Shiv manages it, you know. He manages to talk about love, or talk about talking about love and how talking about love mucks up love. But he doesn’t muck it up, at least not when he’s writing, even though his writing is so tempered by fears of and apologies for mucking it up that surely, you’d think, he must muck it up.
As an artifact, it initially seems incredibly bare, reducing an experience to the simplest of visual symbols and the tersest of prose. Upon close study, it becomes clear that there is much contained within North Was Here which does not demand detailed explication and which lay teeming under a cold, glacial surface.
You, Jana Beňová, are, of course, fated to the lineage of Lispector, Lefebvre, and Cixous, women who do not bother to pin their words down to the ground but let them swirl up above, overhead.
Reading Motoya, you forget what weird is. You forget what is normal… When Yukiko Motoya sets out to write a story, whether it be situated in marital strife or at the market, she takes our mundane observations and concerns, cracks them, and cooks with the weird egg gunk
For the inmates in Revueltas’s The Hole, as with Vladimir and Estragon in Beckett’s Waiting for Godot, the hopelessness of their outcome in life breaks them, their physicality and humanity also warped around a banged up idea of time.
It’s poignant that Mieko Kawakami selected for her protagonist a boy, capable of delighting in the world without judgment, for whom realizations are more novel, and enamoration is not distorted by the harshness of adulthood.
Berkson uses his ostensible memoir as an outlet for some final artistic collaborations, asserting that the focus of his life was not himself, but the people around him. Kraus swims in the opposite direction; she flips the platform of art writing in on herself, centering herself in a way that reads like memoir.
It is a whirling text which instinctively launches itself down the streets of Buenos Aires, only stopping to ask questions about man’s inclination toward structure and the relationship between autonomy and reality.
Taking place in the underbellies of Paris and London from the late 1960s to the early 1970s, among the 1968 French student riots and the Brian Jones-era Rolling Stones, Dusty Pink does not so much live in its time as it fetishizes it and then relishes in its fetish.
Her work could be described as collapsing the space between still life and portraiture, to the extent that it can often be read as still lifes of faces while simultaneously being read as a portraits of objects.
Atlanta artist Hannah Adair’s work rides the line between cosmic landscape, mythological figure, and abstraction of the psyche as if those things are naturally all the same. It is an experiment in repetition and transformation, as she constantly shifts the meanings of form by reintroducing images in different contexts, always prompting reinterpretation.
Stimulator Jones is able to capture the essence of a waterbed so perfectly, it’s like you can smell his cologne from across the room, over the smell coming from the dude vaping weed right next to you in the crowd.
Among the astonishing mass of communication, of thoughts and emotions, that we have access to in our contemporary world, so little is heard and even less retained.
Re-watching Juno a decade on is a jarring trip down memory lane, illuminated by the conventions of today. I was struck by how, in spite of the crush on Ellen Page I shared with so many girls coming into their sexuality, I was oblivious to her dykish cues, so obvious from her walk alone.