Aurelia Butler

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    Gracie Abrams on Her Skin Essentials and Favorite Hair Bows

    Plus: wild hops in Venice, a Catherine Opie exhibition in New York and more recommendations from T Magazine.Welcome to the T List, a newsletter from the editors of T Magazine. Each week, we share things we’re eating, wearing, listening to or coveting now. Sign up here to find us in your inbox every Wednesday, along with monthly travel and beauty guides, and the latest stories from our print issues. And you can always reach us at tmagazine@nytimes.com.Step by StepGracie Abrams’s Beauty RoutineLeft: The singer-songwriter Gracie Abrams, who is a global brand partner of Hourglass Cosmetics. Right, clockwise from top left: Cyklar Sensorial body wash, $35, cyklar.com; Chanel bow barrette, $525, chanel.com; Oribe Gold Lust Repair & Restore shampoo, $53, oribe.com; Jan Marini Skin Research C-ESTA face serum, $133, janmarini.com; Hourglass 1.5MM mechanical gel eye liner, $21, hourglasscosmetics.com; Egyptian Magic all-purpose skin cream, $39, egyptianmagic.com; Osea Undaria Algae body oil, $84, oseamalibu.com; Hourglass Veil Hydrating skin tint, $49, hourglasscosmetics.com; Fenty Beauty Cheeks Out Freestyle cream blush, $28, fentybeauty.com.Left: Ben Hassett, courtesy of Hourglass Cosmetics. Right: courtesy of the brandsI like to wake up between 6 and 7 a.m., but when I’m touring, it’s anywhere from 10 a.m. to 1 p.m. Sleep is a constant question mark because time zones are never consistent. I got lucky this past leg of the tour in Europe and the U.K. Our bus was great, and I got the same duvet that I have at home, which was especially comforting. A morning shower — really hot and then really cold — is the thing that fixes my brain quickly. At home I hang eucalyptus from the shower head because it smells nice in the steam. My friend Claudia [Sulewski] has this company called Cyklar, and I put all of her body washes in a row. I do a pump of each. She also launched a suction-y tool for lymphatic drainage, which I like to use. I have an Oribe shampoo that my hairstylist gave me, but I’m not too picky about that. I’ve surrendered to putting on a hat and walking out the door and letting my hair be what it is. I love the Osea algae body oil, and my most used body moisturizer is the Nivea one with almond oil, which kind of smells like sunscreen to me. I’ve always got Egyptian Magic [skin cream] in every bathroom, too.I’ve had a very temperamental relationship with my skin after developing cystic acne in college. At the end of the day, it’s skin — but it can feel like the end of the world if it hurts to put your face against your pillow. Facials with Shar [Hassani] helped me get my acne under control. She’s a wizard. I use mostly all Jan Marini skin care: the vitamin C serum C-ESTA, a hyaluronic acid serum, the Transformation cream and at night something called Age Intervention Duality, which has basically eradicated breakouts and is a holy grail product for me. The Hourglass Veil skin tint is part of my skin care routine at this point — it makes me feel and look even. The Vanish concealer is my favorite for spot-treating. I’m a blush freak. As a pale girl, I’m like, how do I make myself look like I have any life in me? I love Fenty Beauty’s cream blush in the shade Summertime Wine. To fill in my brows, I use Hourglass’s Arch pencil in Dark Brunette, and then Göt2b brow gel for hold. Mascara onstage is a must, but on a daily basis, I’ve just been curling my lashes and using Hourglass’s gel eyeliner in Canyon in the waterline at the top. For haircuts I go to Bobby Eliot, who’s a legend and an angel, and on tour, I work with genius hairstylist Arbana Dollani. She crocheted my hair for one show with silver thread. Hair bows have become a symbol of the community, which is very sweet, and I have this collection of bows that people have very generously made or gifted me. Sandy Liang has some great ones, and Chanel too. In my nighttime routine, I appreciate another scalding and then freezing shower. I like knowing that I’m getting all of the venue dirt and sweat off my body at the end of the day. Then it’s about bringing the adrenaline down. I drink a lot of tea. I like a CBD tincture. Journaling is quite crucial for me. This is corny, but on tour, I cuddle with my friends and we play cards. It’s very wholesome and mellow.In SeasonWhere to Eat the Wild Hops That Grow Around the Venetian LagoonLeft: bruscandoli, or wild hops, foraged from the banks of Venice’s lagoon, are a local and seasonal delicacy. Right: Ristorante Riviera is one of a handful of restaurants in Venice that offer dishes featuring bruscandoli when it’s in season.Left: istock/Getty Images Plus. Right: Matthias Scholz/Alamy One of life’s greatest luxuries is to eat that thing in that place, knowing you can’t get it anywhere else: the bruscandoli, or wild hops, in Venice are a case in point. These are the most tender early shoots of a plant that grows along the banks of the lagoon. You can find hops in other parts of Italy, but they won’t be called bruscandoli (the Italian name is luppolo selvatico) and they won’t have the distinctive flavor the Venetian variety draw from the salty lagoon soil. Visit Venice in springtime, and you might be lucky enough to catch the ephemeral bruscandoli season (typically no more than a couple of weeks between the end of March and the beginning of May — last year it was around the last week of March), when you’ll see bundles of the greens for sale at the Rialto market, as well as at vegetable stalls and barges dotted around town. You eat only the tips of the plant and cook it as you would wild asparagus, blanching it in boiling water or pan frying it, then seasoning it with a dash of olive oil, a squeeze of lemon and a pinch of salt. Bruscandoli also work well in a creamy risotto, layered into frittata or as the base for a brothy soup, minestra di bruscandoli. Harry’s Bar makes an excellent risotto con bruscandoli, as does Al Covo, a cozy, family-run establishment hidden away in the city’s Castello quarter. And if you’re looking for the incomparable combination of spring sunshine, waterside views and some variation on the theme of bruscandoli for lunch, then you can’t beat a table at Ristorante Riviera on the Zattere waterfront.Stay HereThe Southern California Beach Hotel Where Breakfast Comes With ChampagneLeft: the lobby living room at Le Petit Pali Laguna Beach, a hotel that opened this week in the coastal Orange County, Calif., town. Right: the hotel pool.Caylon HackwithSince its founding in 2007, the Los Angeles-based hotel group Palisociety has opened boutique properties across the U.S., many of which are in renovated midcentury inns and motels. Their latest, which opened on April 1, is Le Petit Pali Laguna Beach. The 41-room Southern California hotel is in a two-story structure built in the early 1960s along a stretch of Highway 1 that’s within view of the Pacific Ocean. Le Petit Pali sets itself apart with a whimsical aesthetic: Grass cloth wall coverings and vintage rattan furniture mix with antiques, floral-patterned throw pillows and navy-and-blue striped beds that evoke a beach club cabana. (Speaking of which, Treasure Island Beach and Goff Cove — two of the area’s most popular spots for swimming — are within easy walking distance.) And while there is no restaurant here (Palisociety’s “Le Petit” concept is modeled after a bed-and-breakfast), guests are treated to a morning spread with an abundance of eggs, locally made pastries from nearby Rye Goods, Marmalade Grove preserves and seasonal fruit, plus champagne and mimosas. From $350 a night, lepetitpali.com.We are having trouble retrieving the article content.Please enable JavaScript in your browser settings.Thank you for your patience while we verify access. If you are in Reader mode please exit and log into your Times account, or subscribe for all of The Times.Thank you for your patience while we verify access.Already a subscriber? Log in.Want all of The Times? Subscribe. More

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    ‘A Nice Indian Boy’ Review: Meet-Cute at a Hindu Temple

    Thanks to the instant chemistry between Karan Soni and Jonathan Groff, the film pulls off their whirlwind romance.Jay (Jonathan Groff) and Naveen (Karan Soni) experience their first meet-cute while worshiping at the same Hindu temple, united by their shared culture: Naveen is Indian, and Jay is white with adoptive Indian parents.Early on, the film “A Nice Indian Boy” hints at this swift romantic pace when Naveen’s mother, Megha (Zarna Garg, a standout), pokes at the familiar tropes of gay romance films while on a phone call with Naveen. “They just give each other a look, and like, boom, they’re kissing,” she says.Thanks to the instant chemistry between Groff and Soni, whose wit and vulnerability make him a natural rom-com lead, the film pulls off their whirlwind romance. Glances between them convey Naveen’s internal struggle to be open to his family about Jay, and Jay’s corresponding frustration with Naveen’s hesitation. True to the genre, there are heartbreaking fallouts, followed by tender reconciliations.Throughout the movie, the director Roshan Sethi’s sly and thoughtful touches respect conventions — the ultimate fairy-tale ending, for instance — while deepening the story with cultural nuances, like how Naveen’s same-sex relationship affects his sister, Arundhathi (Sunita Mani), who is in an arranged marriage. What happens when one sibling can break the rules but the other cannot? Within a family rooted in tradition, Naveen emerges as a quiet but powerful authority on true love — a rare, significant role for a gay character.In this vibrant addition to cinema’s romantic landscape, love isn’t the only winner: cultural understanding and the freedom to choose your own path triumph as well.A Nice Indian BoyNot rated. Running time: 1 hour 36 minutes. In theaters. More

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    ‘The Martial Artist’ Review: Tap Out

    In this overwrought action film by Shaz Khan, a mixed martial artist’s career is upended when his brother is killed.In the self-absorbed action movie “The Martial Artist,” the director Shaz Khan stars as rising Pakistani American mixed martial arts fighter Ibby “The Prince” Bakran, an unconventional pugilist whose bouts are live streamed from remote locales like Death Valley in eastern California.Impressed by Ibby, the head of a mixed martial arts league (Gregory Sporleder) promises him stardom. But alcohol, women and the killing of Ibby’s brother and trainer, Ali (Babar Peerzada), by friends of a former opponent, derail his career.After four years of boozing and working as a waiter, a frustrated Ibby tries to revitalize his moribund career by venturing home to the lush green mountains of Pakistan to be trained and spiritually healed by his grandfather (Faran Tahir).It’s disappointing that “The Martial Artist,” an adaptation of Khan’s 2016 short film “Say It Ain’t So,” is a shallow film. Characters like Ibby’s long-suffering mother (Thesa Loving), his estranged girlfriend (Sanam Saeed) and his deceased brother are nothing more than maudlin plot devices. Though Pakistan is filmed with a sense of grandeur, Ibby’s return to his cultural roots is rushed and superficial. Khan’s lack of screen presence, toothless mixed martial arts sequences and unintelligible editing further knock the film down.By the end, when Ibby faces the undefeated Decan Johnson (Philippe Prosper) at the foot of some Mayan pyramids in Belize, we’re unsure what or who he is fighting for, or why we should care.The Martial ArtistRated PG-13 for violence and bloody images. Running time: 1 hour 57 minutes. In theaters. More

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    ‘Love Hotel’ Review: Finding Space for Beauty in the Bleakness

    A Shinji Somai contribution to a narrow soft-core subgenre crushes together the anonymity and violence, desire and trauma, that bind lives of alienation.Two harrowing sexual assaults occur in the first 15 minutes of “Love Hotel,” a 1985 erotic drama from the cult director Shinji Somai. First, Tetsuro (Minori Terada), a flailing Tokyo businessman in debt to the yakuza, is forced to stand by while his wife, Ryoko (Kiriko Shimizu), is raped by a mob loan shark. Later, in a twisted bid at reclaiming some agency, Tetsuro hires Yumi (Noriko Hayami), a sex worker, plotting to kill her and himself. He assaults her savagely, but doesn’t carry out his plan, instead leaving Yumi naked and chained to the bed at a love hotel.Nothing else in the film matches the shock of these acts of violence, captured unflinchingly in static shots and gliding pans. Their memory, however, lingers throughout and infects this human drama of romantic disillusionment and sexuality warped by trauma with serious feel-bad vibes occasionally tempered by mordant humor.Some years later, the two reconnect — on radically different footings — when Yumi, who works at a publishing house (and is now known by her real name, Nami), hops into the cab Tetsuro is driving.There’s a lot more sex, too. “Love Hotel” is one of the best-known entries in the roman porno subgenre, a kind of elevated skinflick developed by financially strained film studios in Japan in the 1970s meant to entice audiences looking for quality and coitus.It’s also something of an outlier in Somai’s filmography (he was best known for his dark coming-of-age tales, like “Typhoon Club,” 1985). Yet his exquisite visual compositions (of lonely bedrooms, concrete piers, and nocturnal courtyards) infuse even the film’s racy images with a somber sense of longing and introspection, finding beauty and humanity in the midst of the macabre.Love HotelNot rated. In Japanese, with subtitles. Running time: 1 hour 28 minutes. In theaters. More

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    ‘Gazer’ Review: Peering Out From a Lonely Place

    Ryan J. Sloan’s brooding thriller is a murky tale about an isolated woman, with many shades of Schrader, Nolan and Cronenberg.Frankie, the roaming, cogitating mystery woman at the center of the cryptic drama “Gazer,” has eyes as big as hubcaps and a strange charisma. Much of her appeal stems from the striking looker who plays her, Ariella Mastroianni, who wrote the script with the director, Ryan J. Sloan. Although indebted to its influences to the point of self-sabotage, the movie manages to surmount enough of its flaws — including some shaky acting and distracting awkwardness — to hold your own gaze, more or less. Like Frankie, who watches others with visceral intensity, you keep looking as you wait on events, wonder and wait some more.A solitary, unsettled soul, Frankie lives in a spartan apartment in modern-day Newark that she seems to have sublet from one of Paul Schrader’s existential loners. Like those characters who brood throughout his “man in a room” trilogy (“First Reformed,” “The Card Counter,” “Master Gardener”), Frankie doesn’t always communicate easily with other people. Instead, much of the story emerges from her on-and-off voice-over and from cassette-tape recordings that effectively function as critical mental aids (shades of Christopher Nolan’s “Memento”), prompts she uses to try and keep her mind and world ordered. It’s a continual struggle.It’s also a struggle without an apparent happy ending because many of Frankie’s problems seem to stem from dyschronometria, an incurable condition that wreaks havoc with her sense of time. This malady has profoundly isolated her, and is getting worse; in one early scene, a doctor suggests that she check into a facility that cares for “patients with cognitive impairment,” as he puts it. Frankie demurs. She’s trying to save money for her young daughter who lives with someone else, a goal that leads to a series of complications that push the movie into self-conscious noirish territory with varied results. There, as the shadows darken, she meets another question mark, Claire (Renee Gagner), who offers to help her.Things grow progressively complicated, sometimes intriguingly so, especially when the story is fuzzier. In its first stretch, Sloan and Mastroianni build a palpable air of dank menace by creating tension with narrative ellipses and leaning into Frankie’s unusual condition and her isolation. Frankie doesn’t just live alone, she also seems OK with being estranged from most of her family and whatever friends she may have had. An early, foreboding sequence of her warily walking into a house to shrieking electronic music adds more mystery and intrigue, particularly when her creeping entrance is abruptly interrupted by the appearance of a gun.We are having trouble retrieving the article content.Please enable JavaScript in your browser settings.Thank you for your patience while we verify access. If you are in Reader mode please exit and log into your Times account, or subscribe for all of The Times.Thank you for your patience while we verify access.Already a subscriber? Log in.Want all of The Times? Subscribe. More

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    ‘Eric LaRue’ Review: When Pain Won’t Stay Quiet

    Judy Greer stars in a searing drama about the mother of a school shooter and all the things we try not to say.Most of us would say we’re “at a loss for words” when senseless tragedy strikes. We try to use words anyhow — to comfort, to explain, to process, to apologize. It’s a human impulse. But it’s insufficient, and can harm as much as it helps.That insufficiency of language is the stealth subject of “Eric LaRue,” the feature directorial debut of Michael Shannon. Stealth, because its premise is a bit of a misdirect. Like last year’s “Ghostlight,” it’s a gut-punching indie drama borne out of the Chicago theater scene. The playwright Brett Neveu adapted it from his play by the same name, produced in 2002 at A Red Orchid Theater, of which Shannon is a founding member. Writers who come from theater tend to evince a keen understanding of how, in talking to one another, we reveal and conceal what’s inside of us — and that’s at the core of Neveu’s script.But that premise, it’s a tough one to sit down and watch: Janice LaRue (a remarkable Judy Greer, in a lead role at last) is the mother of a school shooter. Her teenage son, Eric, is in prison, and she is trying to put her life back together, or at least figure out if that’s something she wants to do.Her husband Ron (Alexander Skarsgard, sporting an admirably off-putting arrangement of facial hair) is not helping: he’s eager to move on from the incident, and is making headway, thanks to his overly friendly colleague Lisa (Alison Pill). She’s convinced him to join to her church, an evangelical congregation pastored by the imperious Bill Verne (Tracy Letts), who instructs Ron to act like the head of his household and tell Janice how things will go in their home.Janice is not interested, either in being told what to do or in Ron’s new church family, and not really interested in Ron at this point, either. She’s still attending their less trendy Presbyterian church, pastored by the well-meaning but blundering Steve Calhan (Paul Sparks), who tries to counsel her in his office but doesn’t have many helpful things to say.We are having trouble retrieving the article content.Please enable JavaScript in your browser settings.Thank you for your patience while we verify access. If you are in Reader mode please exit and log into your Times account, or subscribe for all of The Times.Thank you for your patience while we verify access.Already a subscriber? Log in.Want all of The Times? Subscribe. More

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    What’s His Age Again? Blink-182’s Mark Hoppus (Now 53) Looks Back.

    In early March, Mark Hoppus, the singer and bassist for the long-running pop-punk trio Blink-182, and his wife, Skye, were special guests at a Sotheby’s modern and contemporary art auction in London. The sale featured a piece from their collection, a rare Banksy titled “Crude Oil (Vettriano),” up alongside works by Yoshitomo Nara, Gerhard Richter and Vincent van Gogh.“It was such rarefied air that we’ve never been a part of before,” Hoppus recalled at his home a week later, outfitted in chunky black glasses, a Dinosaur Jr. long-sleeve T-shirt, navy blue Dickies and Gucci Mickey Mouse sneakers. The painting sold for nearly $5.5 million, part of which will go to charity.It would have been hard to predict such a highfalutin turn for Hoppus back in 1999, when Blink-182 released its magnum opus, “Enema of the State,” which catapulted the band to MTV “Total Request Live” stardom and sold five million copies domestically. The video for the album’s first single, the jocular “What’s My Age Again?,” famously features the band members running unclothed through the streets of Los Angeles. (“Naked dudes are so ridiculous,” Hoppus said. “It just looks comical to me.”) Blink-182 followed up that LP with its first No. 1 album, “Take Off Your Pants and Jacket,” two years later.Despite Blink-182’s reputation for high jinks, naughty puns and charmingly adolescent hits like “All the Small Things,” Hoppus is remarkably thoughtful in person. Jim Adkins, whose group, Jimmy Eat World, supported Blink-182 and Green Day on a 2002 tour, said in an interview that Hoppus exhibited “human empathy.”“I know ‘Mark from Blink-182 is emotionally mature’ might seem like an oxymoron if you don’t know him,” Adkins admitted, “but I would say that.”Blink-182, from left: Mark Hoppus, Travis Barker and Tom DeLonge in 1999.Lester Cohen/Getty ImagesWe are having trouble retrieving the article content.Please enable JavaScript in your browser settings.Thank you for your patience while we verify access. If you are in Reader mode please exit and log into your Times account, or subscribe for all of The Times.Thank you for your patience while we verify access.Already a subscriber? Log in.Want all of The Times? Subscribe. More

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    Joe DePugh, Pitcher Who Inspired Bruce Springsteen’s ‘Glory Days,’ Dead at 75

    A gifted athlete, he gave a clumsy teenage Bruce Springsteen his first nickname, Saddie. Years later, the Boss returned the favor, memorializing him in a song.Joe DePugh, the Little League teammate of Bruce Springsteen who inspired the rocker’s hit song “Glory Days,” a rousing, bittersweet anthem to their hardscrabble childhoods in Freehold, N.J., where time passed by “in the wink of a young girl’s eye,” died on Friday in West Palm Beach, Fla. He was 75.The cause of death, in a hospice facility, was metastatic prostate cancer, his brother Paul said.In the early 1960s, before Mr. Springsteen became the Boss, he was a clumsy baseball player whose athletic abilities were so sad that Joe, the team’s star pitcher, gave him the nickname Saddie.“Bruce lost this big game for us one year,” Mr. DePugh told The Palm Beach Post in 2011. “We stuck him out in right field all the time, where you think he’s out of harm’s way. But this important game, we had a bunch of guys missing, and we had to play him.”In the last inning, Saddie dropped an easy fly ball.“Actually, it hit him on the head,” Mr. DePugh said, “and we lost the game.”They remained friends in high school, bonding over their turbulent home lives and their distant, alcoholic fathers. After graduation, Saddie took off to play rock ’n’ roll in bars and nightclubs. Joe, who excelled at multiple sports, tried out for the Los Angeles Dodgers but wound up playing basketball at King’s College in Wilkes-Barre, Pa.In 1973, when they had been out of touch for years, these two boyhood friends bumped into each other at the Headliner, a roadside bar in Neptune, near the Jersey Shore. Mr. Springsteen was walking in; Mr. DePugh was walking out.We are having trouble retrieving the article content.Please enable JavaScript in your browser settings.Thank you for your patience while we verify access. If you are in Reader mode please exit and log into your Times account, or subscribe for all of The Times.Thank you for your patience while we verify access.Already a subscriber? Log in.Want all of The Times? Subscribe. More