spatch just had to tell me that
Joan Micklin Silver has died and I never wrote about
Crossing Delancey (1988). It was one of the movies I meant to rewatch and write about because I loved it so much that I had trouble putting words around it and then 2020 kept happening and I didn't write about so many things. I didn't write about
Between the Lines (1977). I haven't yet seen
Hester Street (1975). Everything about this past year feels like unfinished business. I knew at the new year that it wouldn't change like a fingersnap overnight, but I missed a window to tell an artist—even just for the record of history—how much her art meant to me when she was around to hear it and I strongly believe that is the sort of thing a person should do; so many artists don't get the chance to find out.