Nothing has given me more consistent fits over the last decade than Sex and the City. (1) It bastardized feminism into some form of girl power that meant nothing more than being girlish and obsessing over boys and shoes; (2) It inspired a generation of tourists to invade New York to jump on a bus for a roll past Sushi Samba instead of, say, a visit to Hamilton's grave or the site of the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory disaster...(3) and then there was Carrie's apartment. For her character, it was the wrong location, wrong size and the most non-desrcript decor ever captured on film. It's akin to Daphne Guinness stuffing her McQueen gowns into a closet that opens onto a room of Pottery Barn. It's not about money, it's about personality and the confidence to instill that personality into all your things.
Artist Herbert Pfostl must be flush with aesthetic confidence. Fills his dark art with morbid animals and toys...fills his dark studio with morbid animals and toys. He's found his aesthetic (and it's wonderful) and is running with it. Thank goodness. Check out his Paper Graveyard and his flickr stream.