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.
There will be more imposters, whether confidence men or redundancies. It is inevitable that some of them will be machines, either by accident or by design. Machines will soon think and some of them will make things that could be art.
To love an artwork is neither rational nor irrational; it is a response, imaginative and empathetic, to a presence in some sense comparable to one’s own.
Porn suicides stir the heart’s obsessive embers. It’s not that the details of these deaths are any more lurid, but the depressingly familiar narrative that runs through many sad endings in pornography speaks to me acutely.
Emerging onto the street out of the swirl of another dance club, Kuki is struck by a precipitous displacement. He is homesick for his homesickness, the feeling of an expat suddenly unsure of where he belongs.