“I don’t consider anything about my writing to be natural.”
What I loved most about Klaus was his old-world elegance.
Mel Kendrick’s studio has always been filled with tools. The place feels like an extension of his brain and body, a labyrinth of identity projection and maintenance where thought occurs through the manipulation of inert material rather than the coursing circuits of neurotransmission.
Turner’s characteristic care and orderliness have attenuated his methodology into a sequence of operations so mediated as to feel archeological. He has maneuvered outside the discursive loops of postmodernism to a place that’s really “nonmodern.”
Erwin Pfrang must have an itch that he can only reach by drawing. He fiddles around in some toxic waste site of the mind, pulling pictures out of cavities where anything could lurk.