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gvbejvmes · 4 years ago

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Task: Adjective

Title: Artistic Rating: PG-13 Characters: Gabriel James-Michaels, Francis James, Nancy Conrad/James/Scott, Georgiana James Adams, Cesar “Flaco” Rodriguez, Bella James, Jonathan James-Michaels, Other family referenced Pairings: Implied Gabriel James/Nancy Conrad, Gabriel James-Michaels Warnings: The usual Francis James warnings for child abuse/endangerment and homophobia. Summary: 5 times someone saw the artistic side of Gabriel, and 1 time he saw himself as artistic.

Artistic [ahr-tis-tik], adj: 1) conforming to the standards of art; satisfying aesthetic requirements, 2) showing skill or excellence in execution, 3) exhibiting an involvement in or appreciation of art, especially the fine arts, 4) of art or artists, 5) of, like, or thought of as characteristic of an artist.

1980

This was the last place in the world Francis James wanted to be. Needing to close the store early to go to the elementary school was pretty low down on his list of priorities, but it wasn’t like he had a choice in the matter. The school had insisted on this parent/teacher conference, and there was no way in hell Maria was going. She was pregnant and had a two year old to take care of; home was where she belonged. Besides, if he sent Maria to this meeting, she was likely to miss something important. His wife was an above average homemaker, but she wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed. This was something he needed to do, and if it was important, he’d tell Maria about it later.

“Gabriel is a very special boy.” The kindergarten teacher began. She’d told him her name at some point, but Francis couldn’t be bothered to remember it. Anyone who taught kindergarten wasn’t a real teacher anyway; they were a glorified babysitter. He didn’t like the way she talked about his son. Sure, his son was a bit on the special side, his bizarre relationship with his sister being a contributing factor, but who was this woman, this stranger to call his son special? He knew what that meant from the way she phrased it.

When it was clear she wasn’t able to figure out what to say next, Francis decided to take pity on her. “Are you trying to tell me that my boy’s r***rded?” That wasn’t something Francis would have guessed. He was a bit of a sissy, but that was his mother’s doing. She babied him and allowed him to get away with bullshit like playing with her make up. It was behavior that could be corrected with a good belt. He wouldn’t consider being a pansy the same as being a r***rd.

The teacher seemed flustered all of a sudden. “No! I didn’t mean special like that Mr. James.” She tried to soothe over, looking as out of place as Frances felt. “What I should have said was that Gabriel sees the world differently than the other students in my class.” The teacher continued on before pulling out a couple of what he assumed were his son’s drawings.

One of them was a coloring sheet with the outline of an apple. It was only half-filled, the color only filling the edges. The other drawing was black crayon with white circles pressed into it.

“Gabriel hasn’t been able to complete a single one of our art assignments. And when it’s time for art to finish, he refuses to stop. This piece-” She gestured to the apple. “Took the entirety of art. When I asked him why he didn’t finish coloring it in, he told me that apples are many colors and that he was trying to get the reds just right. And this one-” She gestured to the black drawing. “Was supposed to be a star. We were practicing our shapes, but he didn’t want to draw a ‘fake’ star. He only wanted to draw what they really looked like. Mr. James, have you thought perhaps about homeschooling Gabriel? There are plenty of art classes where his talents will be fostered.”

And there it was again. This art bullshit. It was the constant scribbling and coloring he insisted on doing. Boys weren’t supposed to be artistic. They were supposed to be strong and masculine. His son was supposed to be playing sports and playing in the mud. This shit was not what little boys were supposed to do.

“I’ll take care of Gabriel.” Francis promised. “Don’t worry about him.”

1990

“Is it just me or did Gabriel James get hot over the summer?” It was the first day of school and Nancy Conrad was taking inventory of how summer treated everyone. If she wanted to continue to give the senior girls a run for their money, she needed to know everything about everyone in the junior class. There were a couple of girls she needed to keep an eye out for. Girls who left sophomore year with no boobs and who were entering junior year with boobs. There was a chance they could try to compete with her, and she was not going to allow that to happen.

She leaned against the bank of lockers as Rachel Gilroy stuck pictures up. To their right, Tiffany Owens leaned against the lockers as she filed her nails. These were her girls. They made the cheerleading team together, and next year they would absolutely be the girls ruling that squad. There was no one Nancy trusted more in the world than Rachel and Tiffany. They’d been friends since they were kids and would continue to be friends; Nancy just knew it.

Tiffany made a dismissive sound. “I think you’re barking up the wrong tree there, Nanc. I don’t think you’re his type.” She continued shaping her nail for a moment, but Nancy was convinced that Tiffany was just leaving her to stew. “I sat next to him in English. He’s… artistic. He spent the whole time doodling.”

Rachel closed her locker and shot Tiffany a confused look. “What’s wrong with that? I doodle in my English notebook, too.” And it was more or less along the lines of what Nancy was thinking.

The sound of the nail file stopped, and Tiffany looked at both of them. She looked frustrated, like Nancy and Rachel weren’t getting what she was trying to say. “No, I mean he’s artistic. You know, like… artistic.” When it became very clear that Nancy and Rachel still didn’t understand, Tiffany rolled her eyes. “I think he’s a f*g.”

Nancy froze. She’d never met anyone who was gay before, but she’d seen movies. She knew what gay was supposed to look like, but Gabriel didn’t fit that stereotype. He was hot, and he played Varsity baseball. If Tiffany thought he was gay, well, then, maybe that wasn’t a friend she needed in her life after all.

“I bet you he’s not.” She smirked at her friend. “I can guarantee that by the time I’m through with him, there won’t be an artistic bone in his body left.”

2000

There was something about watching G paint that had always been mesmerizing to Georgie. It was like he went off to another place every time. The new No Doubt CD echoed throughout the garage as G knelt on the ground, pouring melted crayon onto a canvas. He worked quickly, moving the colors around before they set. When a color set too soon, he would stop, hold his lighter over the spot, and move the wax around until it did what he wanted. He was so focused when he worked, and it was like watching someone dance with the way his arms moved about the canvas.

CJ was hitched up on her hip, watching as her dad worked. The toddler was quiet, watching G with the same intensity as she watched Beauty and the Beast with her sister. They were supposed to be calling him in for lunch, but it was hard to interrupt him when he was in the zone like this. A part of Georgie couldn’t help but to wonder if this was how people felt when they watched Picasso or Michelangelo work. Her brother was going to be a big name one day. She just knew it. With his talent, he deserved so much more than the life he’d been given.

“Are you guys just going to hover or did you want to see what I’m working on?” And G always did seem to know where his kids were whenever they were in the same room. He always seemed to know where Georgie was, too, but she pushed that thought aside and instead brought her niece closer to where her brother was working.

She blinked as she finally was able to get a better look at what he was working on. It wasn’t a canvas like she had thought. It looked like he was using the easel DJ had broken last week as a canvas. He’d sanded it down and it was the easel that he was pouring the paint onto. She’d never seen anything like it before, and she swore one of the figures he was creating almost looked like -

“Aunt G, it’s you!” CJ screamed out in absolute delight. She touched the melted crayon, and G let her, using his daughter’s pudgy fingers to pat down the wax just right. “Daddy, you draw me, too?”

G laughed as he put his tools off to the side. “Not today, princess. Another time.” He promised before scooping CJ out of Georgie’s arms. “Is it time for lunch?”

CJ nodded. “YES! Grilled cheeses!” And she announced it like it was the best food ever.

As they retreated back into the house, Georgie continued to stare at the painting. Her fingers lightly traced the outline of her own face. She would never understand the language her brothers seemed to be able to speak - Eli with his machines and G with his ability to turn normal objects into, well, this. She didn’t understand how they could just look at something and know what it could be. It wasn’t a skill she had been gifted like them.

“You’re not supposed to touch art, you know.” G drawled from where he was leaning against the doorjamb, CJ no longer in sight. “Do you like it?” He asked softly as he wandered back over to the painting. Next to the figure of Georgie, another figure was in the early stages of being sketched out.

She nodded slowly, her fingers never leaving the canvas. “You see me differently than I see me.” Georgie’s voice was soft. “You see something feminine and I see something that’s not.”

G’s hand slipped into hers. “Georgie…” He started out, but she shook her head - stopping him.

“I know what you’re going to say. It’s the same damn thing the doctor said, and D said. Being infertile doesn’t make me any less of a woman. Yeah, yeah yeah.” She huffed out a harsh breath. “Men can procreate. Even Satan herself can have kids and I’m just… broken.”

It was quiet. G was either waiting for her to say something or he just didn’t know what to say. With him, it could be either. She couldn’t always read him.

“Who are you going to put here?” She slipped her hand out of her brother’s and instead stepped even closer to the drawing, trying to make out what his stray marks meant. The bodies looked like they were coming from the same crayon, from the same body. Like they were born the same. “Not D.”

G shrugged. “I haven’t really planned that far ahead. I’m just letting it happen.”

Georgie nodded. “That explains all the marks. You’ve always hated painting yourself. This is how you see me, right?” She took a step back. “Paint you like I see you.”

2010

“I don’t get it, man.” Of all the places Cesar had wanted to go while he was in New York, the MET had not been on his list of priority sites. He wanted to go to all the baseball stadiums near the city, and to Coney Island, and to Ellis Island, but a museum hadn’t been on his list of places he wanted to go. Hell, he wouldn’t have even known about the MET if Michaels hadn’t told him about it. It had taken a lot of pushing to get James to bring him to the MET, and when he did it was kind of scary. The staff acted almost like they were afraid of him, and they roped off the section of the museum Cesar had wanted to see .And it wasn’t like James was being a bitch. He was nice; they just knew who he was and wanted to be accommodating. It was insane.

There were other pieces in the room they were in, but not many. Cesar’s only focus was on the metal structure in the center of the room anyway. He walked around the cage, a replica of the cell they’d shared when they’d been incarcerated. “Why would you want to be reminded of that shit? The second I was out, I pretended like it never happened.” Sure, his wife brought it up from time to time when he was bugging her too much, but he didn’t give prison a second thought.

James pushed on a bar which gave way, allowing for Cesar to climb inside. “Lay down. If it makes you feel any better, I’ll get in there with you and we can pretend it’s old times.” He sounded sarcastic about it, but Cesar knew it was a real offer.

As soon as he laid down and looked up at the ceiling, he couldn’t help but to stare. He’d slept on the top bunk and had spent many nights counting the cracks in the cement. This was definitely an upgrade. The way James had painted it, he felt like he was outside. Not laying in a replica of a cell he’d once shared. “James… Hot damn.”

The other man laughed, and squatted down to his level. He didn’t crawl into the cell with him, but Cesar figured it would always be more difficult for James than it was for him. “It’s not about remembering where we were, Flaco. It’s about seeing the possibility - even in the worst places.”

He didn’t know if it was what he said or if it was how he said it. All he knew was that it had him laughing his ass off. “I thought you were gay in LA. Dude, New York has made you extra gay.” He managed out between laughs.

“Guess I’m not showing you where Dodgers stadium used to be then. No Ebbets Field for you.” James managed out, pulling a face.

Cesar scrambled out of the cage, still laughing. “Don’t you dare. It’s the Mecca man. Holy ground. I need to take some dirt back to Mama.” He said, before sobering up. “James… how come you didn’t want me to know that you made it? You’re a fixture at a world famous museum. Why aren’t you screaming it from the Empire State?”

His friend shrugged. “It just happened. It’s not a big deal.” But he could tell from his face that it was definitely a big deal.

“We are very different people.” Cesar said with a shake of his head. “Very different people.”

2020

Bella James mostly liked going to school. She liked the days she got to go to art school with GG best. Even if he was the teacher and she had to share him with the class. Regular school was okay, too. She guessed. They got to play a lot and sing. She liked to sing. It reminded her of Mommy. And it was the same as her cousins. And sometimes they did art too. She didn’t like that art as much. It wasn’t as fun as GG’s art. The teachers didn’t like when she said that though.

Today was a day they had art, and she was coloring and coloring. Daddy’s Day was coming up and they were supposed to draw a picture of their daddies for a present. She didn’t have a Daddy to draw anymore, but she had a GG. And his real name was Dad so he definitely counted as a Daddy.

The white piece of construction paper sitting in front of her was perfect for what she wanted to do. She picked up a blue crayon and started coloring. She tried to do big swooshy lines like one of GG’s pictures. After the blue, she added green swooshes before picking up a black crayon and drawing a box around her swooshes. Her tongue stuck out of her mouth as she evaluated her work.

Drawing GG was always the hard part. Sometimes he had hair; sometimes he cut it all off. Sometimes he had whiskers; sometimes his face had a big beard like Santa. Even still, sometimes his face felt like skin. That one was weird; she didn’t like that one. Right now he had hair and some whiskers, but not a Santa beard.

With a nod she started drawing his head first. Black hair. Then gray over top. Gold eyes. A nose. A mouth with his ciggy pop. Then she did a black shirt and drew jeans. No shoes. GG didn’t like shoes either. Then, his arms. His arms were hard to color. He had too many pictures on his arms.

Once she was done, she smiled. GG was going to like it. She just knew it. The teacher didn’t seem to like her drawing, but she knew GG would. It was him and one of his own pictures. If Billy could draw his Daddy riding a bike, then she could draw her GG making art. She couldn’t very well draw him making kissy faces with Grandpa Jay. That would be weird. And he only ever did two things.

When she gave the picture to him later he really liked it and even said the words Mommy said she wasn’t supposed to copy. He even hung it up in the room where he made art. He said art should be surrounded by art before tickling Bella’s face with whisker kisses. She liked when GG was happy. It made her happy, too.

Present Day

Currently there was a bridge in Gabe’s home studio. It wasn’t like it was permanent or anything. Just semi-permanent he supposed. It had wheels that locked in place when he needed them to. It was high enough where he could sit above large pieces for better coverage, but low enough that he was actually able to work from it. Usually he used it for pour pieces, or if he was building something and needed a little extra height. Today he wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing.

He was laying on his stomach, hovering over his current project which had accidentally taken up most of his studio. It was so large that he was going to have to figure out how he was eventually going to get it out of his studio, but that was a problem for another day. A large piece of plywood was on the floor, pieces of wood lining the edges, like he was pouring concrete. On top of it was a six foot by six foot canvas (okay, a couple of smaller canvases carefully superglued together) lay in the middle of the room. On the bridge with him, he had a container with carefully layered acrylic paint, a container of an oil and additive mixture, a container of white paint, and a container of bleach.

The corners had been where he started. He saturated the canvas in bleach, wanting to see how it would affect the next step. Then he had poured the oil. He wasn’t sure how well the oil would do, even with the additives. The goal was for something solid, but translucent. After the oil, he poured the paint mixture. The colors had spread nicely, and he was sure that when he looked at the cameras mounted in the corners of the room, he would have some good shots for YouTube and TikTok.

Now, he was pouring white paint into the spots where paint hadn’t settled yet. Currently it was just a wet mess, but there was potential. If his drying experiment worked, it could turn out nice.

As he worked a white light began to flash by the door. It had been a compromise for having his home studio in the house. A light in the studio was rigged to flash one color when someone rang the house doorbell, and another color when someone hit the buzzer outside the studio door. It was the only way he wouldn’t be scared out of his fucking mind when someone was trying to get his attention. He’d destroyed more than a couple potential pieces due to getting so caught up in his work and not realizing someone was there. This system worked better than anything else they’d found. He’d always responded better to light than sounds anyway.

He probably looked insane. His hair was sticking in every direction. His glasses were in his hair somewhere. The parts of his face not covered by his respirator were dotted in paint. Hell, his respirator had more paint on it than was probably healthy, too. He was wearing pink dish washing gloves, but his arms were still covered in paint, as were his ancient jeans, and his bare feet. He probably should have put on his coveralls on, but he actually hadn’t realized how messy this project was really going to be.

“Wear a mask if you’re coming in. The paint fumes are pretty bad. The additives attached to the paint molecules and it’s pretty toxic up in here.” He warned. Due to the materials he worked with, the studio door was always locked when he was in here. If it was Bella at the door, she would have an adult with her, but she knew if the door was closed, she wasn’t supposed to bother him anyway.

A couple of minutes later, his husband walked into the room, snapping the baby gate in place behind him. Bella knew not to come into the room, but if the door was open, the dogs would try. The baby gate had definitely helped with that.

“You were not kidding about the smell. How are your eyes not watering?” Jay blinked a couple of times before coming over to the bridge to get a better look at what Gave was working on. “Is it bonding?” He slid his hands up the back of his thighs as he stared at the paint for a couple of minutes.

“No.” Gabe admitted, sounding too sullen for his own good. More often than not his art experiments didn’t work, but he had done a few smaller test pieces and thought this one would work. Maybe the canvas and plywood combination wasn’t strong enough for all the paint. “I have a combination of sealer and resin I’m going to pour, but I think it needs to set before I try that.”

There was a quick swat to his ass as his husband pulled away from him. “Good. The girls made dinner.” He must have pulled a face because Jay continued on. “It is, unfortunately, inedible. Juliet just got back with pizza.”

He wanted to be surprised that he lost six hours, but it happened when he got pulled into a project. “Oh thank fuck.” He sat up and pulled his gloves off, dropping them onto the bridge before shimmying onto the ground. “I’m starved.”

His husband didn’t respond. The other man was watching the colors shift under the soft light lamp in the room. It didn’t surprise Gabe at all. He could always tell if a piece was worth continuing by the look on Jay’s face. All the critics in the world could fuck off. The only reaction and feedback he ever needed was from Jay. He swore that he could live off his reactions to his art alone.

Setting his glasses down on one of his work stations, he picked up another piece of plywood. “Help me put this over the frame? Juliet’s asshole cat keeps figuring out how to get in here.” He’s pretty sure it wasn’t until he moved around that Jay noticed the state he was currently in.

“Yeah, you’re going to need to shower before you come anywhere near the dining room.”

Gabe laughed. “You gonna come in with me and make sure I get all the paint off?” He wagged his eyebrows at him.

“Briel, the girls are right outside.” His husband replied, but he could see the amusement on his features.

He huffed, but he probably would have been more surprised if he’d said yes. Grabbing his paint splattered phone, he started towards the door that led into the wet room, instead of the door Johnny had come in through. “Hey, Jay?” The second his husband looked in his direction, he snapped a quick photo. “For the reference folder.”

As he closed the door to the wet room, he heard two things. The first was his husband muttering something about him being incorrigible. The other was the sound of the wood being shifted. It was the last sound that put the smile on Gabe’s face.

Even if he couldn’t get the paint to set, this piece was a winner.

#drabble #CJ tasks #pairing: Gabe/Johnny #pairing: Gabe/Nancy

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mastcomm · 5 years ago

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‘Miss Americana’ Review: Taylor Swift, Scathingly Alone

“Miss Americana” is 85 minutes of translucence with Taylor Swift. There’s more in it — and more to it — than you usually get with these pop superstar portraits. I, at least, don’t recall loneliness being such a predominant condition for Swift’s peers as it is, here, for her. Not long after the movie doles out a deluxe rise-to-the-top montage, we hear Swift ask no one in particular, “Shouldn’t I have someone to call right now?” This from a woman who’s famous — notorious, actually — for her squad of besties. Otherwise, it’s lonely up there. Even the man she says she’s seeing is a figment in this movie, cropped from images, a hand-holding blur, a ghost.

On Grammy nomination day in the winter of 2018, a camera watches from a low angle as Swift sits in sweats alone on a sofa and hears from her publicist that her perturbed sixth album, “Reputation,” has been omitted from three of the big categories. She’s stoic. She’s almost palpably hurt. But Swift’s songwriting treats hurt as an elastic instrument, and she resolves in that moment of snubbing, “I just need to make a better record.” And the movie watches as she writes and records “Lover,” another album eventually rejected by the string-pullers at the Grammys.

Along the way, Swift does a lot of ruminating and recounting, a lot of arguing and apologizing on her own behalf. She’s rueful about sitting out the 2016 presidential election and failing to mobilize her millions of fans and followers against Donald Trump’s candidacy. So “Miss Americana” is also about an apolitical star waking up to herself as a woman and a citizen. She wants to spend her “good girl” credit to decry the scorched-earth-conservative Senate campaign that Marsha Blackburn was running in Tennessee, Swift’s adopted home. Her management team deems this unwise. The team, at that symbolic point, is two slouchy, old white men who counter their client’s raging passion with financial and prehistoric umbrage. Bob Hope and Bing wouldn’t let their politics dent ticket sales 50 percent. It’s part of strong stretch of the movie that argues that Swift’s own experience with a handsy (and consequently litigious) radio personality helped push her off the fence — a passage that culminates with the most stressful sending of an Instagram post you’re likely to see from a star.

Swift’s success rate as an activist is nominal; Blackburn is currently enduring impeachment arguments with 99 other senators. But what’s bracing about this film, which Lana Wilson directed, is the way it weds Swift’s loneliness and her arrival at empowerment. That’s at least how I’m receiving her support last summer of pro-gay legislation that culminated in the video for her hit “You Need to Calm Down.” It teemed with famous queer people, and watching its partial making in this movie made me understand that she was campaigning not just for gay rights, but possibly for new friends.

Swift is revealed as being surrounded by men of different generations. Some co-create her music. Some oversee her career. Only with the producer Jack Antonoff do we catch a spark of collaborative lightning. The few meaningful connections with women involve her mother and a visiting childhood friend (Abigail, the wronged protagonist of the Swift classic “Fifteen”) — and Wilson.

Her movie proceeds in a kind of vérité approach. It opens with an adult Swift awash in the declarations of her girlhood diaries and rarely departs from seeing the world as Swift does, and I left it with a new sympathy for a woman who polarizes people. The urge that notoriously overcame Kanye West, in 2009, to hijack her acceptance speech at the Video Music Awards stands in for a national vexation. And all she did that night was win. It’s the winning, of course, that vexes. But the movie conjures up that moment and her response to the press immediately after, and you feel like you’re watching a foundational trauma. Swift was 19.

At the other extreme is a different trauma, normal only for the famous: Folks who camp outside of Swift’s Manhattan apartment building and shriek as she exits; who, upon seeing her backstage, tearfully come apart; who so adore her that they need her as an unwitting accessory to their surprise marriage proposal. We’re supposed to call these people fans. But the ones who turn up here tend toward the most disturbing adulation. She tells the singer Brendon Urie that a man broke into her apartment and slept in her bed.

So a movie about Swift — a movie worth watching, anyway — that’s seeking to provide a little intimacy should proceed aware that not everybody wants to be close. Swift has incorporated rejection and disdain into her way of being. “Miss Americana” suggests a tenuous connection between Swift’s wading into her politics and the Dixie Chicks’ being drowned because of theirs, although Wilson’s movie doesn’t have the force or clarifying intent (or material) of “Shut Up and Sing,” Barbara Koppel’s very good documentary about what befell the Dixies.

Yet, the most absorbing parts of “Miss Americana” involve Swift’s reckoning with the disillusionment of dislike — not simply other people’s but her own. When she’s watching footage of herself on a video set and says “I have a really slappable face,” it’s a throwaway self-deprecation. But it’s also a shocking symptom of the toll of her strange public life.

Her departure that day from her fan-barnacled building leads her to ruminate, minutes later, about the toll that level of attention has taken on her psyche. Swift confesses that, for some while, she couldn’t stand to see pictures of herself because she’d scrutinize rather than simply look; the scrutiny spurred an eating disorder. Here’s Swift personalizing the diseased nature of fame, a condition she’s considered with envy and rue in her songwriting, namely on “The Lucky One” from “Red,” a masterpiece album from 2012 that navigates stadium, dance floor and diary. (Swift philosophizes, at some late point, that stars are stuck at the age they became famous.)

A handful of scenes capture Swift rigorously refining songs for “Lover.” Occasionally, she senses she’s hit the jackpot, even when the result is a piece of pyrite like the album’s first single, “Me!,” a duet with Urie. Her elation over that song left me sad to have missed the moment she perfected gems like “You Belong With Me,” “22,” “Blank Space” and “Delicate.” We don’t see her working on the “Lover” track that gives the movie its title, “Miss Americana and the Heartbreak Prince,” a midtempo number about romantic and national disillusionment.

Now, the title stands alongside her, like a guileless declaration. But it’s one capacious enough to appreciate the meaning of her music’s sometimes gnarled migration from straight country to the structural and sonic priorities of R&B to “Lover,” which is, mostly, a stable, serious, pleasurable synthesis of all of these sounds, proof that the synthesis contains traces of American music histories. Basically, Americana.

This documentary isn’t as coherent as “Truth or Dare,” the Olympic standard for pop-star portraiture. But Madonna had found a coherent persona by the time of that movie. Swift is still eking hers out. Along with her music, she’s evolving.

That’s a part of the documentary’s assertion — her creative and personal maturity come with a cost, obviously. But its most exhilarating disclosure is that Swift finds herself determined to pay it. Some of the new music means to amplify her politics — “The Man” achieves that with hooky, witty, pleasingly obvious pique. You can see a woman who, despite having once recorded an album called “Speak Now,” never felt it was her place to say anything. Wilson has captured Swift at a convincing turning point, ready, perhaps, to say a lot more.

Taylor Swift: Miss Americana

Not rated. Running time: 1 hour 26 minutes.

from WordPress https://mastcomm.com/miss-americana-review-taylor-swift-scathingly-alone/

#Entertainment

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mastcomm · 5 years ago

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‘Miss Americana’ Review: Taylor Swift, Scathingly Alone

Taylor Swift: Miss Americana

Not rated. Running time: 1 hour 26 minutes.

from WordPress https://mastcomm.com/miss-americana-review-taylor-swift-scathingly-alone/

#Entertainment

0 notes