I was only nine years old, but Chile's coup and the events that led up to it are seared with the permanence of a cattle brand into my memory.
The connection between avocado toast, the corner pizzeria, l’eau d’Auster, and Samuel L. Jackson? Taste.
"Cretinizing" is the first word that came to mind when I read about the controversy—a word I’ll avoid putting in quotes, though this particular controversy seems nugatory—surrounding Dana Schutz’s painting “Open Casket” in the Whitney Biennial.
I have no idea what Parker Posey is really like, although I kind of do. In customs, and on the sidewalk outside of the airport, and in a van, and in a car, and, at a very particular sort of party, maybe, sure.
Interestingly, the focus was not only on the wrestlers, but on the larger wrestling world, one of spectacle and business. “C’est ‘meta’!” my friend whispered to me. “Not unlike the art world,” I remember thinking.
Johnson’s “inglorious detour” saw the brilliant, wealthy young designer and critic make a visit to Germany, where he took a shine to those beautiful blonde boys marching neatly through Nuremberg.
Rachel Harrison is an American artist who, when I met her at this party of which I have a perfect memory, absent any spatiotemporal coordinates, said, “Do I know you?”
At times the steam was all you could see or smell or touch. It was all-encompassing, and then suddenly it would dance off, taking the expanding image with it.
The layered waves of melody, emanating from one section, then another, suggest a spatial arrangement like a flock of birds taking wing, then careening this way and that, and finally disappearing into thin air.
Pictures, books of pictures, collections of pictures, hard drives and smart phones full of pictures: these are inescapable. There is no more capacious storehouse of memories, including memory itself.