Last night, the paper fired eight employees, including some amazing arts editors, clearing out the last traces of the arts section that changed my life.
People like to say that the paper was dying along with Old Media, but I can't be smug about this. None of us can be smug about it. Anytime eight great writers lose their jobs, all of us fledgling writers have to worry.
Via Gawker, I found this year-old New York magazine article by Mark Jacobson about the Village Voice. Just read it, and think about what we lost...
"The Voice: How to explain what it meant, in 1961, to plunk down a dime onto the counter of Union newsstand on 188th Street and thumb through those mucky little pages—pages that opened a Cocteau-like portal to a whole other world. Here was the ticket from Mom’s pot roast, from civil service and the neat six-foot square of lawn in front of the corner house on 53rd Avenue. Simply to be seen with the Voice set you apart: You were one of those people—hair too long, mouth too smart, not likely to go to the prom."
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