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.
Art and tech are collaboratively mapping the future of Dublin via networks of practice, and the map is less goal-focused than a mood, a process: something produced by the friction of the city’s hopeful energy with the drag of brick and mortar.
Am I still capable of looking slowly, as if coming in from the side? Or have I ruined myself? Can I now only buy?
So, once college was behind me, I began to actively dissolve my taste. I’d seen enough “good” art for a lifetime and wanted to explore the dark side.
It was January, and I was in Athens to write a book about art. I was at a taverna because I was, on that day, failing to write a book about art.
Peter Mayne, it turned out, had spent much of the past twenty years living off the grid. But for the next two hours he sat with me and my recorder, and he told me things about his old friend Agnes that no one had ever heard before.