I have a piece in the current issue of REAL SIMPLE in which I refer to my ta-tas as "my sad Walter Matthau eyes; they're that soulful these days." It's about aging (I'm going for graceless but comedic), art, and daughters.
Some have asked to see the original piece of art that was made by my daughter, the sculptor Phoebe Scott. Here it is.
The essay begins with the two of us on the phone. She's trying to figure out her next project and decides to go back to one of her most rooted themes, deterioration. Over the course of the piece, I talk about aging and about art, but most of all it was an unexpected moment to have my own daughter's art reshape my sense of self.
Note: It dawned on us here yesterday that, looking at the photo accompanying the piece, which isn't my daughter's piece but a black and white photo where the face isn't visible, people might think I posed topless for REAL SIMPLE. They aren't mine; those in the photo are clearly an upgrade. And for those who are too young to know who Walter Matthau is, here's a photo -- post-BAD NEWS BEARS, for obvious reasons.