Scrolling through Instagram, I come across a clip of a 25-year-old man from Chicago walking by the water after finishing his finance job. He says he’s headed to his downtown apartment, where his girlfriend and new puppy are waiting, and that later he’ll grab beers and watch college football with his friends. “And I gotta say, I don’t think life gets much better than this,” he says, radiating optimism. “It’s mid 70s, the sun is out … Is this peak? I think I’m peaking right now.”
I think to myself that it’s a lovely reminder to appreciate life’s small pleasures, and I share the video with my wife because I want her to peak, too. She responds: “LOL, is this real?”
The biggest art story of the week centers on John Galliano, the fashion designer who was convicted of antisemitic and anti-Asian hate speech in France in 2011 and has previously confessed his love for Hitler. This week, he withdrew from an exhibition at The Met’s Costume Institute after public and donor backlash. Until three weeks ago, I had no idea who Galliano was. I guess I’m not much of a Vogue reader. If I had a time machine, I’d send myself back to the day before I learned.
Still, you take the good with the bad. Next month, I’ll complete my first year as editor-in-chief, and I think you’ll like what we have planned for this fall. I’m fortunate to work with an excellent team.
Meanwhile, the tension between a hostile barista and me reaches a breaking point when a glass bottle drops to the floor and shatters. She has been giving me the stink eye for weeks, while a poster behind her reads, “ICE Is Not Welcome Here.”
Out on the street, I find myself envying a concrete mixer truck. It is always processing what’s inside, never letting any of it harden. I watch an interview with 99-year-old American painter Alex Katz. “Get outside yourself and move,” he tells the reporter.
On my way home from work, I suddenly feel compelled to turn onto Orient Avenue. A large park opens up, and I go in for a walk. People are jogging or walking their dogs; others are playing tennis, basketball, or squash. Skaters swing up and down in the air. One man on a bench is halfway through Anna Karenina; two others are typing on their laptops, though they look as if they must be working on manuscripts. The cheerful voices of children in the playground drift upward. It’s in the upper 70s, the sun is still out, and I gotta say, I don’t think life gets much better than this.
—Hakim Bishara, editor-in-chief
