Did Stephen Varble ever ask anyone’s permission to do anything? Doubtful. He came from a generation that understood you can never risk the chance of being excluded, shut down, told no—because you had been.
I’d been home for two days and Noo was still missing. On my second morning back, my roommate Kyle came out of his room saying: “It smells like something died...”
Sarah dumped a mess of mp3s from Liz Phair’s Girly-Sound tapes onto my computer I think during summer 2012, when we lived together on a summer break from college.
The trite aestheticization of pain as image, as representation without source, undermines the nuanced interplay between material culture and subjectivity, trauma and shelter.
In coming to a Trump resort, I’d fantasized of infiltrating the belly of the beast. I imagined a vacationland of excess, golden columns and gaudy chandeliers; tuxedoed servants spinning amongst the tokens of capital run amok.
In dance you can’t go to the source. If you’re lucky, you maybe have a fuzzy video. If you’re really lucky, Cynthia Carr’s writing. And you have the people who worked with these people. The game of telephone.
While outrage culture has its merits, nuance has evaporated. So often it involves reducing someone to their mistakes, their greatest hits collection of fuck-ups.
Well, of course you know who he is. Neglect? You know the name, anyway, or at least you’ve come across it. He’s one of those British painters, the one who isn’t Bacon or Freud or Hockney or Hodgkin or Kitaj.
Maybe we share these images because we are anxious.
The shot didn’t always go in, but it almost didn’t matter, the way a rainbow sometimes touches down inside the heart of a majestic skyline and sometimes falls over a landfill.