On a recent summer evening, on the second-floor suite of the Refinery Hotel, in midtown, Yoko Ono, who is eighty but looks sixteen, was perched on the edge of a couch wearing very dark black sunglasses, a military-style black denim jacket, and a fedora jauntily cocked to one side. She was about to walk into a party celebrating her new book, “Acorn,” a hundred haiku-like instructions (“Count all the puddles on the street / when the sky is blue.”) accompanied by intricate dot drawings of organic, amoeba-like shapes that twist and turn lightly on the page.

Read the full article at the New Yorker.

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