Here's a photo of Iggy Pop posing naked for a life drawing class at the New York Academy of Art. Twenty-one artists, from all walks of life, took part in the project, with the resulting portraits of the punk rock icon set to debut at the Brooklyn Museum this fall. Stripping off and baring all is for many not exactly a comfortable experience. But this is Iggy, and after years of exhibitionism, his junk has finally been recognized as a work of art.
My first apartment was in Malate, and calling it “small” would be generous. I lived there with two girls and one guy, and to this day, I genuinely don’t know how we all fit. It felt like a magic trick. Or a health hazard. We were a musical mess. One roommate lived and breathed ’70s classics. Another was permanently blasting Korn and Slipknot. One survived solely on cheesy love songs. And me? I was floating somewhere between new wave and folk rock, pretending that made sense. Somehow, despite the noise and the chaos, we all lived together in this weird, mismatched harmony. No murders. No lawsuits. A win, honestly. My music taste now is nothing like it was in my twenties. Not even close. But I’ll always be grateful to Jacqueline for introducing me to this song in particular. It was playing when I woke up from a very memorable sleep in 2002. I was 21, half-awake, probably confused about life, and that song stuck. It still hasn’t let go.

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