When you stumble upon a handful of rather serious letters espousing love, citing a supposedly true historical incident, and exemplifying the many ways in which gift-giving goes down…you publish them.

And Then He Said, “Well That’s a Hell of a Commemoration, Pal”

Written by Gracie Williams Illustration by Kelly Bailey

Dear Jack Nicholson,

Howdy, big fella. Waaalll, the best gifts I ever received are gratuitous and shocking, because there’s no value in a gift that’s wished for—or then again, appropriate—in any way. I’m sick of people trying to be appropriate. Like the time I was sitting in my cabin in Owl Creek. I heard that your plane touched down from Hollyweird. I thought I’d stop by to see you and your family. Remember? “I’ll be back later,” I said, “with presents for the kids.” Really, I had a trunk full of explosives, and a friend finally back in town from Aspen whose birthday it happened to be, and he wanted me to cut the lava cake he made out of amyl nitrates and Schlitz. I feel a bit queasy looking back on it—green, my face is GREEN—but it was simply a way to show how much you meant to me, my dear friend. How many explosives I have in the trunk of my Caddy is a direct correlation to how fond I am of someone, and you better tootin’ believe I had enough to blow up Dodger Stadium twofold. Now, for my sake, the only choice is to continue on writing this, and hope your memory gets fucked over time.

It goes like this… It was almost midnight after downing a few bombs—you know, that 90 proof swill I keep in the barn—and I had yet to give you anything for your birthday. So, I made my way over to Hallam Lake, and parked right in the gravel out front of your green Victorian family home. It was dark, so I shot a 40-million-candlepower parachute flare into the air, bright as a mini nuclear blast. My glazed eyes, insanely dilated, saw a span of 40 miles for 40 seconds. Then it was quiet and dark again. I dug around the trunk, pulled out a military-grade million-watt spotlight to blast into your front window, and set up my speakers to the accompanying sound of dying piggies. Poor bastards. THE WORLD IS NOTHING BUT PAIN, JACK! There was no response from inside the house. I think: How long before you come out? I felt a bit hurt, wanked up, tossed down, so I shot a few rounds from my gun into the night sky, all in the spirit of you. But still, there was nothing.

My final attempt to grab your attention came in the form of a rotting elk’s heart—personally hunted with a Japanese grade steel-cut Bowie knife—and propped carefully in its bloody baggy on the base of your front door. He won’t mind, I thought. Will he? Meanwhile, how was I to know you were huddled in the basement with your family, FBI on speed dial, petrified from your previous stalker encounter of that chick that looked like Ava Gardner on ACID and fear of the greasy Manson clan still fresh in your mind? I was only worried, for a moment, the next morning when I saw the aftermath of my gesture on the news. Jesus! Did I do… that?

I hate to advocate for violence, insanity, explosives, AK-47’s on speed dial, 90 proof SILVER, or unwarranted gifts to anyone, but they’ve always worked for me. And really, ask yourself this next time you receive a gift from beyond: what will I remember when I’m 95? The terrible excitement of a secret gift, or those silver spoons passed down from grandma June? I’D BET MY MANHOOD ON THE FORMER!

Love,
Hunter S. Thompson

Guido Cagnacci. “The Death of Cleopatra” (C. 1645-55). Oil on Canvas. 37.37” X 29.5”. Purchase, Diane Burke Gift, Gift of J. Pierpont Morgan, by Exchange, Friends of European Paintings Gifts, Gwynne Andrews Fund, Lila Acheson Wallace, Charles and Jessie Price, And áLvaro Saieh Bendeck Gifts, Gift and Bequest Of George Blumenthal and Fletcher Fund, by Exchange, And Michel David-Weill Gift, 2016.

Cleopatra to Julius Caesar, Because Plush is a State of Mind, Isn’t It?

Written by Constanza Falco Raez

Dear Julius Caesar,

Honey, I know, life is so hard… with the holidays approaching, the stress to find the perfect gift can get to all of us, even someone as sublimely wonderful as you, my raunchy Cancer. We always want to get our loved ones, especially our significant others, exactly what they need, don’t we? Special enough to show our love and a gift that’s unique enough for them to remember who gave it to them. I do wish peasants were a little more grateful these days, but, oh fucking well. Anyway, from experience, I have the perfect gift for our citizenry this year: You! Ha ha ha, please don’t get testy, just hear me out. They are going to love you, I mean, they already love you, but if we approach our people as if you were the most supernatural gift to them, then they may just about grovel at your gilded feet.

It’s 48 BC, remember? Amidst the ongoing conflict in Rome between you and Pompey, you made your way to Egypt, following that prick Pompey, that prick that fled to the Egyptian capital of Alexandria, where he was ultimately murdered on the orders of my brother Ptolemy XIII, the Egyptian emperor. When you arrived, and you bathed your sweet toes in Pompey’s blood, you received a gift from the royal family—that carpet, remember? And when we unrolled it, surprise! Out came me! This marked the beginning of our romance. God, it’s been so hot and insane at times, but what I’m trying to tell you is that sometimes the most perfect gift is to give yourself. So, as a good lady does, I am taking it upon myself to offer you to our people.

Sure, sure, I know what you’re going to say, the gift of me was not as innocent as you first believed. I mean, I am a living goddess, and I have the most beautiful eyes west of the Nile, and I have brains, so no wonder you feel for me. But that’s why I used the carpet to wrap myself, and to be able to sneak into your personal quarters, without being stopped by my brother’s forces. I mean, honestly, I couldn’t fucking stand him at the time. The surprise, and the sight of me, the young goddess and certified bad bitch, excited you tremendously, and we soon became allies and lovers.

So, obviously, I am trying to do the same to win over our people again by offering you as a kind of statue. No, no, no, don’t worry! Nobody is going to touch you. They don’t even really have to see you. I just want to tell them that you belong to them. After all, I feel sometimes like the city is fucking burning. You know, I had a dream the other night that the city was burning? That’s why I think I keep waking up in cold sweats! I just need your support, hon, as well as by the Roman military, to settle the feud for the Egyptian throne and be reinstalled as queen forever. Think about it. Or don’t. Just do it. Okay? Okay.

Love you BB,
Cleopatra

August Friedrich Albrecht Schenck. “Anguish (Angoisse)” (C. 1878). Oil on Canvas. 59.45” X 98.9”. National Gallery of Victoria, Melbourne. Purchased, 1880. © Public Domain. This Digital Record Has Been Made Available on Ngv Collection Online Through the Generous Support of Digitisation Champion MS Carol Grigor Through Metal Manufactures Limited.

Crow to Young Girl, Sweetly

Written by Joshen Mantai

Dear Young Girl,

Gifts are often treasures held close to the heart. Emblems of memorabilia, marked by a gesture of significance and affection for years to come. Gift-giving is just one of many love languages, which is, contrary to popular belief, not unique to the human species. The connection between animal and man is unlike any other, a mutually beneficial relationship that offers sacred security and kinship. The thoughtful—and tactile—signals of nature are evidenced fruitfully in the gifts animals often leave for their human companions in unforeseen moments. Whether it’s a young speckled rooster that comes running to proclaim what a valiant hero he is, or a long-legged spider that silk wraps its prey to allure a mate… the animal kingdom is no stranger to utilizing gifts as rituals of warmth.

You, eight-year-old Gabi Mann, who made international news following your ongoing exchange with birds of my feature (whom of course flock together) are a splendid example of the affection that can be formed between animal and (wo)man. The ever-expanding bead storage container you keep, for every passing visitor to see, is full to the brim of the gifts I bestow upon you, a token of my appreciation for the attention and kindness you pay to me. Every day, I look forward to the early morning trip you take to generously offer food to me and my flock. While the dew is still fresh on the grass, my companions and I congregate on the telephone lines to watch you prepare our daily feast, cawing in unison and ecstasy, and don’t we sound simultaneously fabulous and grating?

In reciprocity of your compassion, every now and then I return dutifully to leave you pieces and trinkets I think you might admire on the empty porcelain tray in your backyard. Sometimes, it’s a polished mineral-rich rock I find adjacent to the creek, or a broken remnant of a light bulb to complement your growing collection. This little routine of ours has been one I will cherish in our mutual understanding of each other. You have made a persistent effort to learn my communication techniques, and I hope you have noticed my ardent endeavors to do the same.

I believe our continual back and forth of gift-giving is reflective of the cherished connection we’ve built amongst our varying species, a relationship others might not understand at first glance, but one that is perpetually ours to share. May we carry forward, keenly aware that the impulse to holler “shoo” at my likeliness might better be replaced with… “thank you”.

Love,
Crow

Paul de Longpré. “Study of a Rose” (C. 1898). Watercolor and Graphite. 6.375” X 6.125”. Gift of Mrs. Maude Gray Best.

Boop Boop, Yes… But What About The Hole in My Heart?

Written by Madison Douglas

Dear Marilyn Monroe,

Honey. Sweetie. Baby. Lamb. Light of my life. Losing a loved one is not something anyone should have to go through. Finding the right words to say, to comfort someone who has lost the person closest to their heart, can be as hard a feat as any. So here I am… trying… doing my best… excuse me… I wish I was as good at expressing myself as I was at swinging a piece of cylindrical wood. I think, anyway, words can’t always express exactly how one feels, so we turn to gifts to express our love and gratitude. When I got the news that you had left us on that fateful night, I didn’t know what to say, I didn’t know who I was, where I was, what I was, what I was supposed to feel… but my body and soul were ripped in half… and the only thing that I knew is that you deserved red roses forever.

We were the All-American couple: me, Joe DiMaggio, star player of America’s favorite pastime, and you, Marilyn Monroe, Hollywood’s most glamorous star. We were the ultimate American Dream. We were a power couple that met during the height of our careers. Your film Monkey Business had just been released when I asked you out. Remember? I was wearing that big coat you always made fun of. You had on those shiny shoes. While the nature of our careers would suggest otherwise, we enjoyed keeping a low profile. But after we wed in the winter of 1954, it wasn’t long before cracks began to show in our storybook romance… I’m sorry… hold on… it just feels like too much…

…like any relationship, we had our struggles, but the added pressures of celebrity and the press didn’t help. I hate the press. I know you never liked the word ‘hate,’ but I absolutely hate the press. After only 274 days, we called it quits and filed for divorce. While honeymooning in Japan, you left me, your new husband, to perform for soldiers in South Korea, and while filming your most iconic scene, standing over subway grates, I had that public meltdown, as my discomfort with your sexy image continued to grow. I’m sorry… again… I’m sorry I was a man under the influence of insecurity… I was desperate to know how to love…

When you divorced your second husband, you were left in a state of emotional fragility leading to you being committed. But when the time came, I was there, arranging for your release. I don’t say that for any reward or gold star, I just say that because I want you to know that I was always there for you and will always be there for you even beyond the grave. However, it wasn’t long before tragedy struck, when you, the young, glorious, perfect, exquisite actress overdosed on drugs. I arranged your funeral as you had no family to do so… again, I don’t say any of this for anything in return, I just need to catalogue my heart here… you were the energy that kept me alive…

No one can confirm whether or not we were together before you died. And I don’t mind that, honestly. I don’t want anyone to truly know about us, because they will try and ruin it with their jealousy, they will ruin it, I know they will, and some things in life ought to be kept sacred. Whatever our relationship status was, my love for you was deep, and I sent those red roses to your grave for the next two decades, and I will continue to do so… forever…

Love,
Joe DiMaggio

Dear Jared Leto, All I Ask is That You Lend Your Ear

Written by Audra McClain Illustration by Mark Ward

Dear Jared Leto,

Celebrities, like yourself, are untouchable. Although the world knows ya’ll are living, breathing creatures, it is almost like you’re not. It is almost like you only exist in the whimsical minds of we who adore you. It is almost like you only exist in photos or movies or in interviews—and this is just altogether insane-making.

People have always clung to those they can’t physically touch. Take religion, for example. No one can physically touch a God, yet they will pray to this God every night. They hang photos of Gods and Goddesses on their walls. They dedicate their lives to said Gods. And just like Gods… wait for it… people worship celebrities.

There are nearly eight billion people on the planet. How many celebrities are there? How many A-list celebrities are there? How many of those top-tier celebrities were gifted their fame from a bloodline of top-tier celebrities? We, your “base”, we don’t have the time to audition for movies or write books or paint paintings—or at least we don’t think we do. We have to spend our days at minimum wage jobs, barely scraping by. In our free time, we watch movies and television shows. We watch people like you. We admire the lives you live. A life of fame and riches and sex and fashion and whimsy. So, instead, we live vicariously through you, like parents living through their children.

And so, I have cut off my ear as a gesture of my admiration. My name doesn’t matter. Just this ear matters. Even why I cut my ear off doesn’t matter. It only matters that you have it. Are you listening? It matters that someone of your status has my ear. Wear it around your neck. Let the world know you have fans so devoted that they are willing to cut off one of their ears for you. I hope it is the most unique gift you’ve received. And I won’t be surprised, because I adore you, and you’re so goddamned zany… if you actually follow suit and wear this thing around your neck.

It is hard to get the attention of someone like you. You have so many fans. Why would you care about a gift from lil ol’ me? You receive gifts every day. Well, maybe you’ll like this one, because I now have to turn my head whenever someone on the lopped side asks me something, and every time I do so, I see you, or I hear a song, or I shake my little head at what a ridiculous yet sincere thing I’ve done… I just wanted to make it personal. Is that weird? Will you still love me? Just as much as I love you?

Sincerely,
Your Biggest Fan

Malegria. “Abasto, Buenos Aires” (2012). © BA Street Art.

From Medellín to Medellín, It Turns Out We’re All Related

Written by Anna Brosnihan

Dear Medellín,

In the 90s, you were named the murder capital of the world, you gorgeous little Columbian city. Gangs and cartels ruled, and after seeing the potential for business, renowned drug kingpin, Pablo Escobar, forcibly seized the city, bombing its blocks and assassinating its officials. Then, in 1993, Escobar was killed, but the terrifying reign didn’t end for Medellín. The Don Berna cartel, led by Diego Murillo, took over in 2002, after a series of 22 military operations that followed left the area particularly vulnerable. By the end of the operations supposedly meant to help Medellín, over 3,400 people had disappeared, and the murder rate was even higher than it was during Escobar’s reign.

But in the midst of the violence, war, and destruction, Medellín residents came together in their own way to fight back. Here’s where I get emotional. Here’s where I insist you listen close. From the rubble and ashes of this special place, Medellín street artists rose, protesting violence with paintbrushes and spray cans. Murals and graffiti became an act of protest. As gang presence slightly diminished, and the art community grew, government officials began investing in street art, even providing each home with buckets of paint. As a result, community efforts flourished; schools like Casa Kolacho were created, teaching young kids various facets of hiphop culture, including rap, breakdance, and street art, all of which provide them with non-violent paths to success.

John Alexander Serna, known by his tag name, Chota 13, was one of those locals who turned to art as an escape. Serna was born in 1990, witnessing murder and destruction in his community from a very young age. Now, Chota is a local celebrity artist with dozens of works all over the city. Whereas his original works were of no value, he now makes a serious and inspiring living off of his art. I tell you this because I was there, and I saw it.

Once a place where no traveler would ever dare to venture, Medellín is now a thrumming destination for tourists. Visitors come from all over to view the vibrant murals that color the city. Various tours have been set up by locals to guide tourists through Comuna 13. And while Medellín is still perhaps not an area one should walk alone in at night, it is far from the dangerous city it once was. And what a gift! There was no outsider, no secret savior. No…. Medellín was the key to its own renaissance. Take note and remember.

Love,
Medellín

There Comes a Time in a Presidential Figure’s Life, Where He/She Must Ascend a China-Gifted Bicycle

Written by Olivia Novato Illustration by Kelly Bailey

Dear President George H.W. Bush,

Our gift to you is an outstretched hand between two nations, a message of good faith, a testament to the diplomatic relationship we are building. It is of the utmost importance that we show the visitors to our country just how important they are to us… and with this bicycle we present to you, we aim to do so.

But it’s not just any bicycle, George. This here is a Flying Pigeon bicycle, a reminder of when our country was known as the “bicycle kingdom.” One could not walk outside without seeing the distinctive design of the bike, whizzing through the streets of Beijing, the very pistons of our swelling kingdom and infrastructure. Considered a can’t-miss spectacle by foreign visitors, the masses of commuters pulsing through the veins of the city on their Flying Pigeons was truly a sight to see! And now our cultural landmarks belong to you.

Once regarded in China as one of life’s three “must-haves,” the Flying Pigeon bicycle was an integral part of our everyday culture, carrying more social significance than driving a Mercedes-Benz in the West. And so, it has become a dignified designation for dignitaries, you dig?

We know that during your time spent here in Beijing, you and your wife Barbara would cycle around the city, soaking in the sights and sounds. Although you may not live here now— and have perhaps grown accustomed to the luxuries of other state gifts—we understand the significance that nostalgia can have.

We hope that with this gift, you are both reminded of these happy days, and in turn, are reminded of our great nation.

Gift-giving, as a practice of diplomacy, dates back to the ancient world as a way to seal international friendships, and here we are, sealing ours. The gifts we choose to give are meant to honor the beneficial relationship we have established with you, Mr. President, and we hope that this Flying Pigeon shows just how much this relationship matters.

Each time you see, or perhaps even ride, this bicycle, we know that you will be reminded of the good ol’ days back in Beijing, of the sunny Saturdays spent exploring the city by Flying Pigeon, and let’s hope your quadriceps reap the rewords! And in turn? We’ll be reminded of the happy, prosperous relationship growing between our two countries, and the true love we will share for centuries to come, especially as it comes to matters of trade and the valuation of our humble currencies, respectively.

Love,
China

And Then He Said, “Well That’s a Hell of a Commemoration, Pal”

Written by Gracie Williams Illustration by Kelly Bailey