Manifesto-ing

An almost great movie, a marathon, things

On Sunday, I sat for hours on a canvas-draped couch in one corner of a newly purchased SoHo loft with Fluxus history. It’s nice to know they still exist, above the Zaras and Pradas of Broadway. Some 32 people were slated to read from manifestos, mostly their own, and I believe only two didn’t show, even if a winter storm was on its way. I obviously didn’t last the whole night, but did find it difficult to peel away.

In flattering lighting, two women replenished homemade snacks—stuffed and drizzled radicchio, lox and dill on cucumber chunks, fresh bread and herbed butter, a crock pot of fennel citrus tea, countless bottles of Grüner Veltliner—while invited guests took the mic. What was the gist of the many, many, manifestos? a friend who opted to skip asked me the next day.