Dmitry Samarov

There was an ad that ran during the 90s that really creeped me out. It was from AT&T or some other remnant of…

I met Christian TeBordo years ago at the Rainbo Club. He’s a regular. His spot is by the door, facing west. T…

I met Peter Prescott in the late 80s, while working at the Coolidge Corner Theatre in Brookline, Massachusett…

There's fastback Mustangs, there's tight pants, there's Afros, there's ancient Dutch farmers walking along wi…

I sat next to Brian Wells at the Rainbo Club for many years before I knew he was a painter. Wells is quiet an…

Vivian Maier died 5 years ago. Her obituary was likely written by the grown Gensberg brothers, who she used t…

I never met Vivian Maier and doubt whether we'd have gotten along if I had. Taciturn, solitary people obsesse…

Is it necessary to know who Linn Ullmann’s parents are to enjoy her book? Is writing about a childhood with f…

Chris Ware's Monograph (Rizzoli) is part autobiography, part art manifesto, part greatest hits, all contained…

Documentaries about artists can go wrong in a million different ways. Take John Maloof’s recent Finding Vivia…

The last time I came in, the waitress let me look over the menu but knew my order without prompting. Eppel’s …

One hundred years after the 1917 Soviet revolution in Russia, two baffling museum exhibitions attempt to reca…