As some of us are, well namely, I am not yet finished with finals, the next post(s) will be brief, but don’t worry, I’m witty!  …Get it? Because brevity is the soul of wit. Get it? It’s funny. HA. Ha. ha. No? It’s okay, I’m used to it.

The Displaced New Yorker has been re-placed. That’s right biddies, I’m home for the holidays. Being the over-cultured, art-elitist you all know and love, one of my first stops was the Frick Collection. A former stomping ground of mine, the Frick is kind of like a second, well, maybe more like fifth or sixth home away from home. Like the infamous museum mouse,* I feel an unwarranted sense of ownership over most of the art within the collection. I’ve worked and taken classes and made friends that are really more like family within those avocado, mushroom, and shoddy* red velvet walls.

Most of those friends turned family members are incredible sources of inspiration to me, not only because they’re brilliant, hilarious, and kind (with the exception of one friend, who for the purposes of this article I’ll call BENGEN… He likes to steal from the corporate rich and give to the non-corporate rich), but also because they wear what they want and they do it well. From drop-crotch pants, to neon beanies, to plastic bags, my friends make statements with what they wear.

Inspired by the blog, Babes at the Museum,* I snapped a few shots of some of my favorite people, doing what they do best: being themselves.





*Museum Mouse:

*The Frick Collection re-upholstered the walls in one of the galleries recently. The Times gave it rave reviews. The Displaced New Yorker, was and remains, unimpressed by the shoddy craftsmanship.

*Babes at the Museum: