I anticipated an ordinary quarantined birthday. Yet when I opened my cluttered inbox late April 19th, a spam email plunged me into a sunken depression: “I infected your computer and recorded a video showing how you satisfy yourself.’” My hacker enumerated specific demands. “I don’t make any mistakes. If I see you’ve shared this message, the video will be immediately distributed.” According to my cunning captor, all devices associated with my account were subject to malicious intrusion.

The Leo Castelli Gallery is a venerated New York stalwart. Dedicated to displaying a wide breadth of post-war art, its founder Leo Castelli is now reputed as a pivotal point of influence for the American avant-garde. Today, his gallery’s location has migrated from its original Manhattan townhouse to a posh residence at 18 East 77th Street, where it still showcases the world’s most cutting-edge contemporary artists.

Jon Burgerman conceives fictitious friends from pure imagination. His colorful characters contort liminal space awaiting their transformation at any time, anywhere, using anything. From malleable cork figures to chalk drawings, Play-Doh, and custom-made comic strips, even his abstract canvases show traces of quirk. Burgerman’s style has now become instantly recognizable.

Virginia Zamora is well-versed in the art of seduction. I watched her erotic mixed-media work beckon me from The Storefront Project’s interior, where we agreed to meet for our interview one sticky afternoon in mid-July. Zamora’s first New York solo show – I’m Sweaty, Come Thru – set the summer day’s tone. By the time I finished introducing myself, we had already bonded over mutual perspiration.

Dylon Thomas Burns moves with steady precision. When I arrived at the Clinton Hall beer garden for our interview in Williamsburg, he was already at the bar waiting for me, his paint-stained palms clutching a happy hour menu. At 6pm, it was his first break of the day.

Lolita is as cute as it is complex. The fashion subculture began in Japan in the 1980’s, but has since become a contemporary phenomenon, reminiscent of its various sources of inspiration. Exaggerated lace, frills, tulle, and bows adorn bell-shaped dresses, fusing influence from Victorian England, Rococo France, and the Japanese Kawaii craze that emerged in the late 1970’s. But Lolita flourishes most in present-day Tokyo.

Ukiyo-e has become the defining art form of Japan’s Tokugawa Period. The genre blossomed in the archipelago from 1603-1867, but subsequently experienced a Western revival due to a 19th-century trade agreement between the United States and Japan. A blend between the realistic narratives of the Kamakura period and the decorative style of the Momoyama period, Ukiyo-e broadly refers to the practice of woodblock printing or painting, often depicting folklore, women, erotica, kabuki actors, sumo wrestlers, or other scenes from history and everyday life.

I never understood the dynamics of the art market. Soaring prices, a few prominent galleries, and a rotating selection of the same artists indicate that the relationship between gallery, artist, buyer, and value, would obfuscate any everyday consumer. When it came to street art and graffiti, which focuses on accessibility, questions about how galleries manage to maintain relationships with artists, make sales, and identify trends within the market still remained. To understand the financial side

“Are there still masterpieces being made today?” director Nathaniel Kahn asks Sotheby’s VP Amy Cappellazzo in his documentary The Price of Everything. “I mean, yeah,” she replies. “What kind of question is that? That’s like asking me if I believe in the future.” Chronicling the months leading up to a Sotheby’s Contemporary auction, The Price of Everything explores commercialization through the perspectives of key players within various areas of the art world. Its title – sourced from Oscar Wilde

One month. That’s how long Madelyn could afford her apartment on 103rd and Central Park West before she headed back the same direction. Four Friday nights in a row, I dragged my listless body up five incredibly steep flights of stairs, before reaching her doorstep, panting to the point of quasi vomitation, and knocking. We would go to art galleries, get smoothies, pass bowls on her firescape. Sometimes, we would get beer, Corona or Heineken, deli sandwiches, or, order Grubhub, and then argue wit

I. A flier that reads: OLDIES NIGHT AT THE GOLDEN DOVE, 4th AVENUE AND 96th ST BROOKLYN—FIRST 50 IN LINE GET FREE ENTRANCE. July 1984, and after hours of convincing from her friend Linda, my then twenty-four-year-old mother, who in fact is not actually my mother just yet, reluctantly agrees to spend her Saturday night in a dark dance club; one that lacks even the tiniest bit of elbow room. While Linda makes the rounds, conversing with every possible six-foot tall Italian who may or may not have connections with the mob, my mother stands in back by the crowded bar, listening to the music blare around her. In contrast to the darkness, she is dressed in all white—down to the open-toed platform shoes, with her dark hair flowing below her waist, (a detail that she never fails to mention when she recounts this story.) She scans the room for a familiar face, or just a face that holds her interest for more than a second, before giving up on the prospect of meeting anyone worthwhile. When she finally decides to go home, she finds Linda, then rushes through the narrow door as if her life depends on it. She is standing by the entrance, searching for her car keys in her seemingly bottomless pit of a handbag, when she hears his voice.

Living in New York City has made me privy to the plight of a recent species now commonly referred to as “hipsters.” This city has become a blur of obscure coffee shops, man buns, cyclists, Doc Martens, and of course, let’s not forget gentrification. It is easy to jeer at those with crazy-colored hair and “vintage” clothing as they walk out of a Whole Foods, but I realize that being anti-hipster is essentially the same as being hipster. What exactly is a hipster, you ask? The truthful answer is

Due to my forced Roman-Catholic upbringing, the mention of St. Patrick’s Day often evokes vague memories of being taught far too many lessons about the Holy Trinity. It is safe to say I can’t see a shamrock without remembering how St. Patrick was brought to Ireland to convert the pagans. My memory fails me, however, in remembering the shift from a holy day of obligation to the self-indulgent boozefest now colloquially called “St. Patty’s Day.” Every time someone says “kiss me, I’m __% Irish,” (