my new yorker confession

It amounts to this: I don’t read the New Yorker, yet I’ve been a cover aficionado for decades. My grandparents were New Yorker readers (they were wonderfully well-read) and when I was a teenager I asked if I could have the magazines after they were finished with them. I would carefully cut off the cover, toss the magazine, and then add the image to a colorful wall paperish montage on my bedroom wall.

My good friend since high school, Nina, recently gave me these covers that she found at a Brooklyn flea market:

I love how artful and conceptual they are.

Today I live with a New Yorker reader and I confess that I still rarely open the magazine. I admire those who have the grit to read it each week, but it feels too overwhelming as they pile up all around the house (Chris literally just walked by with a magazine in hand and said I have no excuse).

Incidentally, I was just checking out the Blown Covers weekly illustration contest (thanks again to Sarah for a good recommendation) and I came across a bunch of the images from my bedroom wall a la 1996. Maybe its a sign that I should submit something one of these weeks.



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