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.
Isn’t our art world a good place to start inventing a language of universal humanity, one which will be durable enough to survive what’s coming?
When working on the book about my mother I often stared at an image of Marlene Dumas’s painting of the recently dead Marilyn Monroe, painted from a photograph from her autopsy. Autopsy comes from the Greek: to see with one’s own eyes.
Particles, if small and plentiful enough, take on the appearance of a whole. This is true for drizzle, which from afar resembles continuous sheets of fog. It’s true for your own body, made up of cells and atoms.
Time stopped. The flight from Beijing is one hour long. That’s what the itinerary and the ticket said. And that’s what mattered because as much as my iPhone told me three hours had passed, time in North Korea is not ruled by Greenwich.