I just snagged a book about Chuck Close from our review pile. I can still remember the first time I saw one of his paintings in real life. I can actually remember the exact words that went through my head at the time: "No fucking way. Oh my god." Not quite the stuff that gets one into Bartlett's, but if you've ever seen his works in the really real I'm sure you know the feeling.
I plan on totally jacking Close's whole late-60's look, as exemplified in 1968's Big Self-Portrait
if I should ever find myself physically capable of growing a decent mustache. Yes, the style-jacking plan involves never wearing a shirt, and yes I know it's sort a molestorfied look, but if Chuck's not sweating it I'm not gonna either.
I'm not so amped on the books title, Close Reading, but I can't really hate. You know there's not an editor on earth who'd let you write a book about Chuck Close and not use some shitty pun as its title.