all work combined
A father’s flan recipe
It started at a tailgate; two friends, buzzed under the Texan heat dome, and a conversation about starting a business together. It would take almost a decade for the aromas of their Napoletano flan and pork-fat tortillas to imbue local markets with the familiar-to-many scent of home cooked food, their business realized.
Film: a month in London
I remember the trip starting something like this: The Smiths blasting through my headphone speakers, looking past the window panes in an Austin bus, fall of 2021.
The Putumayo way
A kaleidoscope of beads lights Juan Riaño’s table. He lays out his handcrafts one by one: the tricolor macaw birds, the threaded bracelets and chest laces, the traditional wooden masks.
Pomegranate, fig and almond trees
My Uzbek roots gravitate to land. The living clay, the quilted kurpacha, the plowed soil. The love for earth disciplined and arranged my people’s way of life. It took and it gave, nourished and destroyed.
Outside our time
“The hallmark of the modern mind is that it loves to wander from its subject.” This fatal flaw of “wandering,” the human desire to play hide and seek with our own ideas, is not one of fiction.
Hell of a play
French chanson plays inside a Presbyterian church as the guests take their time to fill up one of the rooms. They are here to see Austin City Theatre’s production of “No Exit” by Jean-Paul Sartre, an existential play first performed in 1944 Paris and originally translated by Paul Bowles.
To weave a rock: Daniel Johnston’s exhibition review
Truth, deep-seated within each one of us, finds its own way of expressing itself. For the late Austin artist and musician Daniel Johnston, it manifested through personified ideas in his imaginary – and perhaps very real – scattered world.
Volunteer to Vogue: backstage at NYFW
During fashion week, the backstage crew is like a hive mind. From makeup stands to model dressers, seating charts to Run of Show boards, all hands are on deck.
West Campus open journals
On a West Campus lamp post facing 24th St. hangs a scan of a diary entry. Some bypassers walk past it, not noticing it above another poster looking for a band drummer. But others stop to read it, and the anonymous writer is heard.