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.
Extrapolating from Rome’s dogmas, it dawned on me how Fumai’s suicide could be recuperated as a form of martyrdom—her posthumous legacy undergoing a similar beatification process.
As videos accumulate, viewers chart the choices Ellsworth has made over the course of her ensuing adulthood. And so, the Archive is one of the few resources that shows the evolution, in real time, of a creative woman’s adult life.
Red skies hang over California, floodwaters lap at America’s Gulf Coast, and just about everything else seems to be going down the tubes. As we tip into the Anthropocene’s free fall, who hasn’t wondered if this is the beginning of the end?
I witnessed an older white male, upon exiting the exhibition, manhandle an Asian protestor, shoving them out of his way. James Cohan Gallery employees stood by and did nothing. I snapped.
We expect sincerity; we expect irony. The problem arises when we can’t tell the difference.